I envied my friend J’s new life on the Isle of Lewis. She set herself up in a small bedsit where she worked as a translator. She offered several languages, including Gaelic.
However, although I hankered after J’s new Hebridean lifestyle, I knew that I could not tolerate the lawlessness of Stornoway. It was becoming common knowledge that the pubs stayed open on Sundays, and landlords turned a blind eye to smoking in the town’s bars.
Having lied to an old school friend (telling her I was married), wildfire rumours were spreading about me.
Apparently I was married to a renowned wife beating thug called A and the girls at my hall of residence were gossiping about how I had let down myself, the college and ‘all women’.
I decided to confess I had lied but to explain that I was undertaking ‘rumour research’. The girls should look out for my new book on this subject. I was an expert in the field.
S returned home to the White House from yet another bender. I cornered her in the upstairs kitchen and demanded that this outrageous behaviour stop. She eventually agreed to add some discipline to her life, and said that she would start by tidying her bedroom.
Of course these plans came to nothing. Within minutes one of S’s flaky friends came in through the kitchen skylight. The moment her feet touched the lino she transformed herself into a rag doll. S joined in the “fun”, taking on the form of a stuffed penguin. I now had two hopeless cases on my hands.
It was imperative that we raised more money. C and I sat at the table with a sales rep and discussed our strategy. Then C’s mobile rang. The name on the phone’s screen read “Michael Tait”.
While C chatted to Mr Tait, the sales rep decided to make some calls himself. His means of persuading others to part with their money was to sing (badly) down the phone.
My cousin B’s sense of direction was terrible. She’d successfully driven the pair of us all the way to Darlington on our journey from Somerset to Scotland. However, when I suggested that we should stop off for a cup of tea a little further north, we ended up in Dorset.
Three vandals bleached sections of the Fiat’s paintwork for a laugh. I caught one of them at it and dragged him home to confess his crime to his sister FD.
FD lived with her sons and ancient mother in a newly decorated Victorian house on the beach front at Seaton Carew. I pitied the family on stormy nights in the north sea: how did they ever sleep through that kind of racket?
It was very kind of my Canadian cousins to send me off with the gift of two white bicycles (one complete with trailer shopping basket), but how would I persuade the airline to carry them in the hold, and just how much would it all cost?
As soon as I saw him in his ‘Smart Chav’ label beige shorts, I realised that the postman was the new love of my life. Excited and blushing, I filled the kettle to make him a cup of tea while my ex boyfriend T invited him to sit at the kitchen table and enjoy a bacon sandwich.
Later, and not for the first time, water streamed down the walls of my bedroom turning it into a grotto.
I recruited TM to help me choose my dress for the party. I eventually settled on the sea green Didier D ball gown that I’d recently bought on George Street. The only problem was that the hook and eye on the shoulder strap dug into my flesh. There was no time to sort this out with needle and thread. Instead I used a paperclip.
Dreamaticus 
Birmingham University confessions, a career with moleskin trousers, and underwater cycle kayaking (Rousse)
SB kicked off the Birmingham University French department reunion by suggesting that we read the “confessions” from last time. She actually meant the comments on the 2006 evaluation sheets, which she passed around the table. Personally I would have preferred to have seen the data aggregated and anonymised. This would have spared my feelings when I recognised the handwriting of my friend HJ and saw her highly critical comments. HJ herself blushed bright red when she clocked that I now knew how much she had loathed the industrial panel in the afternoon.
As soon as the meeting was over we were free to go to the disco. I was looking forward to meeting TPR there. However, the first person that I came across was a tiny skinny girl standing next to the fairground carousel. Although she recognised me from the Manor House, I had no idea who she was, even after she told me that her name was Teddy and that she had built a career selling moleskin trousers. I wasn’t interested. Where was TPR?
I checked the tunnel for him, then the club. The bouncers had no information to help me. By now it looked like the party was coming to an end. Even the band members had packed up and were making moves to leave.
My only hope now was to attempt to call TPR on his work mobile. If I was really lucky, he might have it switched on. I rummaged in my rucksack, found my green handbag, and pulled out my Blackberry to make the call. He answered!
It was hard work, but when I said that I could see cyclists jumping into the canal strapped to kayaks for underwater racing, TPR was finally persuaded to come and join me.
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