Talking seals take to the Scottish streets (Rousse)

The village was packed with seals. They emerged in small packs from the bay, crossed over the single-track road, then wandered around the village, chatting. I noticed that the black furry ones were the most talkative.

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Black M&S knickers laundered for the overworked academic (Rousse)

It was inevitable that I would eventually just give in to my workload and move onto campus. My new “home” was a small space at the end of a bench of computers in a noisy student lab: we had words about Radio 1 blasting out all day. As well as a machine I was allocated a tiny chest of drawers for my clothes. Each week a freshly laundered set of underwear would be brought to my workstation. I wondered how the laundry service knew that the black knickers from Marks and Spencer were mine?

Of course a permanent life on campus did nothing to lessen my workload. If anything, it increased. One day at 12:10 a student appeared at my desk to ask why I had not turned up to a meeting. I didn’t even know that this particular meeting had been called. I dropped what I was doing and hurried along the corridor. As soon as I walked through the meeting room door I understood why I was so desperately needed. This was yet another committee that needed someone to whip it into shape. I was supposedly the only person with the skills for the job. “I don’t suppose I’ll get any workload allowance for this?” I asked my boss. She was already shaking her head before the words even escaped my mouth.

Meanwhile outside the sun was setting over the autumn hills and all I really wanted to do was to get out there with my camera.

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From danger in the Scottish hills to a ski-ing trip in Surrey (Rousse)

I struggled up the mountain side, the gap between us widening with every step I took. TPR was miles ahead of me and I would never catch up with him. The terrain was particularly difficult over the grassy banks. If you made a mistake with your footing here, you could dislodge the fragile sand beneath the thin layer of grass and slip further back down the mountain. This happened to me on numerous occasions (perhaps because I was wearing TF’s spare boots?) and soon any hope of joining my husband at the summit disappeared.

Then I noticed that TPR had changed direction and was charging down the scree in the distance at top speed, pushing other walkers out of the way en route. I screamed after him to wait for me. If I lost him now, I would never get home – and I also needed to know where he had left the car keys.

I knew he could hear my shouts – everyone could – but TPR chose to ignore me. It was only later that he confessed that he had abandoned me because he had annoyed another set of walkers. He was convinced that they would kill him in revenge if he didn’t make his descent as fast as possible.

Afterwards we returned to our bed and breakfast where we were served egg on toast, even though we had already checked out. At the breakfast table a Masters graduate called Dave recognised me and asked for my number, much to the amusement of other guests who declared it an “amazing coincidence” that we were “reunited”. Meanwhile I was planning a winter sports holiday on the Surrey downs. There might be only one ski lift in operation at this resort, but the snow forecast was good.

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Going underground with Laurence Fishburne (Belle)

The old gang was reunited and we returned to the scene of our most successful night out. I led the nameless Korean honeymoon couple and the leather-coated Laurence Fishburne down flights of spiral staircases taking us several storeys below platform level at Borough tube station.  I knew the paparazzi would be waiting for us at street level but, for now, we were free to enjoy ourselves.

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I dashed into the kitchen and dragged all my flatmates out to witness a natural phenomenon.  I wanted them to enjoy the sight of millions of ‘black-brown beetles’ moving into a tree trunk while I lectured them about how this only happened “fourteen years after the trunk began to rot”.  Once again, I was presenting as fact something I had just made up.

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M is for Manchester (Rousse)

At the meeting in Manchester B outlined a range of duties that I had not before realised were part of my role’s remit. He explained that these were bound to increase as he loosened his connection with work to explore “other interests”. I wondered whether I should show enthusiasm for the opportunities that this offered me, or was someone just taking advantage of me (again)?

Our conversation was interrupted when a contractor arrived carrying enormous multi-coloured acetate slides. Each slide was the dimension of a household door, and I couldn’t imagine the size of the projector that would be required to display them. B seemed very happy with the work completed and asked me to take over from this point onwards.

