TPR had been keeping a secret. I had no inkling of the pregnancy, but when I walked into the kitchen and found a new litter of tiny grey poodles I was overcome with joy.
Then I panicked. How could we afford to keep the whole doggy family? Two adult dogs was enough of a responsibility as it was. And what if they mated again?
TPR assured me that he would take care of finding good homes for all the puppies, and would take the dogs to be neutered just as soon as he retired.
TPR’s new hobby was butchery. I just wished he could find a more suitable place to practise chopping up the carcasses than indoors over a cream bedroom carpet.
What a great new job! I was a high level media industry spy working on my latest assignment.
By peering through the porthole I was able to spy the entire cast of the new James Bond film ‘marking out’ the opening scene. This was going to be a chaotic fight scene set in a gymnasium on board a cruise liner. How foolish the actors looked stepping around the pommel horse in slow motion. I took photographs on my spy camera.
We two brothers (plus dog) climbed into the car. Each of us believed that it was the other who had arranged to be picked up by this strange man and his daughter. Before long, however, we established though some frantic hand gesturing and a muttered half-conversation in French that neither of us knew this couple. When the car pulled up to stop at the lights at the foot of Leith Walk we saw our chance to escape.
We threw the dog out first, my brother jumped out next, and I followed. Our captors were furious that they had lost us. In revenge they instructed an on-coming lorry to run me over. I lay still on the tarmac as the massive truck thundered over me. I was lucky not to have been crushed to death.
We eventually hailed a taxi to take us home. As we crossed Princes Street at the Mound our driver (in a Newcastle United shirt) instructed us on household safety devices. He was particularly keen that we should fit chains on every door in our flat as soon as we reached home.
I hadn’t anticipated just how far it was to Paris. I had already walked for miles along a route that took me over boggy moorland and through a war-zone. The most dangerous moment came when I narrowly missed being shot by a sniper: the bullet hit a man just in front of me and severed off his left arm. I also put my life at risk when I swam across a swollen river. The most difficult feat was to keep my few belongings dry. Thankfully my iPhone and Blackberry survived the water.
I was so happy when I reached the outskirts of the city. Soon I would be in the arms of TPR once more! I wandered into a shop and stood beside a fireplace display so that I could dry myself off after my swim. I asked a couple of customers how long they thought it would take me to reach my final destination. I was crushed when they informed me that this was not the capital of France. I had, in fact, stumbled across a small provincial town. Paris was at least another 65 miles north.
My parents laid on the party at the White House as a combined hen and stag night for SB and fiancé AG. The date was chosen to take advantage of the ceilidh on the beach, a short walk along the machair from Darlington Road. The guests arrived and made a start on the copious amounts of beer while tucking into a buffet of quiches, salads, cold meats and Scotch eggs. The plan was that once everyone had had plenty to eat, we would usher the party out of the house and along the shoreline to the beach.
I was rather concerned that so many strangers were in the house. Amongst them were several large men in their twenties in full highland dress, some of whom sported 1980s goth-style studded dog collars round their necks. TPR got terribly excited when he realised that one was a former member of the Iguanas, a 1970s punk band.
Something else that worried me was the state of several family members. For example, SB, the stressed-out bride-to-be, had the complexion of a dollop of guacamole, my mother-in-law wore her hair in a shocking 1970s jet black poodle-perm, and even SM had ruined her natural beauty by applying multiple layers of foundation to her usual fresh face. Some people were also unsuitably dressed, all decked up as if this party was the wedding itself. Only JR had understood that this was meant to be a low-key precursor to the main festivities in September and dressed appropriately in a pink cotton outfit from White Stuff. I too was in a pink sundress with tan suede leather boots.
The fashion star of the show, however, was (predictably) top designer MSB. She wore a long pink silk-bodiced party dress topped with an enormous hat, which was also pink, and the diameter of a hula hoop. She was so elegant that everyone either wanted to photograph her, or be photographed with her. LF and I discussed marathon running as we watched the MSB show.
Meanwhile I wondered what SB and AG would make of the strange wedding present that one of the guests was carefully wrapping up to take upstairs to the safety of my bedroom: a set of fragile television valves from the 1950s.
TPR was an international driving champion, as was his former colleague KR. KR’s achievement was the more impressive: she won every accolade despite her wooden leg.
Earlier in the day the workshop leader had referred to “the dentist” in the room. I resolved that as soon as the opportunity arose I would point out that there were actually two dentists present. Although I had never practised since I had left university, I was still very proud of my qualification.
Dreamaticus 