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…
I couldn’t believe my luck: Jack Dee agreed to coach me for my big lecture in March!
In the meantime, there were some more mundane duties to attend to on campus. EH suggested that a couple of glasses of Champagne would render our morning’s work more palatable, but I cautioned against this. We should instead make better use of other perks of our job, such as EH’s access to facilities at Jesus College Oxford, and my lifetime membership of the Bodleian Library.
Our attention then turned to the party of school girls in pink gingham blouses who would soon reach the department. We could observe their route up to our lecture hall on the campus-wide CCTV system. Soon they would be with us, yet we had no idea how we would be entertaining them.
In addition we still had the question of the evening’s public lecture: who would deliver it, and what would be the theme? In the end SS suggested that EH should be the one to give the presentation, and the main topic of the day would be dental floss.
I attended a business meeting with my heartbreaking ex. While I was on top form, shining with good health and happiness, he was a shadow of his former self. Delighted, I managed to convince him he should escort me to my home. On unlocking the door, we discovered I had inadvertently trapped a minicab driver in my hallway. He had been driven mad by the thought of his lost fares and threatened me with my own kitchen knife.
After the cab driver was removed by the police, my ex and I settled down in front of the upstairs bedroom window to watch the transvestite sex parties taking place at the house opposite.
Belle and I happened to be staying at the same conference hotel. I was so excited to see her, keen to take advantage of a rare opportunity to snatch five minutes together alone. I congratulated Belle on her recent Dreamaticus entries. In return she gave a quick update on some news that she had relayed to me at our last conference get-together.
Then came the tricky bit. What qualified me to comment on Belle’s ridiculous day-time eye makeup? I was hardly a beauty expert myself. However anyone should know that the “show girl” look of multiple layers of navy blue glitter eye shadow stretching from lid to brow, combined with two inch long false eyelashes, is not a good look anywhere. Unless she was planning to take the stage, it was high time that Belle scrubbed her face clean of this hideously fake mask of gunk.
My life was so pressured I was holding down two jobs. Not only was I a Serie A ballgirl, looking after the away end at Palermo’s ground but I was simultaneously walking through a derelict house trying to assess its suitability as a care home. Fortunately, I was on first name terms with the 17 away fans and they helped me out from time to time.
Later, I was on a bus that was revisiting the shops of my youth. I travelled through Kingstanding and Hawthorn Road and felt a shudder of recognition.
Dreamaticus 