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.
I could hear my iPhone ringing out, but where was I, and what time of night was this?
I pulled myself up in bed to peer into the dark. I was back at the White House in my childhood bedroom. The phone was calling out from my study next door. I jumped out from under the duvet to answer it.
Gulping back loud sobs, the caller informed me it was 04:00am, and that she had been banging on all the house doors for about 2 hours in an attempt to attract our attention.
I didn’t trust this person at all. She wouldn’t tell me why she was so distressed, but she clearly wanted me to feel sorry for her. What she didn’t know was that from the bedroom window I could make out her figure, with a bike, under the lavender tree at the main gate. Was this a trap?
As dawn broke a fuller picture began to emerge. I could now see that my caller was holding a prisoner! I sprang into action to rescue the hostage. It was my friend LM.
It didn’t seem to matter how many times I repeated myself, no-one believed me. “Kingsley Amis did NOT write Hard Times”.
The last workshop in the series was a complete disaster. Not even MS could save the day with his presentation of magic tricks learnt from TPR. As I watched a balloon float over the heads of the delegates according to MS’s instructions, I wondered what had happened to half the audience. Key members EF, RA, LS and JA hadn’t even bothered to turn up.
With a sense of dread, CI and I collected the feedback at the end of the session. I glanced down at the first few forms, expecting to see the ticks fall in the adequate/poor columns. Strangely, however, it seemed that those who had turned up had enjoyed the event. What is more, some had returned comments on Scottish devolution. It was only then that I realised that this feedback was related to another event at the same venue – a day devoted to electoral reform. I passed the forms to their rightful owners and wondered what had become of my own set. Perhaps nobody had the heart to fill in a form for such a lousy event?
I cheered myself up by raiding the lost property cupboard. I shared my haul of fine leather purses and wallets with CI, keeping the green ones for myself while she took the rest.
“And this, ladies and gentlemen”, announced the tour guide, “is the mug that Anne Darwin was holding in her hand the moment she heard that her husband had won £5 million on the lottery”.
Surely he was mistaken? “Didn’t Anne Darwin come into her fortune when she made a huge insurance claim on her husband’s faked death?” I challenged the guide.
“Yes, you are correct. In 2002 John Darwin apparently fell from his canoe and drowned in the North Sea just off the coast of Seaton Carew. In reality he dumped the craft, camped rough for a while, then returned home to his “widow”. She hid him until they left the UK to start a new life in Panama using the money from the insurance claim. However, what is less well-known is that they also scooped a huge lottery win. Even though they are convicted criminals they are entitled to keep all the cash. Given their track record the police always suspected that they forged the winning ticket, but this was never proved.”
Dreamaticus 