TPR’s backlist of technical papers and books, combined with his retired status, made him an easy target for publishers. He was even pestered by a man we met on holiday, both in person at the resort and by phone when we returned home.
Apparently TPR was just the man to write the definitive guide to Windows 8. TPR didn’t agree with this view. As a form of escape he packed his bags and disappeared off on his own for a solo ski-ing holiday.
It was my first day back at school and, before lessons even started, I was called into the headmaster’s office for turning up late. I tried to explain that after years of working in academia I was completely unused to the notion of authority.
So what if I’d loitered ten minutes on top of the mountain where the school bus stopped? If I wanted to take a photograph of the snowy hilltops, then that was my business, wasn’t it? Equally, if I run into to some girls from the year above me at Teesside High School, then why shouldn’t I be allowed to talk to them and their lovers?
I knew I should have shown more respect for the headmaster, especially since it was ED who had to fetch me into his quarters, but I found him ridiculous. He occupied three enormous dingy rooms crammed with multiple television sets all tuned to different stations. The rooms were in an annex to the main school building, suspended above a semi-frozen lake. The headmaster travelled to and from his base in a blue-painted London taxi converted into a cable car.
When the headmaster showed interest in my green cashmere jumper, I was worried he might ask me to take it off. I quickly changed the subject and asked about the exotic birdlife that swooped over the icy lake beneath the annex. There would be no hanky panky in the headmaster’s office.
I was travelling across Europe in my private railway carriage. I served my guest a traditional ‘pre-breakfast breakfast’ of Emmental cheese and salami served with sweet bread rolls. This would tide us over until ‘proper breakfast’ I assured him.
Suddenly I remembered how I’d struggled with my luggage to get on board the train. Under the guise of helping me, a young man had run off with one of my suitcases. I had reached calmly into my handbag, pulled out a gun and shot him in the back. I was a spy!
TPR lay in the sun listening to the music of Bob Marley. I ate a bagel with cottage cheese and crème fraîche. It was only when I took my last bite that I remembered that I had promised to share the snack with my husband.
I was a fighter pilot in the French air force. One sunny afternoon I went for a wander through the grounds of a stately home in the south of England. An Arabic woman in army fatigues approached me and asked if I would be willing to help her practise her English. I was happy to oblige. We opened up my burgundy carry-on suitcase and I started etching lines into the plastic. Not only was I going to teach this woman English, but also a little maths, and something about Roman numerals.
Ian Rankin by Brendan MacNeill
I watched the final scene of the latest Ian Rankin novel to be dramatised on BBC television. His broken back mended, the young boy was reunited with his father just beneath Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh’s Holyrood Park. It was only then that I finally understood my friend DT’s relationship with the author. Rankin had based much of this tale on the story of DT’s serious bike accident and brave recovery. DT was Ian Rankin’s muse!
N and I were such good friends that she gave up her place in bed with S for me and slept on the sofa. The following morning I was up bright and early to welcome ECM on a long-anticipated trip north. We hadn’t seen each other for years, and I was keen to show her my latest creative outputs. I was incredibly disappointed when she dismissed my efforts – she was particularly rude about my stationery designs – and I was glad when she announced that she was leaving early.
My next appointment was the University sanatorium. The sister of AJ (one of my graduates) had been beaten up and left for dead in the street. Fortunately she had been rescued just in time, and was expected to make a full recovery. The Dean’s PA showed me into the ward. I wondered at the number of babies stacked up on trolleys along the central aisle. One rolled off the top shelf of a trolley and I only just caught him (or her) before he (or she) hit the floor. The undergraduate mothers of these poor unfortunate children lay still in beds nearby.
There were several other visitors gathered around AJ’s sister’s bed, including E, who was showing off her new diamond and emerald engagement ring. I wasn’t sure that I trusted everyone there, and my instincts were proved right when a sinister man in a long black coat appeared and grabbed the jewel. Other strange men appeared and I could tell that we were in danger. We had no option but to run to the woods and hide: this was a Nazi invasion.
I was fuming when I saw the mess in what had previously been a very tidy back garden. The culprit was obviously my father and I waited for him to come home so I could give him “what for”.
However, when the key turned in the lock and the door opened, it was David Morrissey who ‘came home’. Not only did I instantly forgive his untidy ways, but I also leapt into his arms and snogged him for a whole Saturday afternoon.
Dreamaticus 