Very few of the staff who taught me were still now working at the Stockton Sixth Form College. The only teacher that I recognised was Mr X, still sporting his distinctive comb-over.
I found ECM queening it over everyone in the common room after her star performance in the school play. I knew that she had only be chosen for the lead role because she was blonde, and not on account of any acting talent. This practice simply continued a tradition that had started with nativity plays in the infant school. I knew that these parts would never come the way of a redhead.
ECM seemed reluctant to speak to me, even though we had spent Christmas together just a couple of days earlier. I concluded that she deemed my friendship redundant when so many of her fans were clamouring for her attention.
However, she was forced to speak to me not long afterwards when we were reunited with her mother in the back seat of a Ford that took to the skies. Alongside us flew a banana yellow mark 3 Cortina. “We used to have one of those!” I boasted proudly. As our own vehicle lost height and then started to plummet to earth we grabbed our polythene parachutes and leapt from the driver’s door. I landed on my own in a flooded suburban landscape, where I did my best to swim to safety.
It was several days before I was reunited with my boyfriend. I found him with three or four others building a tree house high above the flood waters. Overcome with relief we fell into each others’ arms, then climbed the rope ladder to the “upstairs” of what would become our new home.
How I loathed these ‘Team Spirit’ events. ‘Corporate Aria Idol’ was just about the worst idea ever. I had been paired with my sister J to perform at the end of the evening. I didn’t know the tune and the only reason I knew the words was because I had bought a song-sheet on eBay.
When I tracked my sister down to express my concerns she was too busy enjoying herself to rehearse or even talk to me. Once again I was going to humiliate myself.
Later, I travelled by zip wire through the entire country estate. This was part of my secret agent training.
The day before our trip to China I wandered around the warehouse watching the workers select goods for the trade exhibition. Christmas-branded materials were supposed to be very popular amongst the Chinese population. Now I understood why the Chinese cash and carry stocked such a limited range of goods.
In Australia, the birthday party was in full swing. The gangland boss, who looked like a child but was in fact celebrating his 32nd birthday, was leading the games.
He demanded all of his lackeys (me included) call out words beginning with ‘Ir’. ‘Irascible’ and ‘Irradiated’ were offered. We were all desperately trying to avoid using ‘Irritating’. He scoffed at all our efforts and showed us his name-card on which he had written in a childish scrawl. His preferred birthday adjective was ‘Iron’. He really was as stupid as we were frightened.
Later I left my small and squalid New York flat to attend ten minutes of rehearsals with ‘my team’. What a depressing play this was – why had I chosen it?
It was meant to be a discussion of what I could contribute to our Research Excellence Framework (REF) submission. It soon turned into a passionate snog. I adjusted my silk petticoat and ran across the room to lock the office door so that nobody could interrupt us.
I was very surprised to learn that my secret admirer had waited many long months for this moment. Until now I’d always believed that this heavyweight academic had little time for me. Whatever would his wife (and my companion at lunch) think?
The Caledonian MacBrayne services from the Isle of Lewis to Ullapool had been greatly reduced: the unprofitable route across the Minch was barely worth running now that Stornoway was a major port for container ships bound for Iceland. So we knew that we would have only one opportunity to head home after our holiday in the Outer Hebrides as guests of D and AJ: Sunday afternoon at 4pm.
The big question was whether J and GC would make it to the ferry in time too. We weren’t entirely convinced that they’d manage the course under their own steam by tandem – but they did, just in the nick of time.
None other than social media guru ES joined us for an afternoon of sledging. Even though the pistes were packed, we had a great time dashing down the slopes. You just had to be careful not to crash into other sledgers as you approached the end of the run.
Just a little further on, another danger was the snow cemetery. Here were the tombs of sledging accident victims cleverly crafted according to techniques employed by eskimos when building igloos. If you hit any of these, you would ruin their beautiful snow carvings.
PC grumbled “Oh no, I’m in one of your dreams! I hope you’re not going to blog this.”
Meanwhile JA kept his mouth shut, unsure of British etiquette in such circumstances.
Sorry PC…
There was something not quite right about this Scottish ski resort. The main drag lift, for example, pulled skiers uphill at such a speed that TPR and I found it almost impossible to cross their path while out on our little “snow walk”.
Back down in the village the options for eating out were minimal. Apart from a family-owned restaurant where toddlers were welcome so long as they sat on their parents’ laps, the main offering for dinner was a “snow sandwich”, i.e. a large white bread roll stuffed with grated cheese.
Later I noticed a member of staff desperately trying to clean stains from the carpet in a small café, a couple doing a runner (I didn’t see their faces, but she had very thick ankles), and two waitresses fighting over tips. Was I a late witness to some terrible Scottish ski resort crime?
Dreamaticus 