Backstage at a run-down Vauxhall pub I watched the next act being introduced. Surely ‘Dorothy I Wantmour’ was the worst drag name ever?
Meanwhile, and in a story that made the front page of the Daily Mail, scientists had discovered 541 different food stuffs and germs lurking in a sixth form sofa.
Startling news I learnt last night:
My mother could barely manage a few steps around her own garden, yet my husband’s powers of persuasion were such that she had signed up for his long walk to London. Much to his distress, however, I resisted his invitation. Instead I disappeared into the house to check out which bed was the most comfortable.
While my husband was away KT and I played on the beach just below our office. Between paddles we admired LO’s new collection of cartoon china mugs, recently purchased on eBay.
Until mid-morning everything has been going really well at the meeting at the Engineering and Physical Sciences Research Council (EPSRC). Somehow, however, I was separated from the other panel members at the break. I was doomed to spend the rest of the day prowling the grounds hunting for my colleagues.
I was unsure as to whether or not the others had deliberately shaken me off. If this really was the case, I had no idea of the reason why. Perhaps they didn’t like my layered summer outfit, or objected to my wearing of a black bra that was clearly visible through a thin white linen shirt?
At long last I owned my own magic orchard. As I walked through the trees in the dappled sunshine I took time to admire my long, white dress. I really was the height of 1970s glamour. The trees were heavy with both blossom and fruit. On the ground, I could see the extremely rare ‘clockwork ladybugs’ running around under the trees, their spinning keys catching the sunlight.
Smoked salmon by Brendan MacNeill
DM seemed as excited to see as we were to see her and laid on a special spread of smoked salmon and strips of uncooked pastry for her guests. While the boys tucked in I grabbed one of the spacehoppers and bounced around the sitting room. I spotted some salmon on the dirty carpet and popped it into the bin before it made its way back to the table.
DM noticed my Dubarry boots and wondered at the cost. I was quick to point out that I was also wearing a thirteen year-old navy blue cardigan that I was forever darning, and an old grey jumper of hers. Despite splashing out on the boots, I hoped that I was able to prove that I was generally quite frugal.
Meanwhile HB entertained herself by looking up members of the royal family on Wikipedia. Every time she attempted to locate an entry for Sarah, Duchess of York she ended up on the page dedicated to Princess Beatrice. She clearly needed some professional help, so I abandoned my spacehopper and shared my expertise in information retrieval.
My friend SC became a world expert on medieval copyright, and published a world-renowned series of books on the topic.
I didn’t normally frequent nightclubs, but TPR was away and I wasn’t going to stay in on a Saturday night. I jumped into a taxi with three young men, muttered an apology for hitching this free ride, and travelled with them to a club on the outskirts of town. The smart one in the suit made to pay my entrance fee, but I pulled out a Scottish £10 note just in time to stop him. (I later discovered that I needn’t have paid at all. My membership of another club in town was also valid here.)
I spent a long time chatting with two boys on the club reception desk, entertaining them with the contents of my handbag. These included a pile of unopened bills that I had stuffed in there, originally with the intention of paying at some point, but subsequently forgotten. We also watched live footage of the American plane crash on a huge television screen.
Eventually I left the boys at their desk and went upstairs. Here the nightclub transformed into a gift shop. Once again, I spent nearly all my time there with the two staff, and before long I was serving customers. I also bought lots of stationery and nick-nacks for Christmas stockings. I thought my father would particularly like the multicoloured sticks of sealing wax.
I was just about to leave when I saw a semi-familiar face. I was unsure if it was who I thought it was at first. As far as I knew, J was on holiday. In addition, this person looked like she had been wounded. As she approached me I understood what I saw. J had used the excuse of a holiday to spend a few days in hospital, and her face was still bruised as she recovered from surgery for a facelift. Even her partner N had no idea of her secret mission.
I was hidden from view, looking for something in the cloakroom under the stairs, when I heard the men clutter in. I could tell that they were heaving something very heavy. I peered round from my hiding place and saw a tiny bald man dressed in a brown caretaker’s coat, carrying the narrow end of an enormous coffin. It looked like he could barely keep hold it and I feared that he would drop it.
As he struggled to keep the coffin aloft the man swore loudly at his colleagues. Then he boasted loudly that he would soon be out of here spending his £600,000 retirement lump sum on a life of luxury in Spain.
I lived all alone in a one-bedroomed apartment in Paris. Today I was heading to the airport to meet AM. It was very cold outside so I wore several layers: a long emerald green satin ballgown, topped with a long-sleeved white cotton shirt, all hidden under a heavy brown overcoat. It took a while to find them, but I was very happy to complete the outfit with a pair of heavy brown loafers.
The French laughed at my choice of dress, but I didn’t care. “At least my clothes are clean!” I shouted at a woman in mud-spattered jeans. I also pointed out other evidence of British superiority: (1) British architects don’t waste valuable living space on large, elaborate rez-de-chaussées; (2) the British banned smoking indoors in public decades before their continental neighbours.
