Quadratic equations fox faculty and first years (Rousse)

The bed creaked as the enormous dark-haired woman clambered over to my side. “Get off!” I demanded. “When TPR and I bought this big bed it was just for the two of us. You’re not welcome. I want to read the Sunday papers in peace!”

Not long afterwards I found the same woman crying on a smaller bed in a room nearby. Consumed with guilt for my sharp words, I made an attempt to offer some comfort. “It’s not you,” she said. “It’s these maths exercises that I have to prepare, and then mark, for the freshers. I don’t think I’m up to the demands of the job of lecturer.” I glanced at the notations in pencil on her notepad. I couldn’t make any sense of them either. Since when had advanced quadratic equations formed part of the first year syllabus, I asked myself?

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“Friend” of royalty responsible for luggage loss (Rousse)

Although the conference had changed format for 2012, it still attracted the same crowd. AA and I waved greetings to everyone we knew as we crossed the main exhibition hall on our way out to check in at the hotel. EH and ON, busy setting up a stand, grinned back at us and shouted their greetings.

At the exit AA pushed her way through the revolving door, complaining loudly that that she would really rather remain for the rest of the week in the Princess of Wales’ private apartments at Kensington Palace. However, I wasn’t to be fooled into believing that she was hob-nobbing with royalty. I knew that her stay in the royal palace over the past couple of days was a complete fluke. The vouchers that she had found in her purse on her way up to London were for rail tickets, not grace and favour accommodation. How she had ever persuaded anyone otherwise was really quite astonishing.

The conference hotel was supposed to be only a short walk away, but this turned out not to be the case. AA led the way, marching faster and faster into the distance ahead of me. I struggled to keep up with her. The only way to match her pace was to shove my small aluminium suitcase in her direction and pray that it had enough momentum to make it to the hotel on its own. This, of course, was ridiculous, and before long I was obliged to retrace my steps to hunt for my lost luggage. Then I fell into a boggy stream and almost drowned in my pathetic attempts to haul myself out of the water and clamber back up the collapsing peat bank. (My pink woollen skirt, incidentally, was ruined.)

I never retrieved my suitcase. Instead, I walked uninvited into a German family’s house on the French border and stole the camera that I found on top of the television in the sitting room. Then I gave careers advice to the most precocious three year old I had ever met. In flawless English he announced his plans for the future. I could only agree that his options for postgraduate study were excellent, although it was highly unlikely that the research groups that he admired so much would still be in existence by the time he finished his first degree.

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Elvis Costello and Libby Purves forced to share scant office space at the BBC (Rousse)

MR and I got ahead of the others on a Sunday walk across the Pentland Hills with colleagues. Enthusing over Great British walks, MR declared how he would love to follow the Roman Wall trail from the south of England all the way up to Northumberland. “It’s a great trip for foreign tourists”, he said. “They pick up a hire car in Heathrow then drive up the country stopping off at each of the sites along the way.” I nodded in agreement, although privately I couldn’t see much point in staring at piles of stones just because they’d been placed there by Hadrian’s men. There was also something dodgy about the assumption that the Roman Wall stretched northwards from the perimeter of the M25. This was something that I really needed to check with RG-J.

Our walking route unexpectedly took a sudden turn into a housing estate, and then a small theme park where the visitors themselves were the main entertainment. MR looked seriously tempted by the human four-legged racing. I managed to persuade him not to sign up as a horse. It would just be too humiliating when nobody bet on his chances. Instead I suggested that we go into one of the buildings to see which shows were on offer there.

This was a terrible decision. We stumbled along a succession of corridors, each next one narrower than the last. They were all crammed with old-fashioned filing cabinets and piles and piles of stationery. Fire doors slammed shut after every three or four paces and it was as if we were slowly being sealed in a multi-chambered concrete coffin. A label on one of the doors hinted that we had perhaps stumbled into some old BBC offices: Libby Purves apparently shared one of the tiny rooms with Elvis Costello. I wondered if they were dead or alive behind the door.

Just at the point that I thought we’d be trapped in this building forever MR passed me a padded envelope. Inside was a very beautiful and elaborate blue-stoned necklace. “What’s this?” I asked. “It’s your birthday present from KT. She wanted me to organise a treasure hunt for you. I hope you enjoyed it. Now that you have been awarded your prize, shall we retrace our steps and get out of here?” He knew that his last question was redundant as I joyfully followed him back outside into the open air.

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Woman slave held captive in basement flat (Rousse)

Someone had thrown a brick through our study window. It must have been with some force: the brick had crashed through the shutters as well as the astragalled panes.

