My new job was driving a red wooden train in a New York department store. The best part of the job was tooting the horn and aggressively waving at shoppers, insisting they move to the side of the aisles so I could speed along unhindered.
After I clocked off, I walked to Central Park where I encountered an enormous human pyramid consisting of Aston Villa and Manchester City fans. Later I lost my dog and had to ask for help from people lounging in deckchairs.
A former PhD student of mine asked if I would support her over a difficult issue at work. I gladly agreed to help her avoid the sack, but without realising the extent of her problem. She just couldn’t behave politely in public.
The day that I joined her at work, she was called to the boss’ poky office to explain why she had been performing magic tricks in the dining room. Although his preferred technique of chastising her was a cuddle, I could still tell that he was very annoyed with her.
JB was alive and well in Birmingham. I admired her Fiat 500 and the way that the family had stuck four large cardboard head portraits of themselves across the car’s dashboard.
JB complained that she looked very wrinkled in her picture, and I had to admit (silently) that she looked a lot older than me.
‘But at least you’re no longer dead’, I said cheerily as I gave her a big hug.
I signed up for a scheme entitled ‘Read an article a day’. Under sufferance, Belle agreed to ensure that I kept to the regime.
Before I saw the table setting, I had already decided the colours of my mother-in-law’s bouquet: pale greens and yellows, with a splash of white. What a coincidence that SLHG had laid out green grapes on pale green Lalique glass plates for breakfast.
Around the table, all three of my sisters-in-law discussed birthday present suggestions for their mother. ‘No more trinkets!’ I interjected.
It looked like I would be ignored – as I was when I told SJMcC that we knew that she had taken up smoking in secret, and that it was high time that she stopped.
I had stripped down to my underwear in the charity shop, but the staff couldn’t care less – presumably because I was their best customer. However, it was getting late, and at 9pm TPR was anxious that we might miss the 9:30pm bus south. I shooed him away and said that I would soon catch up with him at the bus station.
By 9:15pm I was dressed again and heading down the street. My only guarantee on reaching TPR on time would be to hop onto a passing bus or hail a taxi, but no such vehicle passed me.
Then I remembered that I had my bike! As I climbed up the single track roads into the sunny Pentland Hills and enjoyed the scenery, I completely forgot our rendezvous at the bus station.
The care home had its attractions. My favourite activity – for residents and visitors alike – was to leap with the others into a field of soft, waist-high, broad-bladed grass.
However, the broken blue and white crockery in the galley kitchen for guests was rather inconvenient (especially the teapot), and my mother’s bad behaviour extremely embarrassing.
I was asking for trouble when I left my handbag next to a bin beside the road when I went for a run. By the time I returned my bag was gone – and with it my bank cards, keys, and mobile phone.
I sought help in a posh tailor’s shop swarming with loud Edinburgh University students. One – Connor – lent me his phone. The only number that I could remember was my middle sister’s landline. When she picked up, she declared that she had no sympathy for my plight and refused outright to rescue me.
Then I remembered the public information film about burglars’ strategies for matching keys to households. We were bound to be robbed and TPR would never forgive me.
Dreamaticus 