The first I heard of the shooting of members of the British royal family was when I turned on the television news and saw live footage of Princess Anne and her daughter under fire.
As she fled the scene, I was again reminded of how much the daughter looked like my sister-in-law SMcC. She was even wearing a pale blue and white striped sweatshirt just like S’s.
I left my rucksack unattended one time too many when I was helping my mother navigate Edinburgh airport. This time both my MacBook Air and iPad mini were stolen. I only had myself to blame for this calamity.
There was room for about a dozen of us in BW-H’s massive new house. Most of us had our own rooms. Those who did not were comfortable enough, including B’s friend John who slept on a sofa bed on the big landing. The house was, however, rather untidy, so ET-S and I set to work on a spring clean (of sorts).
Later – in the now-respectable sitting room – disaster struck. I chipped both my front teeth on a mug of Earl Grey tea. I now looked like Plug of the Beano’s Bash Street Kids. How would I get through a day at work resembling a comic strip character?
I made things worse by applying pink make-up to my face in haphazard fashion. I couldn’t correct my mistake because I had no make-up remover on me – and nor did anyone else in the men’s toilets.
“It’s your mother on the phone” shouted TPR from the far side of our US hotel bedroom.
I took the call. My mother had rung to discover the real reason why I was spending so much time at the ‘other’ side of the Atlantic. I explained that I was here to deliver some presentations, advise PhD students, and run a major international conference – and nothing more. I could tell from the tone of her voice that she feared a hidden agenda that might result in my leaving the UK forever.
In the background I could hear my father having a similar conversation with my sister J, currently in Canada.
I woke at 3:30am to find that TPR was not in the bed next to me.
I found him in the sitting room, cradling a bottle of whisky, talking to a running pal of old. (This man was somewhat larger than I remembered. Perhaps he had given up veganism?)
I ordered both of them to their beds.
We were really pleased to be the new next door neighbours of T and S in a house that had stairs. We could now be keyholders for one another.
The only problem was that we couldn’t remember anybody’s name. So when our old upstairs neighbours A and E came to visit we were unable to introduce them to T and S. We just hoped that they would work it all out for themselves.
My mother told us all that she had never felt better – since her vasectomy.
Although my paper had been refereed and accepted, by the time that I registered at the Turkish conference it had disappeared from the programme. I hung around the venue all morning looking for someone to tell me if I was meant to give a presentation and – if so – where. When it became clear that I would not be needed I decided to cut my losses and head home. I didn’t have far go because this year’s Turkish conference was held in Glasgow.
I left at the same time as two tall, slim, short-haired dark female employees of the Scottish Government. They were known as as the ‘Russian twins’ on the grounds that (a) they looked alike and (b) one was Romanian and the other Bulgarian.
As we headed up Buchanan Street en route to the station my new companions invited me to join them on a couple of shopping errands. I agreed to accompany them, so long as the itinerary included a browse around Lakeland Plastics.
I asked my new friends why they had abandoned the conference. They confided that this was a perk of every job in the Scottish civil service. So long as you made an appearance at the start of any event at which you were registered, you were entitled to bunk off for the rest of the day. My contribution to the conversation was that I hoped one day to win free medical treatment in a foreign country as a reward for my frequent work trips abroad.
When we reached Queen Street station we found alternative transport back home. There CM offered us space in a black cab that he had chartered to carry props for his latest advertising campaign. A lift was ours – so long as we didn’t mind being squeezing in beside dog agility equipment. CM’s assistant added that we also had to agree not to ‘card swipe’ any expenses, i.e. make an illegitimate expenses claim. As if I would do such a thing! I explained to her how I don’t even wait on a single yellow lines.
The trip home was quick and easy – even though we ended up in Stockton-on-Tees. To make the drop off easy I suggested that the taxi stop at Elmwood, equidistant from the White House, Hartburn Village, and RL’s house.
TPR proudly showed off his latest acquisition from the communal rubbish bins: a small Disney figurine of Winnie the Pooh. He planted it with the rest of his gnome collection next to the garden pond.
Dreamaticus 