Amol Rajan had given up in journalism for a job selling train tickets at London King’s Cross.
When he failed to find me a split ticket for the route London-Newcastle-Edinburgh, I recommended that he return to his old role.
He didn’t even know how to issue a standard single from the capital to Waverley.
I’d known for some time that TPR had taken on SC as his mistress, but I was hopeful that this was just a temporary arrangement.
It therefore came as a bit of a shock to see the feint tattoo on TPR’s right wrist. I recognised this as a symbol of lasting commitment to SC.
The time had come for TPR to make a choice between his wife of many decades, and his relatively recent paramour.
Holy Island was never a quiet holiday destination, but now the hordes had something new to enjoy.
The recent storms had transformed the muddy harbour bay into a wide expanse of soft golden sand. It was perfect for sunbathing, as a picnic spot, or a place to leave your clothes while you took a quick dip in the North Sea.
The bay was already a wonderful vantage point from which to photograph the castle in the day time, and to observe the stars in clear skies at night. The new beach now made it the number one tourist attraction of the Holy Island of Lindisfarne.
The hideous truth was that members of staff were meeting for trysts inside the care home mortuary refrigeration unit.
Dr M and I regretted not bringing our ‘big’ cameras with us when we saw the otters at the shoreline. They would have been so easy to photograph.
When the toddlers were playing in the water with the creatures, we knew that we had missed a photo opportunity of a lifetime.
J and GC beamed with pride when they announced that they had bought a pied à terre in Edinburgh. ‘How exciting!’ I exclaimed.
When I entered the poky two-bedroomed ground floor flat on Broughton Road, I managed to hide my disappointment. The look on EF’s face, however, said everything.
My Uncle P, Auntie M, and cousins called in to check the arrangements for our family holiday in the far north. I was worried about the potential cost of lunch en route, especially if we broke the journey at the House of Bruar. Should I make sandwiches for us all?
P shook his head, telling me that we’d find a cheap café in a village off the A9. Tomintoul would be a good bet.
TPR and I set off 30 minutes later. Half an hour into the journey we realised that we were travelling without our bikes and I hadn’t packed any clothes for two weeks away from home.
I had dreaded the visit to my sister S’s house in Jesmond, convinced that I probably wouldn’t even make it past the front door. This was due to the quantity of junk that she stored from floor to ceiling in her tiny Tyneside flat.
However, when I arrived there I found a vast airy space laid out in a way reminiscent of the displays at IKEA. The only difference was that my sister had cleverly positioned interesting antiques and vintage furniture – rather than cheap Scandi flatpack – in neat little ‘scenes’ across the floor.
Dreamaticus 