In a meeting chaired by ED I heard that JM had submitted his PhD thesis five months early, yet I had not seen a draft of the tome.
Another academic at the meeting, who had nothing to do with this work, said that it was rather pro-technical.
I concluded that it was bound to be referred – until someone else said that the viva had taken place and JM had passed with minor corrections.
ED and I shared a glance. What must have been the quality of the examination team?
TPR announced that he needed some ‘space’ so he moved out of our marital home and into a shared flat in Bruntsfield with a bunch of undergrads and some young professionals (one of whom had just been offered a lectureship in Psychology at the University of Cambridge).
One year later, after a cycling holiday together, I begged TPR to come back home.
However, I made a nasty discovery. I withdrew my offer when he confessed that he had been sleeping with a 21 year-old student called Isabel Peters (and not Sonya as I feared). I was heartbroken – and also worried about STDs.
My Finnish friend GW looked like she had just stepped off-stage having performed with Abba. I admired her yellow patent leather mini-skirt and high heels.
I wasn’t sure how I had been invited to the ‘writing retreat’ home shared by Simon Mayo and Mark Kermode but I knew enough to remove my shoes before I stepped inside.
In one office, Simon was typing his latest novel. The French windows were open and I was astonished by the beauty of the view – a tropical sunset and a Cornish cove. Who knew Chichester was this beautiful?
Katie Price (AKA Jordan) was marrying for the fifth (or was it sixth?) time, and I was the guest of honour at her celebrations at the Bristol hotel – much to the annoyance of her tarty chief bridesmaid.
I showed the lumps on my legs to my office-mate BR.
‘You’d better get those checked by a doctor’ he said.
I replied that I would do so – just as soon as I got dressed.
Forty-five minutes later I was still procrastinating, worried about my lack of preparation for the next academic year. I still needed to clean my teeth so I made my way to the ladies lavatories. BR followed me, much to the annoyance of the other women there. They made it clear that this was no place for a man.
When I eventually reached the doctor I forgot to mention my leg lumps. Instead we discussed my posture, and the doctor prescribed a football for me to wear under my skirt.
The football got in the way when I went running through the park with friends in York. HJ and her husband RJ watched me struggle. (I didn’t recognise RJ at first because he had shaved off his beard and looked so much younger.)
My Uncle J sat on the sofa and enthused about his new business idea: to sell custom-made T-shirts to the British middle classes. I told him that this venture was doomed to failure. I was British and middle class, and I would not buy such an item of clothing.
He dropped the subject in favour of firing University Challenge questions at me. I impressed him with my extensive knowledge.
However, all I really wanted to do was learn about the items of furniture in his house that he had inherited from my great-grandmother.
Meanwhile TPR was in the kitchen cooking fried steak and chicken (but not tomatoes) for breakfast.
TPR was in bits. He told me over the phone that the program no longer worked and – because of this – his colleague had committed suicide.
While the slim, male, hotel receptionist tapped at the keyboard with his highly polished nails (deep burgundy) I marvelled at the size of the enormous ginger cat, sprawled on the floor beneath my feet.
I soon learnt that this was no ordinary pussy. Rather, a famous (but anonymous) actress paid a huge fee to live in a kitty costume and entertain the guests as the hotel cat.
Dreamaticus 