International cellist fails to avert breakfast party disaster (Rousse)

The star attraction at our breakfast party was international cellist US. I was so proud to have successfully tempted her over from Denmark to Hexham to spend the morning at my long-dead grandmother’s house. Other guests included JC and VJ (both looking svelte in jeans and slinky black tops), JC’s husband G, and a Scandinavian gatecrasher.

The party itself was not a success. Before long everyone did their best to misbehave. US turned shy and refused to speak to the Scandinavian; the Scandinavian didn’t take the hint, kept on talking and moved so close to US that she was almost sitting on her knee; and GC refused to put raspberry jam on his toast on the grounds that it contained “bits”.

Worst of all, two guests were incredulous that I would object to their smoking indoors at breakfast time. They argued that they had every right to do so: hadn’t my granny smoked 20 a day in this very house for two decades? I threw the pair of them out on to Broadway Gardens. They were no longer welcome at our table.

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A happy job move (Rousse)

I took up my new post so quickly that there was no time to organise a leaving do in Scotland. I didn’t even have time to arrange any temporary accommodation, so we lived out of our car for our first few days south of the border.

I didn’t care. I loved it here, as did TPR, who spent his first night on campus dancing with the same students with whom I had held assignment tutorials earlier in the day. We would settle in properly in no time. I already knew most of my new colleagues, and was familiar with the layout of the department and its procedures from previous visits. I couldn’t wait to catch up with AM when she returned from her trip to Paris.

All I needed to do now was to make sense of some of the University’s quaint financial procedures. For example, the University took care of all your spending on meals. You recorded an estimate of the cost of your projected food consumption in an old-fashioned ledger, then each month this figure would be deducted from your salary. If it turned out that your estimates were inaccurate, a simple readjustment could be made.

I could not imagine how I would ever be unhappy here.

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Rousse’s Gay Gordons respite

The only way to escape the student with multiple project proposals – all of which were ridiculous – was to grab BR for a quick Gay Gordons along the corridor.

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Beware imitations: the case of the “handwoven” oriental silk rug (Rousse)

I was in a flap. My parents would be arriving for breakfast in 15 minutes. We had no food in the house, and our silk rug from Singapore was filthy from the ashes that had spilled onto it from our “real effect” gas fire.

I despatched TPR to Tesco to buy stocks of bacon and eggs. Meanwhile I set to work on cleaning the carpet. Throughout I was under the watchful eye of PC. He was debating the options of eating the lump of cod that he had just found in the freezer, or waiting for breakfast to be served.

No amount of hoovering would extract the decade of dirt embedded in the rug. I wondered if I could hide the worst section by changing its orientation and slipping the blackest section under the sofa. Then I spotted something peculiar: two sets of printing on the “silk”. It took moments to decipher the text and discover that our most precious object was not after all a beautiful hand-woven oriental rug, but a mass-produced fake cotton floor covering printed in Sweden and pieced together in China.

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REF submission blunder paves path to BBC2 science career (Rousse)

In the closing session of the Finnish conference GW called the speakers on stage one by one to present them all with small thank you gifts. Inside my parcel I found a khaki green cotton skirt and four types of bead inside clear plastic tubs: (1) hard plastic pin-heads in bubble gum pink; (2) larger round garnets; (3) carrot-orange plastic rhomboids; (4) paler orange mixed with white rhomboids. The best present of all was a verdigris sea shell designed to be worn as a pendant. I immediately made an attempt to attach it to my gold chain, but it was too heavy. I resolved to sort this out when I got home.

As I unpacked my haul on stage I remarked to a colleague from University College London that there would never be such a public presentation of gifts like this at a British conference. Instead common practice simply required the issue of a brief e-mail of thanks to the speakers once everyone had returned to their home institutions. I worried that by taking part in this vulgar jamboree that I would invalidate my submission to REF2014. This was something I could check there and then. DN (also at the conference) had previously served on panel 36 and would be able to advise me.