Then I remembered that I had left my MacBook Air on charge in a hut at Manchester Polytechnic. If I did not hurry to retrieve it, the machine would be stolen, along with all my passwords. With TPR at my side, I dashed out of the meeting, across the marble pavement that indicated the route of the Manchester city motorway that ran silently underground through the centre of town, and over the wasteland to the polytechnic building. I considered inviting PF along, but I didn’t know if he would be in lectures at the University of Manchester that day.

Unfortunately we got lost along the way and ended up driving into the hills of the Peak District along a single track road without any turning places. The further we drove, the more I panicked. My MacBook Air would surely have been stolen by now – and how on earth would I reach B’s meeting in London at 4pm if we were to spend the rest of the afternoon driving in the countryside miles from a mainline railway station?

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Why Diet Coke is bad for you (Rousse)

EH and I plus a couple of others joined the queue at the canteen. My choice of dinner plate was obvious: not the plain white china, nor the bright orange-glazed rough pottery, but the Highland Stoneware Celadon rock pool dish. I filled it with smoked meats. The venison looked especially appetising.

At the table I discussed Throwing sheep in the boardroom with a Danish colleague. I had forgotten that I had lent it to her and couldn’t even remember whether I had read it myself.

Then I fancied a drink. I walked over to the canteen fridges to see what was on offer. Diet Coke was my preferred option, but all I could see was a row of Coke “mix” cans: Coke with beer, Coke with spirits. “That’s interesting,” I thought. “They haven’t marketed these products in the UK – yet.”

A member of staff approached me and I asked whether there was any plain old Diet Coke. “We’ll have some next week”, he replied. This was too late for me because I was due to catch a flight from Denmark to Finland in the next couple of hours. I picked up a bottle of Apfelsaft instead and returned to my table.

All my friends had left without saying goodbye to me! “How rude”, I thought, then checked my watch and realised why they had disappeared. I was running very, very late.

As I ran to the canteen exit I bumped into JH. His plea to me to eat with him was hopeless. If I didn’t leave that very minute, I would surely miss my plane.

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Hugh Grant lookalike cited in affair accusations (Rousse)

I tried to work out why TPR and I were staying in this business hotel by peering at the badges of the other guests. One man appeared to be “the friendliest of the friendly”. This didn’t help, other than suggest that there was a cult in town.

When I discovered the extended family of DM in the hotel room next to ours I wondered whether there was some sort of court case or appeal in process. It appeared that DM had now left her young husband and child, and that I might be to blame. One of the aunties accused me of embarking on a relationship with her niece. This was a ridiculous suggestion. I told this woman so, highlighting the likeness of TPR to Hugh Grant.

I then popped into the bathroom to wash my hair. I suffered a severe shock when I glanced in the mirror: my golden locks had turned raven black, and my forehead had disappeared under a thick fringe. I was unrecognisable, even to myself.

“Don’t worry”, said JLW, who was standing next to me. “Your new look suits you very well.”

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World’s stinkiest cheese (Rousse)

The world’s stinkiest cheese is Andate. From a safe distance I watched as a gleeful TPR unwrapped a wheel of the famous French delicacy.

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A catering nightmare with Ambrosia Devon custard (Rousse)

The house was packed with guests, all of whom expected a pudding after their main course. What would I serve them? I had nothing planned. Then I remembered that we had a few bananas and some Ambrosia Devon custard in cartons in the fridge. If I chopped up the bananas and poured custard over them, this would provide a pudding of sorts.

The only problem was that the custard had gone off in its packaging. The yellow gunge that emerged from the carton was streaked with green mould. It was revolting.

I abandoned all attempts to feed my guests and sat on the pavement outside. Here I wrote my thank you letters. Kev F Sutherland happened to walk past and encouraged me to come to his new run of shows of the Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre on the south coast. I was happy to oblige – anything to escape from my catering nightmare.

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BBC sponsors Fife summer fair (Rousse)

Just across the Firth of Forth in Fife a state secondary school hosted an annual summer fair. It was odd that we had never known about this, especially given the BBC sponsorship of the event.

I turned up on the tandem, taking care not to get stuck in the muddy lane leading up to the school. A couple of old ladies latched on to me, then led the way to a beautiful yellow sandy beach. Along the distant shoreline I could see the emergency services putting on demonstrations. What a fun afternoon this would be!

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