Dreamaticus

I arrived late at the school reunion in white jeans and a long-sleeved navy blue T shirt, perfectly in keeping with the outfits of my former classmates. However, I had dressed in such a rush that I had forgotten to tend to my toe tails. I was ashamed of their nakedness as they peeped out of the end of my uncomfortable gold sandals.

In one other respect, I didn’t match up to the glamour of the others. This was because – to date – I had made no investments in plastic surgery. In our party, I spotted several suspicious trout pouts and some unfeasibly smooth foreheads. We even had a ‘before’ and ‘after’ case study in the faces of the T twins. One had already gone under the knife, whereas the other was yet to do so.

The reunion venue oozed a particular old-fashioned elegance. All the rooms were decorated in heavy flowered wallpaper and soft furnishings, gilded antique furniture and risqué pictures. This gave customers the impression of a chintz and regency innuendo hotel.

Behind the scenes, however, I guessed that it was just like any other place offering accommodation on Exmoor. I was able to confirm this when I visited the hotel kitchen and surreptitiously tested two vats of melted chocolate.

The hotel laundry was rather different, however. There I came across a member of staff standing next to the lift delivering a lecture on the history of the printing press.