Jill Archer was running around looking after my cousins and their families. Only that morning she had booked N’s wife J’s car in for repair following the accident, and dealt with the insurance claim.
This meant that the three brothers had more time to devote to raising money for the charitable cause in memory of their fourth sibling (of whom I knew nothing).
J had not left this world completely: she was ‘resting’ at a facility for the dead.
When I met her I was surprised that she looked so well. Her hair looked in especially good condition. However, when I questioned her closely, she explained that she was in a lot of pain.
K was going to be locked up in prison for another two weeks at least, awaiting trial for her assault on S. It took three hours to travel the long distance to visit her. Even after that, I was not guaranteed an audience with the accused.
Security was such that all visitors were challenged to peel away thick layers of cardboard panels of various sizes to find the prison entrance. If you did this in the wrong order, you were left staring at a glossy advertising hoarding for make-up.
I failed the task and was only able to speak to K by telephone. She was, understandably, desperate to leave custody.
A quick glance at my calendar told me that I should be with AJ speaking about the new framework to female students.
I made a dash for room C14, taking care not to trip along the poorly maintained corridors. ‘What is is about this place?’ I thought. ‘It’s so good and putting things up, but never invests in their maintenance’.
I was about 15 minutes late by the time I reached the classroom from the floor above. Below me I could see that there were four or five students in the room with AJ, and a big plate of smoked salmon.
Since the staircase was in such a bad state of repair I had no option but to jump down to join everyone. Unfortunately I didn’t realise (and nobody warned me) that the hole in the floor was a direct route to the chilly watery depths of the North Sea.
Since my office had been allocated to someone else, I was forced to move campus. Queues of students begged to see me there, including 1995 graduates AB and PG.
Meanwhile my computer died – most likely because it had been hacked by a grey-bearded man.
NP and SF had to get south of the Edinburgh bypass fast to escape the rival drug gang.
They quickly commandeered a Land Rover, and NP took the wheel.
But this was never going to work. How could they have both forgotten that NP can’t drive?
The latest tea was called ‘Tudor humiliation’.
I returned to work after my trip, hung my coast on the peg, and checked who had booked in to see me.
The two PCs were lingering outside my office. One asked about the grant proposal.
Now that the wall was fixed, TPR started on other home improvements. He fitted two gates – one for tradesmen and one for visitors (painted blue) – and arranged for a delivery of soil so that he could level out the ground in our back garden.
Dreamaticus 