Belle and I squeezed into the revolving door, then sat side-by-side on the bench, taking care with the positioning of Belle’s broken leg. Then I took out my iPhone. For the next half hour or so we went round and round filming hysterical selfie videos.
CM, who went through the door just once to exit at the other side, was furious that we forced him to wait so long for us. He couldn’t care less about our filming exploits.
With each meal costing almost £400 a shot, and accommodation at £700 per person a night, this holiday did not come cheap – even if the expenses were partially covered by TPR’s employers as an incentive trip.
Although we loved the five star hotel and access to the cruise liner on the quayside, we knew that we would bankrupt ourselves if we didn’t head home soon.
On my way walk back from Leith along the cycle path I picked up a couple of heavy bin bags that PL was about to send to the charity shop. Inside them I found a pile of brand new hand-knitted toddlers’ jumpers. These would be perfect for the new mothers on campus.
I stopped off at the pub to break my journey home. There a tall stringy man stole about £45 from my black purse. He returned £20, but refused to give me back the rest of my cash. In its place he offered a block of cannabis resin, the size and shape of a data stick. I had no use for this. I just wanted my money back.
My only hope was rescue by TPR, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Why was the bathroom window open? Why was the burglar alarm ringing?
I looked up and caught sight of the man with the sledgehammer. His accomplice was right behind him.
‘Oh my God!’ muttered my husband under his breath. I willed him to grab the phone and dial 999 before we were both bludgeoned to death.
Sir Paul McCartney was with us on the day that we set off for lunch at a new restaurant that RG had recently opened in the south west of Scotland. It only served food at lunchtime, yet the reviews were excellent. There were particularly enthusiastic reports of the views down to the sea from its cliff-top location.
On the way to the restaurant I hinted that a member of our party (at the time out of earshot) had recorded The girl is mine with Sir Paul and Michael Jackson. Sir Paul took this news quite calmly. I did not hear the reaction of our companion when she found out that I had spilled the beans – because I was hiding at the time.
The University issued an orange and black plastic spy penguin to each member of staff. Mine was tall, thin and male. AL was very proud of his slightly overweight female bird with wide floppy ears.
The powers that be instructed us to place each spy penguin in a suitable position from which its beady eyes could track the activities of our colleagues and students.
The spy penguins would have been useful a couple of weeks earlier when a thief walked into the long office that I shared with AL and BD and walked off with my computer.
At the university reunion one girl complained that her breast reduction surgery had not been worth the bother, another seemed unable to sit still at the table (until we realised that she was popping out for cigarettes every ten minutes or so), and two of the supposedly most successful members of our class (AR and SB) were now working in the kitchen of the restaurant where the event took place.
Somehow I had to extract myself from under the sand dune before the tide came up any further, then swim across the bay to join the others on the island. The tricky part was to push my way out of the sand without dislodging it and accidentally suffocating myself.
My parents were very interested to hear about my adventures when I returned to dry land. I was more curious to discover the nature of the illness that had reduced my father to a height of 3 foot. He told me that this was a symptom of heart disease. I found this hard to believe.
We had access to a huge flat in the west end of Edinburgh. Its owner was a young man who worked in finance. I got the impression that he hardly used this place at all. The vast rooms were almost empty of furniture. The only clue to the personality of the owner of the flat were the contents of a large cupboard. This contained piles of cycling clothing and other gear. Much of it, however, was in its original packaging.
I returned to the main reception room from the cupboard and noticed that the walls were now covered with graffiti. I was furious that my colleague ES had allowed the students to deface the flat.
David Cameron was due home any minute so I popped out into the street to greet him. He came around the corner dressed in a bowler hat and cut-out modern business suit Monty Python style, complete with red cod-piece. I wanted to photograph him for my journal, but he escaped into the house before I had the chance to snap him.
Afterwards I went to see the Nelson arches – both the natural sea stacks, and those on the bridges in central London.
Dreamaticus 