Write early for Christmas 2012 (Rousse)

JK was away so DB chaired the meeting in her place. Instead of discussing business, however, we all sat at the table writing our Christmas cards. After a few minutes of addressing envelopes EH mentioned that perhaps this was something that we should do in our own time at home. The others agreed and they all left the meeting.

I was obliged to wait a while longer in DB’s room. Unlike the others I’d been using a fountain pen for my Christmas greetings. I couldn’t leave until the ink had dried on all my envelopes. I waved them one by one in front of the open fire in an attempt to speed up the process.

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Selling hosiery – with a difference (Rousse)

Following a long, happy and successful career at the British Library, SK came out of retirement to mastermind a massive marketing campaign for the Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre from a secret base in Edinburgh.

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Rousse samples seaweed, cream and orange peel pudding

SS gathered us around her kitchen table and served the Chinese takeaway feast. There was so much to eat, and by the time the pudding was unwrapped at about 3am I really didn’t think I could consume anything more.

SS dollopped a huge mass of seaweed and cream gloop onto BM’s plate. Then she mixed some orange peel into the bowl and asked TPR how much he would like. Meanwhile the other guests agreed that perhaps they would give running a miss the next day.

I glanced at TPR in hopeful expectation. It appeared, however, that our long run would still be on – but first I had to find a way to force this “food” down myself without offending our hostess (or, more likely, throwing up).

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Mark Zuckerberg vents anger at Harvard in Simpsons episode (Rousse)

There was a television at the far end of the room, but this was largely ignored. Most of us preferred to watch The Simpsons on personal devices such as iPads balanced on our knees.

This hysterical episode was based on the antics of famous Harvard graduates and drop-outs whose statues on campus periodically came to life. What made it all the more interesting was that if you switched the red button, you could follow the plot with the cartoon superimposed on the real campus landscape. This made for fascinating television.

My favourite moment came when Mark Zuckerberg’s statue lost his temper and almost jumped out of the screen in anger.

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Unbearable workloads: could cloning be the answer? (Rousse)

Locked away in a hall of residence room in Nantes, I wasn’t coping very well at all. I had returned to the city to take some extra courses and gain credits for a full French undergraduate degree, even though it was hard to imagine why I would ever need any more qualifications.

Simultaneously I was also organising a reunion for graduates of the University of Washington iSchool, amongst whom numbered several ex-pupils of Teesside High School. These grown-up “girls” were readily identified because they never went out of the house without first donning their brown school berets.

My body responded to the stress of all these demands on my time by doing something extraordinary. I cloned myself!

Rousse 2 looked almost identical to me. She was perhaps a little younger and less out-going in her personality, but otherwise she was instantly recognisable. Unfortunately she was unaware of “her” back-story of studies in France and the American reunion. In fact, dressed in a long floaty cotton skirt, she was under the impression that she was on a beach holiday in Florida. I dreaded to think what she would make of the news that she was now obliged to give up her precious time off to help deal with the never-ending duties of Rousse 1.

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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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