I was the inventor of a new, globally famous cocktail. The ‘Angel’s Delight’ was enormously tricky to prepare, as each layer had to remain separate from the others.
Crouched by the fax machine, I was busy slicing blood oranges to sit on top of the glasses. The cocktail had all the colours of a Spanish sunset. No wonder it was a worldwide success.
JW looked down on me from her vantage point atop a pretty white pony and launched into a speech on wrinkles and plastic surgery. I wondered if she was trying to tell me something? Perhaps she’d tried botox and was recommending the same to me?
Afterwards I popped into the newsagent’s shop. Due to the ban on all Western media there were only a few Asian magazines left on sale. I didn’t bother buying anything and instead went to join the other women in the queue to visit the massive mosque. Nearly all were dressed in abayas. I hoped that I would be allowed into the monument even though I was just wearing shorts.
We were meant to be discussing PhD studentships, but I could tell that the committee members were far more interested in the four unopened bottles of red wine in my possession. When I eventually suggested serving a few glasses, D almost fell off her chair in excitement.
Before pouring the drinks I first needed to conduct some blending experiments. I laid out a selection of glassware – including a couple of test-tubes – on our green oriental silk rug. Then I uncorked the bottles and set to work. Meanwhile behind me TPR was in a flat spin of panic. “Get that off the carpet NOW!” he shouted, “Haven’t you forgotten that the rug is our most precious possession?!”
What TPR didn’t appreciate was that this was very special wine: it did not stain when spilt. I demonstrated its magical properties. TPR was satisfied. However, when I also explained that each bottle came from my parents’ dodgy collection of home brew, he banned me outright from serving it.
I looked through the vast downstairs window of my friends’ Huf Haus and out across the Borders countryside. Strange in itself was a purple-blue sunset, but of far more interest to me was the neolithic stone circle in the foreground. How could I have missed such an amazing set of garden furniture on my previous visits? No wonder the house was so expensive and P & S were obliged to take in bed and breakfast guests to cover their mortgage repayments.
Before TPR had pegged even a single item on the line in the garden of our holiday cottage a local woman appeared at his side, super-keen to take charge of the laundry basket. “Let me do that” she said. TPR responded that he was perfectly happy to hang out the washing himself. However she insisted loudly that this should be her job.
As I watched the scene unfold from the back door I gradually worked out what was going on. Taking care of the tourists’ laundry was probably one of the few ways that locals could earn money on this impoverished island. I called over to TPR in French to hand over the basket. It might cost us £10, but this woman’s family needed the cash more than we did.
E and R worked out quite quickly that we’d be pushovers when it came to babysitting. They insisted that they were responsible enough to be allowed to catch the bus to Darlington on their own. We were pretty sure that they were too young but (because we were so sick of the pestering) we eventually gave in. The children never returned.
So now we faced a terrible dilemma. How could we explain to K and S that we had lost their daughters in another county during a thunderstorm?
My wedding day was fast approaching. All that I needed to do now was transfer my hair straighteners and make-up to the hotel bedroom and then I’d be all set for the ceremony.
The hotel bedroom was palatial. It was about three times the size of a classroom and furnished with beautiful antiques. The only problem was that it could really do with a hoover. I called in the contract cleaner, but he was hopeless. Shirley (yes, that was his name) just added to the mess by leaving a trail of Christmas tree needles across the carpet. When I asked if he could use a dustpan and brush to clear up the mess, he stated that this would be beneath his dignity.
A cleaner who refused to clean? This was ridiculous! I called a supervisor to complain. She regretted that she could not push Shirley because he was “fragile”. The job couldn’t be passed on to the 17:00-19:00 shift either. This was because everyone on that team was an alcoholic. I would just have to accept that the state of room would never reach my exacting standards.
Then something else in the room attracted my attention. Some of the the white ceiling tiles were hanging down. I wondered if I could find a handyman to take a look, or was this just something else that I’d be forced to tolerate?
GMcM and I were browsing through old copies of the Journal of Information Science. Back in 1989 the fonts were enormous. What surprised us most of all, however, was that each issue was musical, just like a novelty greeting card.
The best car mechanic in town is called Mr Reasonable. Every job costs just £50. The only drawback to engaging his services is that Mr Reasonable suffers from telephonophobia. This makes it rather difficult to book an appointment for your vehicle.
Squealing excitedly, I dragged my sister towards the early Victorian end of terrace shop front.
“Look. How wonderful. Mrs Moon’s new shop”.
Pressing my nose to the window, I could see honeyed wooden floors, 1970s rainbow-coloured ‘ribbon curtains’ and an old oak school desk. I was sick with jealousy. This was exactly the type of shop I would have chosen.
Dreamaticus 