Why was this always happening to me? I’d show someone a little kindness and the next thing they expected was a snog. In this case it wasn’t the usual hardship: I quite fancied S.
I explained to him, however, that part of the deal was that if I gave in to his desires, he would then be obliged to follow me around shoe shops. Today’s mission would be to find the right foot match for a beautiful green shoe last spotted on a shelf in Hobbs.
I took AM’s phone call just a few steps from where I last left her in the Betjeman Arms at St Pancras Station. We chatted amiably until my attention was distracted by the comings and goings of a group of smartly dressed people outside the Renaissance Hotel.
What were my Cousin SA and his girlfriend LB doing here? Who were these people that they were meeting? How had SA grown back a full head of hair?
AM was clearly unimpressed that I was no longer focussed on our call. When I resumed my conversation with her I discovered that the line had gone dead.
My sister J was a criminal mastermind. Her two children served as the key members of her gang. My mentor – who would eventually become my partner provided that I proved myself – was one of Jonathan Ross’ brothers (although I was never sure which one out of Miles, Simon and Adam). My recent appointment meant that there were now five of us dealing in stolen goods from a base in central London.
On my first day a call came through from Ealing. We already had the goods in stock so it was just a question of someone parcelling them up and posting them to the client. I never saw the contents of the actual package, but from its violin case shape I guessed it was a gun. To protect our identity we sent out our orders from a variety of post offices. So the next stage in the delivery of the goods was to drive several miles out of London to a rural village where we were unknown and could pop the parcel into the post incognito.
The gang had two vehicles at its disposal. My mentor and I had access to a tiny open-topped sports car, while the others relied on an ancient white Volvo. On this occasion, dressed in my bikini, I took the wheel of the sports car with my mentor at my side giving directions.
When he noticed my skin starting to burn in the heat, my mentor suggested that we stop off at a small supermarket to buy some sunblock. By happy coincidence, the supermarket had a post office counter so we called the others in the Volvo and they agreed to meet us there to post the parcel. The whole plan fell apart, however, when J was recognised by a supermarket cafe customer dressed in a heavy wool coat. This woman turned out to be a former colleague of hers! Now the entire staff of King’s College London would soon know the shame of our criminal careers.
Belle and I were at the same conference with a surprisingly large number of employees of the Victoria and Albert Museum, all of whom were about to be made redundant. I mentioned to them that Sir Mark Jones was a distant relation of mine by marriage, forgetting that he had now moved on from the V&A to St Cross College, Oxford.
Suddenly our conversation was interrupted by shouts of other delegates who were calling out to a stranger who looked rather like our friend C. The stranger replied angrily “I’m not C. I am his identical twin brother!” Although I could see a likeness, I was not convinced. His hair was far too curly, and when the “twins” stood next to one another for a photograph it was clear that one was at least two feet taller than the other.
In a large hall in an American high school I was amused to see three students wearing Aston Villa shirts watching Match of the Day on a big screen. As I looked closer, I realised that the students had arranged themselves alphabetically by the English football team they were supporting. There were two Arsenal supporters and, oddly, more than fifteen Charlton Athletic shirts. Excited, I told the Villa fans I could get them match tickets “any time”. I was ashamed afterwards as not only was that a lie, but I had also omitted to tell them how awful Birmingham was and that they should avoid it at all costs.
As well as being a student at the high school I was also apprenticed to a ‘madam’ and was in training to become a high class escort. As part of the services offered to our clients, we provided a vending machine which had a collection of necklaces they could buy to give to ‘us girls’ prior to our dates. The more experienced girls had shaved their heads. This meant that all girls could be ‘blonde’ or ‘brunette’ depending on customer requirements and wig availability.
First we were amazed to hear that a tiny Middle Eastern prince had popped over for a round of golf at our local club. Then we were astonished to witness streams flowing uphill over the Pentland Hills. The biggest shock of all, however, was that these streams were not of water, but of sticky crude oil.
How did this all add up? Were we to regret another sign of environmental meltdown, or to celebrate a wonderful new source of income for the Scottish economy?
The main problem with our kitchen was that it was a five minute drive from the rest of our house. The “room” itself was a low level crumbling shack sitting in an unkempt garden. Nobody had bothered with the housework or weeding since Patsy Stone moved in. Even TPR had given up on mowing the lawn and no longer cared about the domestic scrap heap that appeared to grow bigger and bigger each day in the ditch beside the fence.
The only reason why we hung on to the building was the unusual fireplace in the sitting room. It was rumoured that the moulding that depicted St Cuthbert and Lindisfarne Castle was designed and manufactured by Sir Edwin Lutyens, and was worth an absolute fortune.
A second school reunion was organised after the success of the 2011 event. This time it was held in the Yorkshire village of Robin Hood’s Bay in a beautiful posh restaurant that looked over the beach. Kev F Sutherland drove us down there in a big people carrier. I winced on the sharp turn into the narrow main street when Kev scratched the left wing of the car against the wall. Cheery as ever, Kev declared that he was unconcerned about any damage: this was somebody else’s vehicle after all, and the dent was nothing to do with him.
In planning the reunion we’d really struggled to calculate numbers for the table bookings. When we all arrived in the restaurant and started to reorganise chairs, tables and place settings the staff became more and more frustrated with us. Still, we were determined to have a good time, regardless of the dirty looks. Especially keen to catch up with everyone were those who had missed the last reunion. Amongst these were CH, who had found a place at ST’s table, where he had saved me a place next to his own.
Something that I couldn’t work out on the day was how my one of my Edinburgh running pals had wangled a reunion invitation. He passed through the room handing out purple business cards. I took one myself and was shocked to see TPR’s e-mail address in the detail of the small print. What was this guy up to, trying to pass himself off as my husband?
When I’d promised that I would take my sister S to her university interviews I had not appreciated how hard it would be to organise transport. It was particularly difficult to work out travel plans around her afternoon appointment at University College London. I hated driving on the packed English roads and my budget could not bear the extortionate train fares. Although it was winter there was only one real option: to travel the two hundred miles to London and back by tandem.
This was shameful. Not only had I little idea of how to correct my nephew PF’s French homework, but I also incorrectly “corrected” the work of another person who had been helping him. Exasperated I confessed my lost talents. “Didn’t you see last Tuesday’s Dreamaticus entry?” I cried, “I’ve forgotten all the French I ever knew!”
Strangely nobody asked why PF always relied on other people to finish his homework for him…
Dreamaticus 