My neighbour was talking to me again after several months of stony silence. She knocked on my door to show me the magic tank-top she was knitting.
Depending on the angle you viewed it from the, the tank-top sported a variety of colours and patterns. I was astonished, impressed and jealous.
I caught (supposed) vegetarian KT serving portions of home-made chicken liver pâté onto dinner plates in her huge country kitchen. The quantities were enormous. Here guests would never eat portions that big.
My lecture on food waste was not welcomed.
While P tried to persuade the rest of us – S, L, T, TPR and me – to part with £2000 per couple for the next instalment of our friendship premium, I showed T the many uses of a stripped Filofax.
Later I walked across a boggy lawn with HW. We failed to save our shoes from the mud.
TPR had ended our intimate relationship and now I was stuck in France. My life was effectively over.
My cousin B was due to marry J. There were some doubts as to whether or not he would turn up at the ceremony. Rather than go directly to the church with everyone else, I held back with the bridal party just in case we had to cancel B’s walk down the aisle. I was at the scene should someone be needed to comfort the jilted party.
Happily J was there to greet his fiancée and the ceremony went to plan.
The most remarkable feature of the wedding was not J’s non-appearance (as feared), but the huge range of silver trophies on display at the reception. At first I thought that these represented the achievements of the happy couple. I soon discovered that B and J were taking care of all this silverware on behalf of the local Young Farmers.
I jumped into the bath at the gym – with someone else’s fat, hairy husband.
XY’s children had no idea of the trouble that their father had caused and I saw no reason to cancel their visit.
The elder girl loved the hardback book that I had made for her, even though I thought she would hate the photograph on the cover. She also approved of the bikini top that I had bought and put it on straightaway under her swimming costume.
Her little sister also wanted some new clothes. However, she was only eight years old, and I had failed to find anything suitable for someone so young.
I took up part-time fostering. My charge was a boy of about 11 years of age whose father had left the family, and whose mother could not cope.
My first assignment was to spend a Saturday afternoon with him and JG’s dog Buster (normally resident in California). The plan was to take him to St Andrews Park in Bristol where he would meet a friend to play on the swings, and then hand him over to his father for the evening. The day went reasonably well until the dog slipped his lead, jumped into someone’s garden, and destroyed a white picket fence.
Dreamaticus 