My new best friend was MS, the ten year-old daughter of an external work colleague who was on business in town.
MS very proudly showed off a new app that she had just developed. It was an electric ruler that could measure distances on maps on-screen.
Meanwhile I was becoming increasingly concerned that I had caught a virus from PL. The glands in my throat were so swollen that my cheeks and chin had changed shape completely and I now sported three pointy angles at the bottom of my face.
GJ ran past ED, barely stopping to give her a high five. When he reached me I expected the same. However, it turned out that I was worthy of a greater prize: a kiss on the lips and an invitation to his secret bolt-hole on the Isle of Skye on 27th July 2014 (which, unfortunately, I could not make).
As we served them their porridge for breakfast, we excused my cousins B and JW and their friends C and SW from the daily morning run.
TPR and I had rented a cottage on the Isle of Skye, but had no idea where it was located. Lost on the outskirts of Portree a cheeky toddler called Mary led the way to our accommodation.
The man leered at me from the doorway as I pulled the drawer open to look for a sports bra. “Nice body”, he murmured, stretching out his right hand to stroke my bare flesh.
“Help! TPR!” I shrieked.
My husband arrived just in time, and bundled me into the safety of a dark cupboard.
Standing in the black and white corridor I could see Rousse striding purposefully across the quad in my direction. I turned dramatically to the camera crew and delivered my line: “Now why would anyone need SO many Jif lemons?”.
Refusing to use the door, Rousse removed the sliding glass windows and climbed in, ruining the shoot. We greeted each other enthusiastically and went outside to play.
With the conference room set up ‘theatre style’ and the delegates quietly seated, the sound system started playing a George Formby tune I didn’t recognise. The first act entered from the wings and began a comedic strip, while the delegates took notes.
The conference organiser took me to one side and told me I had a lot to live up to if I was going to compete with this act. I was amazed she hadn’t auditioned me but I left the room, knowing I had only a week to lose weight, get a costume, choose my music and learn to dance both provocatively and hilariously.
I needed to back in Edinburgh by Friday for meetings at work in the morning, and an evening Beatnik party. My sister J arranged to drop me off at the station on the beach by the Arsenal ground on her way into town to pick up her breast implants (for the operation scheduled for the next week).
Unfortunately I had jumped into the car without any of my bags. There was no way I could catch the train. I didn’t even have money for a ticket. I was stranded down south with no hope of getting home in time for the party (never mind the meetings).
Dreamaticus 