I’d been chair of the Scottish Conservative party since 2006 (against my will). Now the grey-haired bully across the table was forcing me to resign.
I was a disappointment to all. Even though I had held my post for almost seven years, and had an impressive track record as an academic, I had failed to implement a suitable records management system for the party.
I pulled into the parking space just on the approach to Ullapool so that I could photograph the interesting wave formation as it hit land. Unfortunately the moment that I placed the camera case on the ground a huge wave crashed against the shoreline and drenched all my equipment.
My auntie A took pity on me. “Your family is suffering more than its fair share of disasters at the moment. I’ve just spoken to your mother on the phone and she’s told me that all her online Christmas shopping purchases have been invalidated because someone in a shop miskeyed her credit card number”.
Sure enough, the next day when my mother handed over to me the brand new fluffy white towels that she had bought for me for Christmas, they evaporated into thin air.
I was fast asleep next to TPR in the main bedroom of our cottage in Perthshire when the noise awoke us at 02:00. Did we see faces at the window, or was the commotion coming from the floor below? We bravely headed downstairs. There we found an entire family busy cooking a fry-up in the kitchen with the full intention of eating bacon and eggs off their laps in the main sitting room.
“Hey!” I screeched. “This is not an episode of Goldilocks. What do you think you doing in our house, eating our food?!”
The mother explained that they had set off from London earlier that day to spend Christmas in the Highlands, but had forgotten to book accommodation. When they had asked in the village about somewhere to stay someone informed them that we hardly ever used our cottage and that it was probably vacant over the festive season. I replied that whoever their informant was, he or she was wrong – and in any case, since when did anyone respectable go squatting over the Christmas holidays?
Meanwhile I watched TPR negotiate with one of the grown-up sons. They were working out a bed and breakfast rate. By my calculations the family owed us at least £1000 to cover the one night stay, the cost of the food, and the laundry.
I was sorely disappointed, and somewhat annoyed, when TPR announced that he had taken pity on the family, that they could stay free of charge, and that he would make up Christmas stockings for the children. When I saw him round up my own toys for the stockings – including a pink cotton teddy that I had sewn myself, and the Jenners teddy bear given to me when I was a baby – I was beside myself with rage.
I knew that S had fancied me for years. I used to think that he was too young for me, but over time he had matured, and now I found him rather attractive, especially now that he wore his dark hair long.
My cunning plan to communicate that this attraction was now mutual involved standing very close to him in the queue for the buffet table, and then accidentally on purpose letting my hand brush a stroke across his body. He understood my meaning straightaway.
Before long we were planning to set up home together. A modern five-bedroomed house in Manchester would suit us perfectly.
PT looked up from his meeting papers and explained that they were looking for someone to lead a new degree programme. I knew instantly that he was hinting at me to volunteer.
I was happy to do so. I certainly had time to take on the role, even though I had never heard of this domain of study. How hard could it be for someone already qualified in modern languages to swot up on “Curd literature”?
I was left holding the baby, and what an ugly little creature it was. I wondered why its head was so floppy and its skin so slimy. Then it opened its mouth in an evil grin that revealed a full set of needle-sharp teeth. This was no ordinary child: this was a baby alien!
I wondered whether a holiday in Scotland was sufficient entertainment for my two girlfriends. However, all my doubts evaporated on our last day when the skies cleared, the sun came out, and we stumbled upon a spectacular air display.
We had no advance notice that three massive American air force planes were about to fly overhead. Our first clue was the crowd of anoraked men and boys lined up along the riverbank, all holding binoculars and cameras up to the sky. I approached a man with his teenage son and asked what they were waiting for.
“Haven’t you heard?”, the father replied, appalled at my ignorance. “The three largest planes in the US air force are calling in here in a few minutes. They’re en route from the Humber Bridge in Hull, Yorkshire to the North Humber Bridge in Hull, Sutherland. They are going to perform a few loops in the sky and then land nose-first in a pit. We’re all here to take photos.”
I was a bit confused to hear that there was a second Humber Bridge, as well as another town called Hull in the far north of Scotland. Nevertheless, this display sounded well worth watching so I shouted over to my friends that we should all get our cameras out and take position. We found a good vantage point away from the main crowd and hunted for our cameras. Mine was at the bottom of my bag and in the rush to find it I ended up scattering a whole load of my possessions all over the grass. As the roar of the planes on approach could be heard overhead I thought I had discovered my camera, but then realised that I had mistaken the pouch for my waterproof trousers for the camera case. It was too late for me to hunt any longer. I hoped that my friends would capture some good shots that they would be willing to share with me.
The three planes completed their loops in the sky and it now looked like they were preparing to head off again to the far north. “Well, that was fun” I thought, climbing down a grassy bank to pick up my belongings from the rectangular dip into which they had fallen.
Then I heard the roar of the planes’ engines again. I glanced sky-wards and saw that the plane at the front of the formation was heading straight towards me. I had forgotten that the man said that the planes were going to land nose-first in a pit.
I was in the pit. The plane was coming straight for me. The crowd screamed at me to get out of the way – not for my safety, but because I would ruin their photographs. I froze as the plane nose-planted with an enormous thud just inches away from me and the belongings that I had not yet had a chance to retrieve. How I survived the impact, I have no idea. It was a miracle.
The latest attractions at Edinburgh Airport were a prehistoric carving of a horse’s head, and a tightrope challenge that hung across a muddy stream. I was most interested in the former, and TPR in the latter.
We were just boarding the plane when it became obvious that the passenger in tears was not alone in her predicament. Two women in this queue were the victims of heartless men who thought nothing of dumping their fiancées just hours before their respective weddings.
While I was wondering what these two would do about their wedding receptions (which were presumably all booked and paid for) another woman started to wail. This one was very thin. She wore her dark hair long and lank over her heavily made-up face, a smart shirt, and a floor-length navy blue pleated skirt. Then I realised that she was not a member of the travelling public, but one of the British Airways cabin crew on our flight. She screamed that she too had been abandoned at the alter. I took the BA staff member aside to mutter words of comfort along the lines of “Well, at least a broken engagement now is less hassle than a divorce in the future”.
Then I noticed that one of the other abandoned brides had cheered up considerably. She announced to all within earshot that she would still hold her wedding reception, and the passengers were invited to join the celebration. She would host it with the abandoned groom that she had just found in the queue.
I knew that this new couple would be very happy together on the basis that they both sported tattoos of islands. Hers was an outline of Tenerife sketched across her shoulder, and his of an unidentified island (possibly Greek?) visible beneath the flip-flop strap on his right foot.
Abingdon would hardly have been my choice for a weekend away, but TPR was determined that this would be the perfect venue to relax for a couple of days. He was also completely unaware that this was where my ex-boyfriend lived, and that he and I had been sending flirty texts to one another for weeks – in fact ever since I knew that I would be heading south and that there was an outside chance of seeing one another again.
As things turned out, my ex himself was away for the weekend, so we never had the chance to meet. Instead TPR decided that the most exciting venue in Abingdon was a church hall where he drank whisky by the tumbler and showed off his muscles to an excitable audience of girls with cameras. My only hope was that he would never see the long and shameful correspondence that still lurked within my iPhone.
Dreamaticus 