I was looking out of the bedroom window, wondering how a new ‘tricycle lane’ had been built in the garden without me noticing. A small girl on a pale blue tricycle was struggling to drive through the muddy flower beds. As I watched, I saw a squirrel leap onto the mudguard and hold his paws out to help another squirrel on board. The second squirrel performed two perfect somersaults before landing perfectly.
I was irritated, but impressed.
Mohamed Al-Fayed and I met regularly to play Scrabble. I taught him all the best words, including ‘xi’.
As I hung out the washing on a large expanse of beach, I considered myself a genius. The onshore wind would soon dry everything. Why had nobody else ever thought of using the sands as a vast drying green?
Of course, I forgot to take into account the tide. When I returned later to collect the laundry, the two washing lines were completely submerged under the waves, and I was an object of ridicule.
With her shaved head, my sister resembled our three boy cousins. Why would she take such drastic action to look so terrible?
When she modelled her first wig, I understood. She could change her look instantly to match with her extensive wardrobe. She went from ginger mop-top to blonde pig-tailed milkmaid in seconds.
The only tickets left for purchase were for seats on the right of the stage, just six feet away from the singer. I would never have dreamt that I’d ever find myself in such close proximity to Robbie Williams. He even invited us and the other couples seated nearby to perform in his last song by waltzing across the stage.
We were amongst the last to leave after the show in the early hours of the morning. We walked past the show crew’s house and saw them all partying through the big bay window that faced east towards the sea. Robbie himself was making a tour of huge garden, but he didn’t acknowledge us when our paths crossed.
Our evening out collapsed into chaos when we decided to walk the coastal route home rather than take the bus. I was trapped on the rocks by an incoming tide for so long that when I eventually found my family again, I discovered that several years had passed.
I was wearing a vintage wedding dress, ironically but also for admiration. I was so thoroughly in love with how I looked in it. Silver lurex threads ran through the puffy skirt and I kept glancing over my shoulder to admire the train of the dress.
Only later did I realise that the creases in the skirt were hosting rows and rows of snails. The silver thread was slime.
I heard that the gym was giving prizes to cyclists, so I jumped on my bike and headed across town to claim one of my own.
I was indeed a lucky winner. However, in my haste to pick up my prize I forgot to lock my bike. When I returned to the spot where I had left it, it was gone.
Apparently I was last to know that my sister was an unconvicted murder. Three decades ago, explained RL, she had suffocated a skinny man at a drunken party over a minor disagreement. The only reason that she was still free was the incompetence of the police brought in to investigate the crime.
Now I understood why she would never work.
There were huge queues outside the public lavatories on Princes Street, so I crossed over the road, held my head up high, and climbed up the steps of the Balmoral Hotel. The door staff, concierge, and receptionists barely looked up as I strode past their stations en route for the ladies’ room at the back of the building
First, however, I needed to cross the Palm Court. From the doorway into this oasis of calm, I observed couples and families seated at white-clothed tables enjoying afternoon tea. Assuming that I was waiting for an invitation to enter, a uniformed member of staff ushered me past the first set of palm trees and into the centre of the room. From here I set off independently past the rest of the tables to the rear door and my target destination.
Out of the corner of my eye I thought that I saw my mother-in-law, sister-in-law S, and a couple of my nephews and nieces working their way through plates piled with dainty sandwiches and cakes. But this was impossible. They weren’t in Edinburgh. Even if they were, they could not afford to eat here.
I was just pulling up my trousers when I heard someone battering on my stall door. My sister-in-law S begged me to return to the Palm Court. I was mistaken, my in-laws really were here in Scotland’s capital city!
I was right about one thing though. They couldn’t afford the bill for their afternoon tea. Could I possibly cover the cost of it for them?
Dreamaticus 