When the steering wheel fell off the Stilo I took the opportunity to persuade TPR that it was high time we bought a new car. My preference was a brand new Volkswagen.
TPR looked doubtful until I added that if we sold the Caterham that we had recently inherited, we could easily afford something so much better than a dodgy second-hand Stilo.
I’d just entered into a civil partnership, but couldn’t remember which of the three female candidates had been my bride. Could it be RT, the one I knew best of all? Or was it the woman with double-barrelled surname?
I needed to know so that I could work out what my new surname should be, and then ensure the authority control of all my future publications.
We lived in a huge hotel – possibly an American Hilton or Marriott – in a room that we shared with a disabled lady. She was a permanent resident, whereas for us this was only meant to be home for a short time.
I found it very difficult to sleep here and often wandered the corridors in the early hours, dressed in my lime green crocs and pink onesie. Nobody seemed to notice me – not even the smartly dressed business guests as they checked into the hotel first thing in the morning after overnight flights.
One night I lost my room key. Without it I couldn’t remember our room number, and ended up opening and closing random bedroom doors trying to find TPR and all our belongings. I was surprised at how many people left their hotel doors open, and that none of the hotel staff questioned what I was doing.
The same day I comforted PC after a guest accidentally slammed a fire door in his face and gave him a black eye.
Something made me look over towards the passengers on the other side of the aisle. They knew before I did that we were going down. Most were already in the brace position in readiness for the inevitable impact. I lowered my head into my hands and uttered my final words: “I love TPR”.
It was a Friday morning and we were all supposed to be at work, but instead DT, WB, NP and I were fooling around in my flat. AC joined us too, his camera at the ready to capture the fun of the moment.
WB recalled a party during which a bunch of pals had raided my bedroom. “You know that X now sleeps with a pair of your knickers under his pillow, don’t you?” she revealed.
AA had suddenly developed an interest in social media profiles. His big concern was the discovery that I was “all over the Internet”. He showed me a collage of all the pictures of me that he had downloaded, including some great shots of my time on stage in amateur dramatics.
Even though he’d uncovered nothing of concern, AA was determined that I close down my accounts. He advised that (at the very least) I should replace my Facebook profile picture with an image of a clock face.
I was very impressed with the new set-up in the café. Somehow NS had persuaded the owners to allow him to put up a sign that would direct potential clients of his consultancy services to the table where he was seated. The sign read “Scottish Community Challenge” with a huge arrow pointing to the left.
“Wow, that’s great!” I said to NS.
“It would be”, he confessed sadly, “if I worked for the Scottish Community Challenge – but I don’t”.
As KA headed off along the station platform with a sad wave, we did wonder whether her self-imposed exile was really absolutely necessary. All she had done was complain on Facebook about the pain of marking undergraduate essays. This was common practice amongst many of our friends at this time of year.
On a rare visit to Birmingham, TPR and I checked up on our little house in Northfield. It had been empty for years, but we didn’t have the heart to sell it. I wandered around the lovely garden, surprised to find that there was still snow on the ground, then popped indoors to find TPR pondering whether or not it had been a good idea to take the wall down between the kitchen and the sitting room.
“Perhaps we should rent it out?” I suggested. “I know someone who would enjoy living here and look after the house well: my online friend Y”.
Dreamaticus 