I called to DT that I’d see her at the revolving door so that we could head home together. Then I thought that I had better check my office before I left.
The PhD applicants who had unexpectedly turned up to my room earlier in the day had left it in a terrible mess. I had no option but to start tidying up. I hope that my efforts would all be worthwhile to recruit the girl who had never scored less than an A on any piece of academic work.
This was so foolish. I set off up a mountain with two men that I barely knew, in the dark, without a torch.
I knew in my heart that we could never be together, even if TPR were despatched elsewhere. In spite of everything else in my suitor’s favour, I could never accept his Christian faith.
He asked me why I loved him.
My answer was twofold. First I admired his intellect. Second, his impressive height reminded me of a climbing frame.
I was wondering if I had visited this rural church before (perhaps for a funeral?) as PB-S brought me up to date on her holiday plans. She was looking forward to a few days away on the Norfolk Broads with her husband.
This didn’t make sense to me: as far as I knew she was unmarried. Had we missed her wedding?
We were working through archives of exam questions, extracting any that could be recycled for the next academic year. My collection was so old that it included questions on medieval French literature from my own undergraduate days.
My colleagues started getting restless and I wondered how much further we would get through the job before heading home for the day. Then I looked at the clock: it was 7pm. I was obliged to let the others go, but decided to stay on for another half hour or so myself.
At 10pm I was still on campus, and also had some more work to do 12 miles up the road at my other office. I set off west on foot, accompanied by a young woman who approached me for relationship advice. Her question (which I was unqualified to answer) concerned her school librarian partner who was having doubts about her sexuality. “Hormone treatment?” I suggested haphazardly as we marched along the busy main road, careful to jump into the verge every time a heavy lorry thundered by.
Half-way along the route I acquired a heavy Jacobean trunk. I carried it as best I could. Although I was grateful for my recent training regime, I still struggled with the weight. It was also rather difficult to see around such a bulky item of furniture. I nearly stumbled into a shimmering blue Maserati as I walked up a tiny lane of one of the villages en route.
By now it was almost midnight, I was still miles from my destination, and I had not yet contacted TPR to tell him when I would be home. I called him from my old mobile phone (I was saving the charge in my iPhone for emergencies) and confessed that I would not be back for a long time yet. He was resigned to my absence. At least he had my sister S for company until I finally returned to the flat.
I quite enjoyed behaving as if I were a poverty-stricken invalid. I barely made any effort to work, and TPR gladly cooked me the special meals that I demanded. I regularly attended a charity service that helped clothe the needy, certain that it would soon provide me with a brand new cashmere coat at no cost whatsoever.
One day towards the end of a holiday, and in the blazing heat of the far north of Scotland, TPR (who was looking after me with the utmost care) and I came across a budding rock star standing beside a jetty. I recognised the young man straightaway. He was called Simon Smith, and a former student of mine. I pretended that I was already a big fan of his music, but he soon saw through my fake enthuiasm for his band and, before long, it dawned on him why my face was familiar to him.
Simon immediately invited me to a reunion of his classmates. These included MG, who chatted with me at the dinner table and told me all about her son. Best of all, surrounded by the former students I was able to work out who had graduated in 1996, and discovered a bunch of people who remembered my colleague DR, and her sister CM.
PR was at a loss as to what to do with the flooded garage attached to his house.
“Apply for a grant to turn it into a swimming pool, open it to the public, and solve Scotland’s obesity problem”, I suggested.
“That’s an option” he answered, then headed back indoors to watch The Great British Bake Off on BBC2.
I rushed back into the study with my camera to photograph the orange toucans perched in the tree at the window. Two minutes earlier had been beside myself with excitement when I learnt that members of this exotic species had flocked in their hundreds to Edinburgh to set up home!
However, by the time I made my return to the room I discovered that the toucans had been replaced by a family of monkeys. Then suddenly the view from the window switched to a different jungle scene.
It was only then that I understood that there were, in fact, no tropical wildlife settling into a new life in the chilly north. Someone was projecting repeats of BBC1’s Animal magic onto the wall of our yard.
Dreamaticus 