Wedding preparations and wolves (Rousse)

S and A’s wedding rivalled the Olympics for scale. Everyone was invited. I loved it, especially since so many of my own friends, relations and work colleagues would be there. These included:

  • my sister J and her family
  • all the delegates of Online Information 2012
  • newly married TD, her groom, and his bunch of young, good-looking single friends (who would do very nicely for two of the adult bridesmaids: A’s twin sisters)
  • even SL from the Isle of Man, and her school friend S!

The night before the event TPR and I arranged a night out for all but the immediate family members (who would have loved to have come out, were still busy at the house making preparations). The plan was to meet downstairs at 4pm, walk to the refurbished swimming pool at the Botanic Gardens, then go for a curry afterwards. It would be a lovely evening, so long as everyone survived the first stage of the walk: crossing the field of fearsome wolves.

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A Jack Vettriano original (Rousse)

Usually I didn’t have much to do with my widowed colleague X. His fearsome office wife guarded him jealously with an arrogant form of possessiveness that bordered on the pathological. In short, if you came too close, she’d make it clear that there was only one person in the world suitably qualified to keep X company, and that person was her.

For some unknown reason the office wife was away for the day. Her post unguarded, I made my move and plonked myself next to X on the dark green sofa. Between embraces we chatted with an admin colleague seated opposite us on another sofa, opening her Christmas cards.

Suddenly we were interrupted by cries from the street. A dead body lay in the middle of the road at the junction of Morningside Road and Merchiston Place. On learning the victim’s name most assumed that he was some random Italian tourist. Only I seemed to appreciate that we had a dead celebrity on our hands. The “Italian tourist” was none other than the Scottish painter and publisher Jack Vettriano.

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Rousse forgets to dress

For a change I turned left as I passed through the gate, climbed the hill, and headed out along the coast road. Just outside the hotel gates a rather rough wedding party was gathered. The poor podgy bridesmaid wore a vile silver Andy Pandy suit. How appalling for her!

I walked past the family and down to Portobello beach where my bare feet sank into the sand. It was only then that I realised that there was something more shameful than that bridesmaid’s outfit: going out for a walk completely naked.

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Nightmare at the Olympics (Belle)

For a horrifying ten minutes, I was drafted into the Chinese men’s doubles table tennis semi-final match. As I walked towards the table in the arena, an official admitted the administrative error and took the bat out of my hands. 

To compensate for the trauma, the trainer of the Chinese team handed me a hard boiled egg.

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The unfaithful husband (Rousse)

To coincide with his retirement TPR admitted that over the course of our 25-year marriage he had slept with 21 different women (or 22, if he included me). Of these, he paid six for their services. I was relieved that none were amongst my closest friends.

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Rousse recommends Rentokil

I’d offered again and again to help, but this time it really was too late.

K had finally admitted to her affair with Terry and (unsurprisingly) her boyfriend J had thrown her out. The only place that she could go was her neglected, and now uninhabitable, old flat. It was completely infested by the pests that had already eaten their way through her extensive collection of clothes and hats, and had made a start on gnawing through the structure of the building.

This was not a job for a friend. It was time to call in the professionals: Rentokil.

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Hairy Star Wars sidekick Chewbacca comes to take Rousse home

I arrived at the guest house by airborne bike. I had followed the route along the cycle path from its source in the Meadows, all the way to the white cliffs, taking care not to knock over the hundreds of walkers in my path. The journey ended in a huge swoop over the Arabian Sea as I descended into my final destination of Arius.

My week in the guest house was not terribly comfortable. The landlady took an instant dislike to me, but did not say why. Indeed she refused to speak to me at all, but instead communicated to me in silent stage whispers. When I complained at the end of the week that someone had stolen my collection of antique needlebooks from the bedroom she did not care. All that interested her was whether or not I’d be checked out by 10:00am sharp that day.

When my boyfriend came up the stairs to collect me I waited for her reaction. I couldn’t imagine that any of her other guests were as intimate as I was with Hans Solo’s hairy Star Wars sidekick Chewbacca.

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Alex Kapranos’ baby (Rousse)

As was the tradition in my family, a member of the next generation volunteered to give birth to the child of a celebrity. So now I was a great aunt, and my 16-year old niece AF the mother of Alex Kaparonos’ baby.

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JK Rowling bakes a mean meringue (Rousse)

This is the tale of the day that JK Rowling and I finally secured our friendship. It didn’t start well…

BR scolded me. He couldn’t understand why I thought it acceptable to walk the length of the railway line completely naked. I assured him that I would buy something suitable to wear from one of the charity shops near campus before the students came back for the new academic year. In the meantime I saved him the embarrassment of the sight of my bare backside by ensuring that I was the one who followed behind as we negotiated the track.

Suddenly the route sloped downwards. It was impossible to walk this section, so we slid down it on our bottoms. The track then transformed into a chute and deposited us on the floor of the rare books reading room in the Birmingham University Main Library. The Chinese library assistant busy reshelving seemed not to notice us, even though it was not yet 09:00 (when readers are normally admitted to the building). I hurried BR out into the stairwell with the intention of leaving the library before we were caught. However, when we heard music coming from a nearby room, instead we followed the lady who invited us in.

Stretched out in front of us were rows and rows of seating occupied mainly by library staff, and a stage where classical musicians performed. I took my place next to a smartly dressed blonde woman. She shoved her expensive designer handbag under her chair to make room for me. When I smiled a thank you in acknowledgement I realised that my new neighbour was JK Rowling. She grinned back in recognition. “Didn’t I lend you my blue casserole dish last time we met?” she asked. “Yes, that’s right”, I replied, delighted that she remembered.

We left the concert together and outside in the sunshine I introduced Jo to my parents, sisters and JC. By now it really was time that I headed off to work, but Jo persuaded me to accompany her to the tea party in the art gallery. “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t stay at least long enough to try one of my home-made meringues” she said.

JK Rowling features on Dreamaticus quite frequently. You’ll also find her here:

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