This was the most peculiar of university reunions.
First the woman across the table congratulated me on another successful event. “I didn’t organise this!” I responded. (I secretly added “Had I been in charge this would have amounted to far more than a drab tea party for ten people. Where is everyone? For goodness sake, they haven’t even managed to summon up JS. It’s a disgrace!”)
Later I was told that SB was not attending because of “domestic difficulties” – by SB herself who was sitting next to me. She didn’t appreciate the lack of logic in her claim.
Then there were the impostors who had no right to be there at all: CM and MSB from my running club (the latter showing an unusual interest in dentistry), and SF from my primary school, who couldn’t help admitting how much he admired the firework themed mittens that I wore to class when I was eleven.
This was all too much for me to cope with so TPR and I battled our way through a crowd of Manchester United fans to catch the bus from Leith back into central Birmingham.
I joined the parade for SB’s wedding in the 9-inch nude stilettos chosen for me by WB. All around were upright marching bands, soldiers proud in bearskin hats, and pretty dancing ponies. My nephew P and niece A brought up the rear, each commandeering their own open horse and carriage.
Most splendid of all, however, was the mother of the bride. She wore a massive gown of layered mauve silk, her outfit topped by a head-dress of matching mauve feathers. Not even a royal princess in the court of Louis XVI could compete with the majesty of my mother-in-law on her daughter’s wedding day.
My parents were very relieved to hear that TPR and I had overcome our differences and decided to remarry. Our divorce in the mid-1990s had been pretty low-key (he’d simply “gone off” me) and since then we had been spending more and more time together. Indeed some of our newer friends hadn’t even registered that we were actually a “divorced couple”.
The day of the wedding finally arrived. We gathered at the White House, where all was chaos and my mother feared that we would refuse to go through with the ceremony. My sister S in super-pale make-up, and surrounded by cronies who looked like they had stepped straight off the set of the Thriller video, was enough to frighten anyone off.
It had all been such a rush that none of us – not even E – had remembered to print off boarding passes for the flight from Birmingham. So here were all three of us forking out an extra £20 each for a tiny slip of paper that would permit us to fly.
Then E spotted the two bottles of perfume in my hand bag. “Are those more than 100ml?” she asked. On learning that one was 150ml E offered to pop over to Boots to buy a couple of empty containers into which we could divide up the liquid.
While E was away I slowly edged up the queue to show my boarding card and passport. When my turn came the official took one look at the passport then reached for a pair of scissors. She started to trim the maroon edges. Then, in a complete frenzy, she chopped my passport up into a hundred pieces.
“Why are you doing that?” I cried.
“Because you are an impostor” she replied loudly. “It says here in the Daily Mail that you are the Macedonian voice coach to the 2012 winner of the Eurovision Song Contest. This means that the papers that you have just presented to me must be fake!”
I later learnt that this was an elaborate practical joke orchestrated by my German friend WB.
I offered my only (very loose) connection with show business as a conversation opener to my new friend Matt LeBlanc. On learning this intelligence of Rob Brydon, Matt replied “Well that’s a coincidence. I was at Rob’s new show last night.”
I wondered if Matt had gone in disguise to avoid the attention of female audience members.
We arranged to meet at A and C’s house in the Lake District. TPR and I arrived first and were just getting dressed when N and S came up the stairs. As I struggled to pull on a pair of knickers that was far too small, I asked S’s advice as to what to wear: jeans or a skirt?
“You know that you should never wear jeans”, she replied. “Remember what your sister J told you at your hen party.”
How many people can you fit on to a tidal rock for a family holiday? In our case it appeared that the invitations were unlimited. Here were gathered: my parents; my sister J; my niece A; an aunt; two cousins (one force feeding the other); P and S; L, T, T and K; half the people I had last seen at a school reunion in November 2011; and a Cuban impostor (or so my father claimed).
When it was finally time to leave my sister J and I wandered off together to observe the basking sharks just beneath the cliffs. By this time we both agreed that none of the people listed above would ever want to repeat this joint holiday experience.
It was not unusual for a Hawk jet to startle walkers as they hiked to the headland, but this aircraft was flying really low. On its second approach it came even closer, perhaps only 30 feet over our heads. Then we could see that it wasn’t a Hawk jet at all, but a yellow cigar-shaped space-ship.
It landed on the heather, the lid opened, and out stepped a family of aliens. Their form was humanoid, but it was obvious that these were not of our species due to their bright purple peeling skin. The mother of the group approached and stretched her hand out to me. I almost took it, but with seconds to spare I saw that this was a trick. If I made physical contact with the alien, then I too would become contaminated with the purple skin complaint. Worse still, I would risk possible abduction to the home planet as the latest recruit to the alien species.
Dreamaticus 