Someone at the party had deeply offended the oldest guests in attendance. Mr and Mrs S stormed out without saying goodbye.
I had to do something! I chased them up Dundas Street to offer them a lift home.
Someone at the party had deeply offended the oldest guests in attendance. Mr and Mrs S stormed out without saying goodbye.
I had to do something! I chased them up Dundas Street to offer them a lift home.
Marcus Brigstocke settled his mother and (possibly) his brother into seats in the front row, then took to the podium.
‘Gosh, he’s getting on a bit’, I thought, catching sight of his balding pate and observing his wider-than-last-time waistline.
After a brief introduction Brigstocke patrolled the audience in search of a volunteer. He stopped at the end of the row where I was sitting with my mother. The woman to the right of me coiled back in fear. I, however, was happy to be chosen. Brigstocke could tell. My mother dutifully followed me.
A fourth person joined us on stage. He and my mother were to be the stars of the show. Their first act required them to wear post-its on their foreheads. Meanwhile I sat at the back of the stage and ate chocolate.
HR trotted down the steps with her boyfriend and their pumpkin-headed baby. Meanwhile HR’s Australian ex-boyfriend was lying on a sofa in our back room, complaining that he was lonely. We had to keep these people apart.
I ran outside and suggested that we go for walk – perhaps not to the Botanic Gardens because this was where HR and her boyfriend worked. However, they insisted on coming into the house.
I took the baby, doing my best to make sure that his pumpkin head stayed upright on his shoulders. How ever did they produce such an ugly monster? Perhaps he would be a useful distraction when HR and her ex-boyfriend came face to face?
All this time I had occupied the same office and never appreciated that at the far end there was a café, a cinema and an ice rink.
Some of the ice-skaters looked a bit shifty. I would need to lock up my belongings more securely in the future.
My husband and I snuggled down together in a bedroom that could have featured on the pages of a children’s storybook. The walls were papered with jolly seaside scenes, traditional toys were scattered on the floor, and ornamental mechanical soldiers, bunnies and the like performed at regular intervals from makeshift podiums on top of the wardrobe, chests of drawers, and book shelves.
Beneath us, next to the door, we could see Affenpinscher T, keeping a steady eye on us. We didn’t know, however, that two versions of my niece A was also sleeping in the room. The ten year-old was slumbering a pile of purple blankets by the wall, and the two year old was crawling everywhere – randomly.
When my mother walked through the door to tell us that it was time to get up we shooed her away. However, we did know that we couldn’t stay in bed all day.
We dressed and slipped down the step-less spiral staircase to the bar, where for breakfast there were cakes and mousses, all home made by JMH and ECM.
My colleague BEX was dead.
Instead of a single funeral, three services were due to take place in honour of his memory. One was in an Anglican church, another in a Catholic cathedral, and the third was the private family burial.
From a pretty ordinary hotel room TPR and I were upgraded to a massive suite. The room included a huge Georgian sideboard and a bed that was positioned in the open air on the balcony giving great views of the waves crashing below.
Two vicious black cats were permanent residents of the room. They tried to sink their fangs into my hand one afternoon when I was kneeling on the floor. Fortunately I managed to brush them away. Then I saw that there was an additional to the cat family: a fluffy white kitten sitting in a sunbeam.
Although I thought that I had locked our bedroom door, some other guests (who by this time were good friends) wandered in to ask how we planned to spend the day. We agreed to head to the big beach together.
In the meantime the surf was up and crashing over our balcony. Our bed was dragged into the sea, as were some computer game consoles that I accidentally kicked over. This was the second set that I had lost, but I didn’t think that it would matter because everyone seemed so wealthy here.
Then I saw someone that I hadn’t seen in years: the student bride from my final year at University. She told me that she now worked at Birmingham City University in an educational development role, then showed me some videos of her work. This reminded me that I had some classes to prepare for the start of the new academic year.
Each day I offered my new daughter a cup of tea the moment that she came home from school. Every time she ignored me. Similarly her father (my new husband) also wanted little to do with me.
Could this be something to do with the body? I heard that it was buried somewhere in the garden, but very few people knew exactly where. Indeed there was a concerted campaign to ensure that it was never recovered. Some people denied outright that it even existed.
One thing for certain was that I had absolutely nothing to do with the missing first wife.
When I returned to work after my summer holiday I discovered that two of my PhD students had each become heavily involved in National Trust for Scotland properties, each of which was supposedly associated with their doctoral studies.
How would they find time to write up their theses if they were now obliged to attend on site every day?