Later at home in Edinburgh I wondered if my niece AF would find any use for the beads. I parcelled them up again and set off across town with TPR to find her and the rest of my sister J’s family. They had just come through a difficult time – AF had disappeared on a secret holiday for three months just before taking her GCSEs – so they would welcome a cheery visit from me. J was, in fact, very pleased to see me. As we sat down at the table for breakfast she paid me the biggest compliment: “In your combat trousers you look like you’ve just stepped off the set of a BBC2 science documentary!” “Don’t forget the PhD as well”, I reminded her.

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Rolf Harris mon amour (Belle)

Rolf Harris was my new boyfriend!

For him it had been a coup de foudre which he described in interviews with tabloid journalists. I was now the object of derision and loathing. After all, Rolf had left behind his wife of 62 years.

Meanwhile, the original windows in the council estate were discovered to be really valuable. They had been etched by a famous artist and depicted ‘the working classes’.

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Rachel wins Ross back – again (Rousse)

My name is Rachel Green. You may remember me and my friends from a television documentary broadcast 1994-2004. We don’t see each other so often now – perhaps about once a month. Monica and Chandler are still married, have a couple of kids, and live near to me in New York. Phoebe and Joey have moved a bit further away. Of course I still see Ross a lot: he is supposed to be my boyfriend after all, though not that you would believe it from his behaviour last week.

I caught him flirting with one of those hard-nosed business women that we seem to breed here in New York. You know the type? They are coiffed and manicured down to the very last keratin filament of their ambition-fuelled bodies. Their real faces are disguised under an elaborate make-up superstructure. Then they spoil the whole look by cladding their delicate feet in lumpy old trainers to march through the Manhattan streets to work.

I think Ross was seriously tempted. He’s lost quite a lot of confidence since he was sacked from his teaching post at New York University and took up work as a UK schools inspector. So it must have been quite a thrill that someone showed interest in him at all, never mind that the person flirting with him was a successful business woman.

Of course I was furious, and I did well not to show it. I just told him that he needed to make up his mind between me and her. Eventually he saw sense and the yuppie pretender was despatched back to the land of stocks, shares and spreadsheets.

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Menu bingo for those in the know on the Isle of Lewis (Rousse)

The Isle of Lewis guest house had gone up-market. Its pink laminated menus listed sophisticated seafood dishes. Still RG couldn’t resist a joke. If you looked carefully at the text you could find the names of his regular guests hidden in the text.

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A cat-assisted attempt to avoid divorce (Rousse)

There was only one way that I would find time to do my own research ever again: to register for a second PhD. I considered several options. I could return to the University of Birmingham where I had studied as an undergraduate. If I chose Newcastle, I could be near my parents and ask JM to supervise me. But then I hit on a brilliant idea. The Oxford Internet Institute was sure to welcome me! I popped in to make an enquiry.

There I met an elderly female lecturer overcome by a pile of marking. She was pleased to take a break to chat and offered me a choice of small metal badges. I rejected all the ones that displayed goggly eyes in favour of the last one that simply read “TPR”. “Those are my boyfriend’s initials” I told her, “I will take the badge home to him. I am sure that he will like it”. This was, in fact, completely untrue. TPR was my soon-to-be ex-husband. It was highly unlikely that the gift of a tiny scrap of metal would dissuade him of his determination to divorce me.

On my way out of the building I bumped into the Institute director. AD introduced me to him as “Amanda”. Unsurprisingly the director had no idea of my true identity.

Back in Edinburgh once more I passed two gigantic African women in colourful traditional dress practising their dance steps on Annandale Street. By the time I reached East Claremont Street it was dark and the street lights had failed. I had to feel my way along the Claremont Crescent garden wall and the railings to work out the route home.

When the starry black cat and I eventually reached the front door I rang the doorbell. We both doubted that the husband who no longer wanted us would let us in, but we felt it was worth one final attempt at a reconciliation.

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