Hall of residence handicrafts at the University of Birmingham (Rousse)

Nobody needed any persuasion to take to the floor at the Manor House reunion disco. With the first beat of the first record it was filled with enthusiastic dancers. I mentioned to TPR that we should list all these popular tracks for our own party playlist.

In a break between the records I wandered into the library to look through papers and card piled onto a big wooden table. I soon worked out that somebody had been making new Christmas cards from the scraps of old ones. Amongst the source material were several years’ worth of hand-painted cards by my father.

From the way that everything was laid out I guessed that this was all the on-going work of someone whose surname fell towards the end of the alphabet – perhaps HW (now HJ)? It was HP, however, who eventually admitted that the handiwork was all his.

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How to write a winning grant proposal (Rousse)

Was this cheating? I could just about see the competing grant application on the screen across the room. The authors were huddled around the computer, unaware of my presence. I didn’t know any of them personally, even though two of the names were identical to those of other people familiar to me: MS and Kim White. (The third was Karen Something-or-other.)

Their work looked extensive. I asked the woman from the funding body what she thought of this team’s chances of winning the grant. Her reply gave the impression that she thought I shouldn’t even bother making a submission of my own. This was just the incentive I needed to get down to business and prove her wrong.

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Trapped in (seminar) space (Rousse)

The big hand was edging closer to the hour and I just about managed to close the seminar discussion when AD started it up again. It was another 40 minutes before we eventually persuaded him that it was about time time that he released us. We really had to get along to our next set of meetings.

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To Torquay by tram (Rousse)

All around the new housing estate they’d put up old-fashioned sign-posts pointing in different directions to cities, towns and villages all over the UK. I decided to follow the route to Torquay – by tram. I wondered if I’d ever get to go on such a vehicle in Edinburgh.

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Rousse misses an important appointment

The woman sharing the pavement with me eventually lost her temper and ordered me to stop texting. I was making it impossible for her to get past me. Rather than meekly give in to her wishes, I decided to make the peace. I took her hand and announced that we would walk along London Road together. She like this idea because it gave her a chance to tell me all about her life as a Jewish immigrant to the UK in the 1960s.

Then I noticed the missed calls on my i-phone – plus the time and our current location. It was 17:50 and we were amongst the sheep that graze the banks of the Water of Leith in North Edinburgh. At 18:00 I was due on stage in Craiglockhart at the other side of the city! Even if I managed to catch a taxi immediately, I would still be horribly late. What is more, I couldn’t possibly deliver a lecture in faded black linen loons and an ill-fitting dirty grey T shirt.

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Young “Arthur Weasley” assists in railway murder hunt (Rousse)

The biggest clue that I had time-travelled was that Mark Williams (better known as Arthur Weasley in the Harry Potter movies) looked so young. He must have only been in his mid to late twenties.

As the manager of Worcester railway station, he was helping the police with murder enquiries. They had discovered a second body on the tracks within a short two week period, and now it was feared that a train-spotting serial killer was on the loose.

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An unplanned journey to the Hebrides (Rousse)

My father paid £19 each for all five of us to visit the castle and within minutes I had ruined everyone’s day. How was I to know that the bus was not a shuttle around the estate, but instead a commercial coach taking foreign tourists to the Kyle of Lochalsh and the Hebrides?

Had I anticipated such a long journey, I would have worn more than just a tartan towelling dressing gown over my blue and white striped swimsuit, and carried a mobile phone. It felt terrible to be separated from my parents and sisters. They would be worried sick, completely unaware of what had become of me.

However, putting on a brave face, I made the best of the morning journey by chatting to tourists about the beaches of Harris and Lewis, then arguing about architecture with a Dane who held a fascination for the very ordinary 1970s box house.

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Class-conscious Cotswolds offers mixed welcome (Rousse)

Everyone* we knew had moved to the Cotswolds. We drove down to see if life there would suit us too.

My sister J set up an introduction for us with the vicar’s wife, also newly arrived in the village. The vicarage was at the top of an extremely steep gravelly hill and we wondered how they managed to haul all the furniture, including a grand piano, up to the house. Even bringing the grocery shopping home must be an olympian effort. Everything came up by hand. Not even a four-wheel drive could negotiate the steepness of that terrifying hill.

The vicar’s wife was a young, blonde, academic and very friendly. After our strenuous climb up to the house, however, we were disappointed that she did not offer us a cup of tea. It soon became clear that our welcome was on a time limit, so we soon wandered back down to the village again.

Later that morning I discovered that I was the only guest left in the hotel for the day. It was clear that the staff did not realise that I was still in the building. I heard them going loudly through the bookings for lunch. Rather than assigning tables by guest name, they described the diners by social class. When I heard “Working class father and boy with aspirations” I matched the description to the vicar and his son. Lunchtime was all the more interesting with the knowledge that the all the seating was planned by social rank.

My own booking was a table for two at 2pm. My dining partner was JG, on secondment from the US to the role of the hotel’s maître d’ for the summer. After everyone had been served we would enjoy a quick snack, and then JG would to teach me to dance. She dressed up specially for our date in black trousers and high-heeled black furry boots, topped with a black and white shirt. She ordered the staff to clear the tables quickly and then hang black and white awnings all around the dining room to transform it into a ball room.

I was impressed that JG took our dance class so seriously – but even this would not persuade me to move house to the Cotswolds.

*A&C, SNAHF&M, JMP&A, JRA&J

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Death au John Peel (Rousse)

I chose to die in the manner of John Peel. I stood just outside the entrance of King’s Cross Station, made my declaration, then turned back through the station concourse doors to set off to meet my maker. MW witnessed my final moments.

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Why to tack a horse (Rousse)

The High Street was almost completely covered in droppings. The only way for me to negotiate it safely was to ride a horse of my own. I found grey one in a field back at the guest house. It didn’t take too long to catch, then I jumped on its back for a steady walk back into town. There on the links I caught up with my two friends and their mounts. They encouraged me to step up the pace into a canter. Then everything started to go wrong. It was all my fault for not tacking up properly.

Within moments I had slid off the back of “my” horse and it had disappeared into the distance. Then I lost my Joey D handbag. I ended up all alone on a dark, dirty beach, ashamed at my carelessness. My only hope of escaping this mess would be to pay very close attention to AC in the hope that he would take pity on me.

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