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.
All plans for the Easter vacation were switched when first year undergraduate A announced that she had accepted a marriage proposal from the King of the Netherlands. The wedding was scheduled for the following week.
‘Goodness’ I mentioned to A’s mother, ‘I’ve just realised that your grandchildren will be royalty!’
While BC gave media interviews about her forthcoming Edinburgh marathon appearance, I waited back at the flat with N and TPR.
TPR kept himself busy making batches of soup and serving them to passing friends. KT and her glamorous sister popped in for a bowl, as did my school friend RL.
When BC returned to the flat at 1pm she wheeled her bike through the porch and over the parquet flooring in the hall, leaving long, dirty tyre marks in her wake. TPR leapt up, grabbed the bike, and led BC outside.
‘This is where we keep bikes’ he explained, showing off the shed and his newly carpented raised bike rack.
At this point the pet pig from across the road scampered over to join us. We all gave him a quick cuddle then he wandered home again. (We didn’t say anything about the pet pig’s relation that TPR had butchered whole just a few hours earlier.)
Afterwards we took a walk down to the shore. On the way I had words with N about potty training.
I changed my mind about taking to the stage in white sparkly leggings to perform my latest ballet routine.
How could I possibly follow the magnificent display of the retiring prima donna? Anything I attempted would be a huge disappointment.
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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