‘Weren’t you once the serials acquisition librarian at Aberystwyth University?’ asked the tall dark lady in the flowered lawn cotton dress.
‘No, never’, I replied.
Eventually we worked out that she recognised me from the early 1990s at an institution that was completely unconnected with Aberystwyth.
We decided to host a cake stand at the welcome event for new students. Since it was Shrove Tuesday we wanted to offer pancakes.
However, this was impractical. Drop scones would have to serve as substitutes.
DT left baby J in Texas so that she could return to the UK and co-star in pantomime with CG. She was playing Snow White, and he the Cheshire Cat.
It was rumoured that DT would speak on stage with an English accent. I was just one of many audience members who couldn’t wait to hear this.
We were about to tuck into a big plate of fried bacon and black pudding at the communal table of the Hebridean guest house when we heard another party pull into the drive. They evidently had some problems parking the car. There wasn’t quite enough room for a full-sized Rolls Royce in an ordinary parking space.
I was a little unsure that these new guests would enjoy this particular holiday experience. I could already tell that they were a little puzzled by the accommodation and rather perturbed by the dining arrangements.
The following day I lost TPR. I found myself stranded at a rural railway station without cash and no means of ever being reunited with my husband.
Once I started collecting my sister-in-law SMcC’s cast-off clothes it was certain that we would never be able to carry everything home. I blamed TPR for bringing the huge television screen on the trip. Then I noticed the holes in the peach cotton jumper that I had acquired. Perhaps this wasn’t worth taking home after all?
My route north included changing coach at Aberdour (which I initially mistook for Holy Island because it was so foggy). Nearly all my PhD students were there, including LA (smoking) with his three year old, and a new student called Leanne. The latter sported red hair and wore a bright pink shell suit. I overheard one reveal a secret to another. I could not tell if this was done deliberately, but I was somewhat alarmed at the implications of the revelation and its potential impact on submission dates.
I had set off without telling TPR. He couldn’t possibly bring all our belongings back on the train all by himself. He was going to be furious that I had abandoned him. I wanted to ring him to apologise, but the numbers on my iPhone had vanished and I could not remember how to use a rotary dial on a traditional telephone handset. Even SL couldn’t work out what to do.
TPR and I were furnishing our new flat. Meanwhile friends of friends (Sue and Mike) had downsized and were giving away all sorts of bits and pieces that they had previously placed in storage.
We lacked suitable seating for the triangular conservatory that caught the sun in the afternoons. Lo and behold a wicker chair and a brown leather sofa were found to fit the space perfectly.
The next problem was the black goat in the field that adjoined our garden. It kept eating its way through the amateur attempts at fencing that TPR had constructed to mark the boundary of our property.
The coach was due to leave at 18:30 for the conference dinner at the other side of town. At 18:15 I watched TPR cross the road to climb aboard and save a couple of seats for us. I knew that I should return to our hotel room on the ninth floor, get changed, put on some make-up, and hurry back down to join the other delegates (including Amanda Holden) for the half hour journey to the meal. At 18:25 I eventually wandered back over to the hotel.
I was relieved to see that I was not the only person who would be late to catch the coach. There were still two women in the hotel lobby who had yet to cross the road (although, admittedly, they were already dressed in all their finery and would be with the others in a just a couple of minutes). I asked if they would wait for me, and the one in the long green silk dress from Phase Eight agreed to do so. They helped speed things along a little there and then by undressing me down to my vest top.
Time was ticking on when I took the lift up to my room. It was also somewhat embarrassing to be standing in such a confined space next to a clutch of Korean business men and a French man in a kilt while I was wearing nothing to cover my bottom half.
Once in our room I faced a dilemma of what to wear, and how to dress as fast as possible. It was now 18:45 and TPR would surely be wondering where I was. I decided that I would have to give up any idea of putting on any make-up. I pulled out all the clothes from the wardrobe unable to decide on an outfit. I tried all sorts of combinations of tops, bottoms, dresses and shoes, but nothing looked right. Eventually I settled on going bra-less in a black and burgundy single strap top with a black corduroy skirt.
It was now 19:00 and I was in crying with frustration at my own stupidity. The coach could not possibly had waited for me. Then I heard the bedroom door open. TPR walked in, also in tears. He had been asked to leave the party on account of the terrible time-keeping of his wife. I felt so ashamed.
This was not the exotic holiday that I had imagined.
It poured with rain and nearly all the resort guests drowned in a freak accident on a trip in a Viking longboat.
My school friend GB was still the most handsome man around and I could tell that everyone was puzzled why he was bothering to engage me in conversation.
We were simply sorting out our transport to a meeting the following week.
For hundreds of years the map of the British Isles had misrepresented the location of the Hebrides. These islands were much closer to the mainland than had previously been depicted.
Indeed a strong swimmer could reach the Isle of Skye in four hours, and the Isle of Lewis in eight.
Dreamaticus 