I was terribly excited that SL was in town and we were finally lined up to work on a research project together. On our first night we slept in the same bed.
I was somewhat disappointed that MS came along too. He was hoping to get in on the project. I was determined that he would not.
JK Rowling and I had been friends for a long time, so I knew that she wouldn’t mind at all giving me some advice on the first paragraph of my new novel.
JK Rowling features on Dreamaticus quite frequently. You’ll also find her here:
The plan was that I would send a few more e-mails before heading home for the weekend. I delayed this a little more when I accepted an invitation to go and sunbathe on the pier.
Everyone was enjoying the casual chatter when I noticed that all the water had drawn back to expose the silver mudflats of the sea bed. I knew this sign, screamed tsunami, and ran for the hills.
I didn’t wait for TPR. I knew he’d soon catch up with me. From our safe spot in the mountains twenty minutes later we watched the river in the valley swell to the brim with seawater.
If the funding councils knew how we spent our Friday afternoons, they would probably close us down immediately.
A selection of my favourite colleagues – including MR, AM (normally resident at another university), JLW (not an academic) and an American lady with a penchant for long, sleeveless cashmere cardigans in beige – sat at a table watching the American lady’s pal Noelle open several enormous pink paper wrapped boxes of birthday presents.
Meanwhile I rooted through a box of shoes and pulled out four pairs of my own to take back to my office.
When they started arguing over a new name for the professional body, I knew it was time to leave.
I headed straight to Westminster Abbey where a memorial service for Sir Winston Churchill was underway. I was shocked that so few people were in attendance, and that some were speaking loudly to one another as the minister gave the eulogy.
Perhaps this was why they needed someone signing at the front, standing on top of the tomb dressed as a living sandstone statue of the deceased war hero and prime minister?
I rode with my family in an open train carriage across the wide salmon river. It had been an eventful day:
Now we were on our way to a canyon into which my mother and little sister leapt – without first checking the water level.
I grabbed the child. If her mother was not going to teach her any manners, I would. She answered back “You sound just like FM. I’m not going to change.” “In that case you’ll end up an obnoxious, uncouth lump – just like your mother” I said (silently, to myself).
The new running route had been devised by a bunch of cats. MSB and I agreed to investigate.
Twice in two days I popped out of the house, across the road, through the field, and down to the wood to fetch a couple of empty suitcases.
The first time I scattered a crowd of rabbits ahead of me, spied three foxes dancing in the distance, and ran into a couple of deer in the shadow of the trees.
The second time two enormous tigers ambushed me before I reached the suitcases, then chased me all the way back home again.
“We really must do something about the wildlife in our garden”, I commented to TPR.
Not only was the SEB back in town, but had negotiated an introduction to EH and found a spare seat at our table. I had no way of communicating to EH who this seemingly charming individual really was. Instead I was forced to listen to the SEB make unkind remarks about my real friends. They were now giving me a wide berth, aghast that it appeared that I had welcomed this appalling person back into our midst. It was essential that I remove EH from this toxic environment and explain to her just who this supposed “good friend” really was.
Dreamaticus 