This was very interesting: Mrs S versus Mrs W. Who would win the battle for glamour between the mothers of my friends VJ and JW?
While they fought it out I pushed past the servants setting tables in the dining room to hunt for my copy of Scotland the best. Eventually I found it, but by then the room had all closed in and the only way back to the others was through the hot fireplace and up the chimney. I was brave, proudly facing up to my claustrophobia as I squeezed past the grate.
Self-nominated Hartburn Primary School high achievers AG and ST took root at a committee table in my bedroom. I had no idea what they were plotting, but apart from the following Wednesday (when AG had to pop back to Stockton to visit his wife Pammy in hospital after her operation), they planned to stay with me for at least two weeks.
Our new butler was amazing. I’d only mentioned in passing the night before that I’d like my lunch at 06:30am the next day. At this precise time I awoke to finding him standing at the side of my bed, dressed in smart trousers, a blue shirt and tie, and proffering a bowl of home-made carrot soup.
I was working for a publishing house, the headquarters of which were on an island not unlike the Famous Five’s Kirrin Island. My bosses were a commune of penguins who wanted to build a ‘more penguiny future’ and I was delighted to be part of their vision.
Every morning I rowed to Penguin Island in a wooden boat with a tartan blanket over my knees. On my first day of work, I tried very hard to locate an out of print book about an obscure Liverpool footballer of the 1950s for a retired military chap. Although unable to locate a copy in our archive, I recommended the gentleman try the local public library and I was praised for my creative problem solving.
All was going well until one day, as I arrived at the island, I found a dead penguin in my boat. It was perfectly obvious that I had accidentally murdered the penguin by repeatedly hitting him over the head with my oars. Although this was an accident, caused by my rowing style, I had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.
I saw Belle so infrequently that whenever we were together I simply wanted her to myself. She was, after all, my favourite friend in all the world, and I was pretty sure that she felt the same about me. So I was a ball of fury when I noticed that just about everyone else at the conference behaved as if they loved Belle as much as I did, and she seemed just as happy to reciprocate their devoted affection with the same amount of enthusiasm as she did mine!
I was further annoyed by a sales rep speaker who rambled on in the mistaken belief that I knew nothing about conferences. I considered telling him that I had been behind the first of the series that we were now attending, but I couldn’t be bothered.
It was their mistake, but I should have thought of it earlier, especially since I was the one who would suffer as a result. By the time that I returned to the café H and K had already left. They had remembered to leave my papers for me on the table, but forgotten that my suitcase was still in their car. I would have to phone them to ask them to turn around and bring back my belongings. It was essential that I recovered my soap bag before my work trip next week.
My next problem was that I did not have their number. Then I remembered that K worked for KPMG. I couldn’t get through to Directory Enquiries so instead I walked into South Queensferry where I hoped to find a bank and a friendly clerk who would look up the number for me. The full reality of banking hours in provincial towns hit me as I checked the notices along the high street. There were plenty of banks and building societies here, but not a single one was open. To get any help, I’d have to come back on a Tuesday between 1 and 2pm.
The new way to travel to the US was by jet-boat. Developments in shipping technology meant that it was just as fast to cross the Atlantic by sea as by air. What is more, in the latter part of the journey passengers could sit on deck and sunbathe.
I was bound to have told SL the story of the ill-fated love triangle, yet she had somehow independently befriended the main villain of the piece. There she was, all excited about the forthcoming wedding, begging us to come along as her plus one and two, apparently unaware of how painful this would be for us. Later on I saw the bride-to-be (villain number 2) and she also seemed quite happy to welcome us on her big day, even though we’d been on the other side throughout the whole sorry drama.
The third character in the story had been dead for over a decade. Reminded of him by SL’s new friendship, we decided to pay his old flat a visit. We thought that the poster we had just bought might look good in his sitting room. We half expected his heir to answer the door, but instead his elderly aunt greeted us. She had been very busy in the past ten years. The entire front portion of the flat was set out like a business. The tiny flat was now a popular bed and breakfast destination.
Belle and I took twenty pairs of stretchy nylon Marks and Spencer knickers in flesh tones to the event, just in case anyone needed a pair. Nobody did.
Afterwards my father paid the bill then we all wandered off to catch the bus home. It was a while since my last journey along Yarm Road in Stockton-on-Tees, but I was pretty sure that last time I looked Cadbury did not have its Victorian headquarters next to the Richard Hind School. My sister J was just as incredulous as I that I had never noticed the building before: the familiar purple branding was hardly subtle.
Just at the point that Hartburn Lane becomes Darlington Road, the bus broke down. We had no choice but to walk the rest of the way home. This would not be easy for Belle in her six-inch purple satin stilettos.
Dreamaticus 