With just one day to go we were meant to be preparing the house for N and S’s wedding, not destroying it.
TPR should have listened to us when we told him not to move the fireplace. How was he going to explain to the bride and groom all the scorches on their brand new £6000 hardwood parquet floor?
The journalist thrust a microphone into my face and demanded that I gave a full history of the Manor House from its origins as an eighteenth century farm house to the severe fire damage of July 2014.
As we travelled on the buggy from the tennis court to the main entrance I recalled what I could of the house’s history, including its long association with the Cadbury family and the University of Birmingham. My interviewer was most interested, however, in the period when I lived there as an undergraduate. I reminisced about those happy days of the 1980s, highlighting all the fabulous formal dinners, parties and balls.
The buggy then suddenly, and unexpectedly, transformed into an open-topped tank. The interview came to an abrupt halt when the caterpillar tracks climbed some boxy hedging and we were thrown out onto the lawn.
It was the start of the new academic year and, as usual, I was busy serving smoked salmon to a long line of students.
Afterwards my sister’s school friend DM led me to the dance floor. What a mover! He returned my compliments on his steps, noting that J was a great dancer too. I thought I better say that S also knew some great moves. I didn’t want her to be left out.
DT was recording every detail of her pregnancy in a small black notebook. The latest news concerned body parts that were really of no consequence given that we already knew that the baby was a boy.
JB didn’t want to hear any more about this. She would probably have been more interested in WB and BP’s conversation about dresses (in English) at the party later in the day.
I wondered if I would ever get rid of my ex-boyfriend?
This was no way for him to win back my heart, moping around dwelling on what could have been. He should also have paid heed to the ‘competition’. Nobody could ever live up to TPR.
Nevertheless, I was kind. I (re)introduced to him to CC’s ex-boyfriend (also back and causing trouble), showed him the silly photographs of me with JS’s daughter (we were jumping on he pavement outside my flat), and listened to him as he whinged about how his two-day a week job barely kept him busy.
In my enthusiasm to share my expert knowledge of sanitary products with my former classmates, I forgot to pack a dress for the school reunion.
Our hostess JB came up with a solution for my dress dilemma: to raid her teenage daughter’s wardrobe on my behalf. I followed her to the bedroom where all the clothes that this child had ever worn were crammed into cupboards and drawers. I certainly wouldn’t fit into the toddler garb, but a generous size 10 ballgown might do.
I admired the faded silk arts and crafts rug in the bedroom, as well as the art work on the walls, and the antique furniture, throughout the house. ‘If only I’d married a stockbroker myself, I would also enjoy such luxuries’, I concluded with a touch of regret.
The second baby that I kidnapped was much better than the first: it kept its nappy dry overnight, it didn’t mind the cold, and it smiled a lot.
Despite this, TPR was still not happy that we were harbouring other people’s ‘lost’ children in our flat. We were bound to be found out sooner or later.
