NP was granted one of the first exclusive Gold Twitter accounts. She was merrily tweeting from it as she rode into the stadium on a massive Harley Davison motorbike.
Meanwhile JM lingered in the bath. He wouldn’t miss the train to London: his ex-wife would give him a lift to the station if he asked.
I observed everything from the landing of V and C’s new house. I was looking after it while they were on holiday in Disneyland.
Phil Collins was travelling first class from Montreal back to London on the same flight as me. I knew this because the fat woman in yellow told me so in the vast aircraft toilets.
Paul McCartney came on set to check its authenticity. Meanwhile I checked his. He looked so incredibly young that I was almost tempted to ask him for the number of his plastic surgeon.
Jeremy Clarkson had been sacked so my long-awaited appearance on Top Gear was cancelled. However, the disgraced TV star still honoured our date.
First he cooked for me and DB. Breakfast was a huge plate of black bacon.
Then he granted me an interview on the topic of his departure from the BBC. It turned out that this was nothing to do with an assault, but with 31 mysterious text messages sent by his producer.
It was much easier for our project team to work in the new office. With the extra space we weren’t so much in one another’s way. I just wished that I had been kinder when I gave B feedback on his preparation for the meeting. However, he should have known that a hand-written post-it note was not what the client meant by ‘visual aid’.
I sat in the futuristic auditorium surrounded by the great and good of the British Library. Above each pod was an electronic name tag that identified its occupant. Since they shared the same surname, I wondered whether the woman on stage was married to the one who was sitting next to me.
The presentation was fascinating. Who knew that the British Library’s biggest investment was a hotel chain? I was also delighted to hear that one of my innovation proposals was to be adopted. Henceforth all library and information science articles would be published in the same journal rather than scattered across a range of titles.
My boyfriend was called Phil. We’d been seeing one another on and off for a while now so it was good to make it official. He was a nice man, though a bit posh – and a lot younger than me. He reminded me a little of DC.
I told JC all about this when we settled down to watch Manchester play Leeds in the final of University Challenge in French. (Unfortunately I still hadn’t quite managed to extricate myself from TPR.)
WM sat at the kitchen table with her half-written report in front of her. Another couple of students were milling around, but not the one that WM was after. When her quarry eventually appeared WM shouted at him for not pulling his weight.
I escaped to the study where X sobbed uncontrollably. Between gulps for air she confessed the plans for her death.
My companion was a highly intelligent Irish woman. When she started talking about politics, I was grateful that I had paid attention to the radio news that morning. She seemed impressed that I was able to pass on some information that she had not yet heard.
I also drew her attention to the progress of talented singer Fionn Gardner in the current series of The Voice of Ireland.
My brother-in-law MF invited me on a ski-ing trip. I hadn’t taken to the slopes for years so was interested in the new form of ski-ing on short stumpy blades that were held together across the front by a small black plastic token.
I turned down the invitation to join MF and the others in their accommodation. My hotel room was a lot cosier than an old-fashioned dirty white canvas tent pitched in the snow.
Dreamaticus 