TPR held my hand tightly as we walked along the dark street. Although the many passers-by frightened me due to their appearance, I was fascinated by the beautiful Goth drag queens.
When we emerged into the sunny square at the end of the street we were overwhelmed by hundreds of bright yellow pigeons.
Few know that between Christopher Eccleston and David Tennant there was another Dr Who: Scottish student JM.
My step-mother-in-law organised a reunion in Harrogate. For a tourist town it lacked a decent restaurant. We tried two establishments but left each of them before a morsel of food was served simply because the waiting staff failed to come over and take our order.
We changed our plan and decided to buy takeaway fish and chips. This was a pity because for the first time in months XY seemed to be enjoying herself at the table.
All the others were clutching revision notes as we entered the exam hall. I had nothing in my hands because I had done no preparation whatsoever. So what if SH got a first and I failed?
Then I started to panic. How would I get onto the PhD programme at Edinburgh or Oxford without even a first degree?
The two London Underground officials at Heathrow Airport were hopeless. When I asked them which service ran to Kings Cross they simply laughed, then took another puff on their ridiculous pipes.
Harold Wilson had a wife and a mistress, yet I still accepted his generous invitation to become his girlfriend. (That he was dead was an irrelevant detail.)
TPR had a new hobby – cropping pictures of petrol cans from car accessory catalogues and reassembling them as colour-coordinated collections in Mac photo albums.
My father accepted an invitation to travel to Australia to fight ISIS. He was just about to set off when I pointed out that he wouldn’t get very far without a passport or visa.
My misdeeds were many.
First there was arson. I threw a match into a small garage on the junction of Northumberland Street and Ferry Road. While I watched the billows of grey smoke envelop the neighbourhood, I thought it would be amusing if I were the one to call the fire brigade.
Next were the murders. My cunning plan had been to bury the corpses in a flower bed at my parents’ house. The bodies would never be found because neither my mother nor father ever did any gardening.
Dreamaticus 
Topless waitress survives tsunami (Rousse)
I’d got into the habit of going topless – everywhere. At Friday morning meetings my colleagues just ignored my bare breasts and didn’t pass comment. However, when I applied for a job as a waitress at a luxury tropical hotel my section supervisor had words with me. This was not a topless establishment. His other concern was that I learn to pronounce his African name properly.
My stint as a waitress didn’t last long due to the tsunami. Fortunately TPR and I were prepared for it because we were time travellers. Just before the massive wave hit we raced to the top floor of the hotel to shelter.
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