The rumours that my sister lived in complete chaos were false. She had disposed of all the hoarded belongings from one room in her flat and was now busy painting it white. Her bedroom was also very neat and tidy. The beautiful green carpet was clear of debris, with all my sister’s clothes neatly tidied away in a handsome chest of drawers.
Only the kitchen and sitting room needed serious attention.
I wondered whether the complaints about the state of her flat were simply a ruse to generate pity?
For a restaurant that had aspirations for 4* status, the ladies lavatories needed much attention. My suggestions for improvement included:
*I almost jumped out of my skin when, at the end of my visit, he announced his presence by tapping the back of my leg with the end of a screwdriver.
SM hosted a delicious lunch for six. We all missed P, but S’s friend provided interesting entertainment when he hinted that it smelt of cannabis upstairs and S reacted by offering everyone a spliff.
TPR also contributed to the fun. He showed off his latest movie. This included secret remote footage of S in his garden playing with a boxer dog.
It was 11:45 when I remembered that I was booked into a yoga class at 12:00.
I ran all the way to the gym in the vain hope of reaching the studio in time. Alas, I was too late to join the class.
Instead I watched a huge group of people enjoying ‘dance fitness’ in a session run by Radio 1. This looked a lot more fun than boring old yoga.
My in-laws held back the early morning visitors to their stately home while their staff vacuumed the Persian rugs.
Meanwhile Dawn French, dressed in all her Vicar of Dibley garb, was busy setting up the private chapel for a wedding in the afternoon.
Two marching bands were on their way to the wedding venue. The one from Northern Ireland represented the bride. That from Spain represented the groom.
My mother-in-law pulled the sodden scrap of paper out of the stream, glanced at it, and quietly passed it to her husband.
‘That explains a lot. Now, at last, we know for certain what X has been up to!’ he exclaimed.
At first they refused to share this information with me. Eventually agreed to do so, but only after establishing that I did not know the parties involved.
In neat blue biro I read a man’s name, a phone number, an address, and train times to London. This all added up to evidence that X was embroiled in a secret love affair.
‘Would Your Majesty like to dismount here, or would you prefer to be dropped off closer to the entrance?’ I asked Queen Elizabeth II.
Her dirty look was all it took for me to realise that my question was completely inappropriate.
First, I should have addressed the monarch in the third person: ‘Would Her Majesty…’ Second, why did I think that a frail woman in her nineties would elect to walk from the middle of a car park to a building’s entrance when there was the option of being driven to the door?
With her bald head, RJ looked like a cancer patient. I said that I hoped that her family and friends knew that she had shorn off her hair to raise money for charity. Otherwise, they would be very worried about her.
Then I hinted that I would love to come and speak to her colleagues at the museum about my latest project about public engagement and digitised historical artefacts. RJ looked at me blankly. Had she really forgotten our long conversation about this research? We’d discussed it intensively while cycling over the hills a couple of years ago.
Later, I needed to pick up a towel so that I could go for a swim in the small hotel pool with my niece and my sister. I got so lost hunting for one that I ended up at the airport in a queue to board a flight to Denmark.
The nippy waitress was appalled at our amorous antics in the restaurant. She told us to get dressed while she reported our behaviour to the restaurant owner.
‘Report whatever you want’, I replied, ‘I doubt that Mrs McPherson will care.’
I could do no wrong in restaurant owner Mrs McPherson’s eyes. She would be forever grateful that I successfully tutored her daughter F to a 2.1 degree in the 1990s.
Dreamaticus 