In an interesting career move, I had become a self-employed bookbinder.
My USP was that I only used bright yellow leather in my work. I still hadn’t learned how to make the gold lettering stand out, so most of the books I worked on were ‘mysteries’ to everyone.
Normally I swam in the pool of my private members’ club. Fancying a change, I popped along to the public baths.
This was a mistake: the water was filthy; the clientele common; and someone stole my striped tunic from my blue rucksack while I was in the water.
Sir Paul McCartney and John Lennon agreed to make a personal appearance at a tiny independent book shop. As one of its regular customers, I was invited to meet the two former Beatles.
McCartney entered the room first. He was dressed in blue jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I was surprised to see that he was rather overweight, and that his arms were heavily tattooed in dirty faded blue-black ink. There was no hope of speaking to him unless I was prepared to battle with the other fans who had rushed forward to greet him. I decided to hold back for the time being.
A couple of minutes later, a very tall man came quietly through a door at the back of the bookshop. I was the only one who recognised him as John Lennon. Taking my opportunity, I approach him to ask my one burning question: ‘What is the meaning of the lyrics of Yellow submarine?’
Lennon smiled as he replied ‘I don’t know why you are asking me. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of academic papers written by real experts on this topic. I suggest that you go to the library and read them’.
Before Belle and I set off on our Canadian Rockies adventure, we first had to pick the dog up from the vet. Black was a tiny sweet Affenpincher and very excited to be reunited with us after his (expensive) operation.
I also liked the idea of bringing my former colleague AT along on the trip. We found him in the narrow kitchen of my maternal grandmother’s house. (We also saw my grandmother herself briefly, heading to bed in a bright pink nightie.) AT was keen to join us, hopeful of finding romance along the way.
The others met us in the middle of the wilderness. Nobody had a map. As night fell, I feared that we would be stuck out in the cold overnight without shelter. I also worried that I would miss my appointment the next day to deliver a guest lecture in Brazil.
Then, in the distance, we spotted a castle beside a lake. As we neared it, we heard English voices. Once inside, we discovered Boris Johnson hosting a lively house party. Amongst his guests was the prime minister. He offered a clawed hand for each of us to shake.
Boris provided us with attic accommodation for the night. This was fine for the others, but – due to claustrophobia – I did not have the courage to join them when they climbed the cloth ladder to their beds.
The woman opposite us on the bus was playing a podcast out loud on her phone. Its host gave an enthusiastic review of An instance of the fingerpost by Iain Pears.
‘I hated that book’, I muttered to my sister J, who was seated next to me.
It was our fellow passenger, however, who replied.
‘But it’s great!’ she said.
J then joined the conversation with an apology for my ‘rude remark’.
The woman was stumped when I asked her why she liked the book so much. She eventually admitted that she’d only read the first three pages and the second half of the final chapter.
Bruce Springsteen was amongst the dozen or so guests at the highland lodge over Christmas. Bruce and I exchanged a couple of words as I was gathering some of my belongings from the deck as the first stage of packing to return home.
I had become even closer to another celebrity during our week’s stay. One afternoon, this prominent British comedian threw a dandelion head at me as a token of his affection. He had no idea how much this meant to me. I popped it into my pocket to press later.
The other attraction of this holiday venue was the heated fresh water loch. Here I swam in the open air every day, enjoying the warm water with my other swimmer friends. These included my gym pal AF.
The conference was being held across multiple floors of the bookshop. On registration I received my delegate badge and was asked to open my handbag. As soon as I did, a woman quickly placed a ribeye steak inside and gave me a wink. This was a completely unexpected, but welcome, conference freebie.
Later, I was chatting to some American delegates when I became distracted by a Victorian round tower outside. I knew that this building was currently being squatted and I felt a wave of envy. What a wonderful place to live, I thought. Then I watched a man arrive and realised that the only access to the tower was via a vaulting pole.
Towards the end of the event, I had a rather passionate make-out session with a gay man. This was not going to develop into a relationship, I realised.
This was the opposite of what I expected to see on a quiet Sunday morning on the A20. Across the road, playfully giggling down at his parents, a toddler was sitting at the very top of a towering lamppost. How did he get up there, I wondered. And why were his parents asking him how he got up there rather than taking any steps to get him down? This could be fun, I thought. Maybe firefighters will have to rescue him which would be an exciting spectacle. Unwilling to gawp, I pretended to look for something in my bag, but when I looked up again, the toddler was back on the pavement, laughing at his parents.
Dreamaticus 