The kitchen was so crammed with people that my Granny H struggled to reach the hob to make herself a cup of tea.
In the chaos, our guest TF was trying to show us his collection of antique maps. Their details of Victorian railway construction fascinated him. He was also keen to persuade TPR to drive him to a concert in Thorpe Park.
Outside JS, RR and their children A and J were sitting on uncomfortable garden furniture under a downpour.
I was shocked when I thought that the small concrete block at the roadside was our new home. Relieved that it was not, I followed TPR further down the road to a turn-off on the left. A long, single track road that led further into the Lanarkshire countryside stretched out in front of us.
‘It’s up there’, said TPR. ‘I know that you are going to love it.’
The further we walked along the road, the more I doubted TPR’s words. It appeared that the hedges had not been trimmed for years, and in places fallen trees laid across the tarmac. This could not possibly be the main route to the house.
Eventually we reached our destination. It was not a house for one couple, as I had been led to believe. Rather, it was a kind of commune, the members of whom lived in chaos.
We were expected to live in very close proximity with a family of four. The mother was extremely bossy and the eldest son spent his days playing basketball in our shared sitting room. Worst of all, the others forced us to adopt their grocery shopping practice of home delivery from Asda.
I was desperate to the attend the sell-out concert at the drill hall. Without a ticket, I hatched a plan to gatecrash the event.
Just before the concert start time, I walked boldly into the reception area of the hall. I greeted the audience members waiting to go into the auditorium, then peered through the glass door to the right.
In the main hall, I could see that the AGM of the Choral Society was well underway. A smart-looking woman spotted me through the glass. She stood up and quietly left her seat in the hall. Once in the reception area, she greeted me in her capacity as a member of the concert organising committee.
I didn’t admit that I was looking for a free ticket to the concert. Instead, I told the woman that I was a reporter who would generate publicity for the event by blogging about it on my popular web site, provided that she would give me a free ticket.
My plot worked, and she told me to return at 18:30 for the hour of choral singing. She even made me a badge to wear, although she labelled me with my sister S’s name rather than my own. This was because she used the name on my borrowed ruck sack as her reference source.
I popped home for an hour before the start of the concert. Here I found my nephew in the kitchen frying prawns in an enormous wok. Meanwhile TPR was lying on the bedroom floor in his running gear with his mouth taped shut with white Elastoplast. He managed to communicate to me that this was his way of protesting against my family’s invasion of his living space.
When my sister-in-law S McC burst into tears, I thought that she must have overheard me criticise elements of the party as ‘rather common’.
In fact, when I had been waving my arms around to make my point, my long fingernails had scraped across her face. Blood was now gushing from a deep, three inch long, wound over her forehead.
This was bound to heal into a Harry Potter scar, for which I would be blamed forevermore.
I was being shown around Stonehenge by an expert and was introduced to ‘the Moss Team’. They were responsible for spray-painting moss onto the rocks.
Later, as I was about to go out to dinner, I spotted my friend RM-H lurking outside the house. He had, without any advance notice, brought Henry VIII’s sixth wife, Catherine Parr, to meet me.
At last, the love of my life had proposed marriage. In an off-handed fashion, he said “Well, we might as well do this, then” and thrust a dolphin-shaped silver ring into my hand. When I looked at it, I realised I already had an identical ring at home and wondered if he had simply taken it off my dressing table. I hoped not, because I immediately lost the ring he had given me by dropping it into the sea.
I received a notice through the letterbox. The squirrels in the back garden had declared war against me and had formed an alliance with foxes.
The next morning I opened the curtains and saw that an elaborate network of trenches had been dug in the back yard. This was serious.
The university reunion in Birmingham was a very dull affair, attracting only the quietest of my former classmates.
I eventually managed to persuade JG into a conversation. She spoke of her preference for the study of Latin and Greek over French. I challenged her when she mentioned her enthusiasm for Aristotle as the author of Henry IV. Didn’t she mean Shakespeare or Pirandello?
I told her that I was in the process of buying a shop in Stirchley. When she asked the reasons for this, I was at a loss to come up with a single one.
Queen Consort Camilla was easily pleased with packs and packs of Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes.
Prince Philip (not dead) was a more tricky customer. He suddenly remembered a family that lived on a remote ranch in the mid-west of the United States of America. Please could I find their house on Google Earth and – if possible – photos of the husband and wife?
Prince Andrew also appeared to be demanding. In fact he was only joking when he complained that the meat pie that I had served him was ‘disgusting’.
As well as helping the royal family, I gave some careers advice to a 12 year-old girl who asked the subject of my first degree. Ultimately she wanted to join the police force. I advised her to go to university first.
At the end of my day of duties serving others, I went home to ‘my’ new baby. She was a present to me from my mother. At a very advanced age she had undergone IVF, the pregnancy, and given birth – just for me.
Jack Dee was in love – with me!
As a token of his affection, he had already given me a red silk, traditional, Chinese Tang suit jacket. Now he was begging me to meet him on Thursday evening for a romantic rendezvous in a 5 star hotel. This was a difficult invitation to accept because I still loved my partner of 40+ years.
What were the chances that (a) I would enjoy a secret night of passion with one of the UK’s top comedians and (b) I’d never be discovered for the betrayal of my husband?
Perhaps Jack and I would be better advised to take our passion overseas?
Dreamaticus 