We wondered whether this was anything to do with the shouting and swearing that we had witnessed through the walls during the night? The woman’s voice had screamed “I’m treated like a slave and never allowed out”. We had no idea that a woman lived next door.

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French chef fails to impress (Belle)

In a scene reminiscent of Oliver Twist, the three contestants carried their bowls of French onion soup towards the top table. The famous chef make a pronouncement: “This is the soup any British housewife should be able to make”. Although unimpressed by this old-fashioned comment, I was more surprised that he failed to reprimand the competitor who had served her soup in the red lid from a bottle of Mr Sheen.

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Farmyard noises trump smoking as acceptable behaviour in public (Rousse)

It was the day of my big performance. It didn’t go quite as anticipated. Granted, my father kept his promise not to heckle me. Instead he did much worse by interrupting the vote of thanks with farmyard noises. The speaker at the front the room glared at him, then at me. I knew that she held me responsible. However, she was on shaky ground herself. What had given one of the most senior members of staff of the University the idea that smoking at an inaugural professorial lecture was acceptable behaviour?

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Egypt at Easter? Rousse is unimpressed

I sat on the back seat of the car with my colleagues BB, JK, EH and XL. BB pulled a holiday brochure out of his rucksack. “This is where we should all go together next Easter” he enthused. The page was open at Egypt. This was really JK’s call (and budget), and I was pretty sure she’d dismiss the idea. However, to my horror she actually seemed interested. “But I wanted to go to Canada” I muttered meekly in protest.

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Danes are more beautiful than Brits – so says Finnair (Rousse)

I raced through Gatwick Airport, desperate to reach the Finnair flight to Oslo before the gate closed. DC was also at the airport, en route to Greece. Delighted to find company, he asked my advice on where to purchase a pair of winter boots. I really didn’t have time to stop and chat. I pushed past him and shouted back that he’d probably find a shop in the departure lounge.

At baggage control another passenger tried to strike up a conversation with me. “I’m heading abroad for the equivalent of twelve nights away with a beautiful woman”, he boasted. In reality, he was taking his daughter and three of her friends away to Paris for a long weekend. I wasn’t interested. I had to reach the gate, and now it appeared that my suitcase was over size and about to be confiscated.

After a final burst of sprinting (minus my bag) I made it to the gate. Six or seven beautiful blonde airline staff greeted me in a formal reception line and asked to check my old-fashioned multipart ticket. There was nobody else in sight, and it looked like the flight would be empty. I asked what had happened to all the other passengers. “We’d love it if more people would fly to Scandinavia with us” came the reply, “but the British don’t come. It’s because they know that they are not as beautiful as the Danes.”

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Roman latrines, Basil Brush, memorials for loved ones, and a bargain taxi fare (Rousse)

There was just enough time before the service to make a quick dash to the communal toilet block. My sister S and I took our places side-by-side on the wooden bench, more than a little self-conscious in the company of complete strangers. Was Newcastle City Council really obliged to provide Roman-style public latrines just to meet the needs of tourists visiting Hadrian’s Wall?

We then slipped into the church. It was packed with mourners, and I counted myself lucky to find a front pew seat next to my parents. I sat down, switched off my phones, and watched the panel of celebrants take their own places facing the congregation. When they put on their glove puppets, everyone else took this as a signal to do the same. I’d forgotten to bring mine, but it didn’t matter. I was more interested in which character would lead the proceedings. When it was revealed that Basil Brush would be in charge I was beside myself with excitement.

The sole low-point of the ceremony came when I realised that I had forgotten to tell my boss that I would miss this week’s meeting in favour of the funeral. I felt a flash of guilt about my presentation on social media strategy, but it could wait. Otherwise I enjoyed the whole morning. The audience participation was at times hysterical, and I could see how the presentation on techniques for carving a memorial stone bust of your departed loved one might one day come in useful.

Afterwards my mother and I set off by foot across the Scottish highlands to the Outer Hebrides. By the time we reached our destination it was the height of summer. The sun was high, the skies blue, and the sea temperature tropical. We bathed in the waves, and then it was time to set off home again. It was another long walk so we were extremely grateful when a foreign taxi driver on the outskirts of Fort William offered to drive us to Oban. From there we could take the train back to Edinburgh. I worried that we could not afford the fare, but, on the basis of the price he quoted, we happily hopped in. £6 to travel 45 miles was an absolute bargain.

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A cross-Atlantic trip to the Liverpool Museum of Prison Life (Rousse)

I hadn’t seen my school friend JB for over thirty years so it was quite a surprise to bump into her in Liverpool. Her husband and one of their four children accompanied her. They’d travelled all the way here from California with the sole intention of taking the daughter to the tiny Museum of Prison Life. “Really? How interesting” said I, “I must post that to Facebook”.

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