Green teddy bears seek release from Edinburgh airport (Rousse)

For a reason that I could not understand AA and IR had clubbed together to buy me a celebratory present that comprised a collection of green cuddly toys and some rather bizarre clothing, much of it the same colour. Rather than hand all this over to me in person, they left it in a locker at the far side of security at Edinburgh airport. The only way for me to collect my haul would be item by item each time I took a flight. This would take months due to the strict hand baggage rules enforced by the airlines. If only the pair of them had chosen a locker beside the check-in desks instead.

On the first day that I set off to visit my locker I ran into a newly-retired colleague. My delight turned to shame as she berated me for failing to treat annual leave cards as confidential documents. We never had a cross word when we worked together and now I wondered if she had secretly hated me for the past ten years? I wandered off, my head hanging in shame.

However, I soon cheered up when I spotted GG by the check-in desks all dressed up and looking super-glamorous. She was meeting the rest of her family for a photo shoot. This sounded so much more interesting than how I would be spending the next hour or so: making a decision as to which lucky green teddy would be released from the locker as my companion on the 09:15 flight to Heathrow.

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Bonding with Radcliffe and Maconie over the Farmer’s Boys and the BBC (Rousse)

Mark Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie enjoyed the Fringe so much that they decided to stay on in Edinburgh, at least until Christmas.

By now I was their best friend and had persuaded them to help run my seminars. The students were delighted. The pair of them were so amenable that Stuart would sometimes agree to perform his furniture party trick in class. This involved taking a running jump from behind the red sofa then landing fully stretched out across the back rest.

We all got on so well together because we had much in common, especially when it came to music and radio work. My friendship with Stuart was sealed when he spotted the Farmer’s Boys badge (circa 1982) pinned to my rucksack. He was less interested in my Edinburgh Bright Club badge, but when I mentioned my contributions to BBC Radio 4 comedy, both he Mark were all ears again.

See Stuart Maconie elsewhere on Dreamaticus in Mark Radcliffe missing, Stuart Maconie scared (Rousse); Stuart Maconie radio chef (Rousse)

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Smart – but stupid (Belle)

I was in Edinburgh studying for two degrees simultaneously – law and medicine.

Despite my obvious book-smarts I could never remember the way back to my student digs. I had taken to following my flatmates from a discreet distance, hoping they would be going straight home, and not stopping at the pub first.

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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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