Lecturer in a tutu (Rousse)

I was busy in the kitchen admiring my glug jug collection when KT called the meeting. I reckoned that I should wear more than a pair of lacy black knickers in the company of my colleagues so I rushed through the bedroom to get dressed. There I pulled on my favourite stiff pink netting tutu and topped my outfit with a thin white vest. I looked so much better covered up, even though I had no time to brush my hair or clean my teeth before everyone else (including the Dean – it was an important meeting) arrived.

At first I was disappointed that only two of my three male room-mates were in attendance. However, when KT introduced the main agenda item I was relieved that the third was absent. KT was concerned about his personal hygiene. She’d never met anyone else before who brushed himself with sticks rather than took a shower or a bath. “Is this a common practice?” she enquired.

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Danish Marmite verdict – not as bad as you might expect (Rousse)

While top fashion designer MSB prepared for the visit of AF, my sister J and I headed for the Pentland Hills. We timed our visit to watch the release of geese at the start of the shooting season. We didn’t appreciate that this quantity of birds overhead would turn the sky black. Nor were we prepared for the deluge of guano.

By the time we returned AF had transformed into a sulky version of her Auntie S. I was incredibly embarrassed. I tried to make up for the teenage bad behaviour by showing enormous enthusiasm for the snack that MSB had kindly prepared for us all. The Danish version of Marmite on toast wasn’t quite as bad as I expected.

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Winning ways with the language of love (Rousse)

I was well aware that for over a decade my colleague A dismissed my work as completely trivial. It was well-known that he had no respect for me whatsoever.

Then one day we happened to be assigned to the same placement visit in France. I would never have imagined that my aptitude for modern languages would be the one talent powerful enough to win him over. From the moment that the first French words spilled out of my mouth he just couldn’t get enough of me.

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Rousse avoids a rubbish job

Back in 1982 I was doing all I could to avoid what I considered an inappropriate task for female first year undergraduates: picking up litter. They said that the boys would be there too, but I didn’t believe it.

I’d missed so many classes over the course of the year that they probably wouldn’t notice if I didn’t turn up. Still, at first I would pretend to take part. I joined the other girls on the Birmingham University campus in the lobby of the Muirhead Tower where we waited for the lift. I loved the way that the lift recognised every single one of us. I wondered what kind of investment had gone into developing a system that displayed the name of each passenger alongside a note of his or her destination floor.

We completed the rest of the journey to the site of litter collection by rail. When the train pulled into the station, JC (was JP) and I sneaked around the back of the last carriage and then rushed into the shopping centre. There we confirmed what I suspected all along: they had been lying about the boys’ duties. Our school friends ST and DP were dashing about dressed in smart red and black uniforms. We concluded that they were working either as shop assistants or waiters. Whatever their role, they certainly would not be sent out to collect litter dressed like that.

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Teenage bedroom furniture choices (Rousse)

LF and TF both glanced at me sitting on the futon. “No, that’s it. We’re definitely not getting him one of those“, said L.

This declaration came at the end of a long debate on bedroom furniture choices for teenage boys on sleepovers. Apparently the final choice was to be an expensive sofa bed. I would have thought that bedrolls on the floor were good enough, or perhaps bunk beds? Which teenage boys would want to share a double sofa bed with a friend?

My suggestions were rejected. The bunk bed option was particularly unpopular. Had I no idea how difficult it is to make a bunk bed? It was also obvious that I had never witnessed the damage that bunk beds wreak on woodwork.

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Bad behaviour and an F1 fireball kill conversation (Rousse)

The conference launch event was a Victorian-Edwardian music hall concert in the style of BBC’s Good old days show. I thought this a bit OTT for a librarians’ conference, but this was the US, and it did make a change from the usual first night drinks reception. Afterwards I attempted to mingle with my colleagues, but something wasn’t quite right. Every conversation I started was cut dead. Even full-on flirting with male delegates (completely out of character for me) failed to garner any response (although I almost won over the very tall man leaning against the wall). I had clearly upset the entire conference community, but I had no idea how or why.

The Manor reunion was different. Here everyone was keen to catch up on one another’s news, including ours. The moment TPR chose our seats at an empty table a dozen others raced over to claim places next to us. My highlight of the evening was the discovery that my school friend JB and her husband were at the dinner. As an Oxford graduate JB had no entitlement to attend an event for the alumni of the University of Birmingham. However, because she had already missed our school reunion in November and was really keen to catch up with me, she and her husband had taken the decision to come over from California and gate-crash the Manor House event.

I really enjoyed the conversation with JB. I explained how TPR had spent a lot of time in Mountain View in the 1990s and that I’d investigated doing my PhD at Stanford or Berkeley. She was just about to tell me how she’d ended up in San Francisco when we heard the wail of sirens. A fleet of fire engines raced into the dining room to deal the F1 car in the corner that had suddenly burst into flames.

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Undomesticated male ineptitude (Rousse)

After years of unheeded complaints about his overworking, BB’s wife followed through her threat to throw him out. With nowhere else to go, he turned up on our doorstep. I always suspected that he would not be terribly domesticated, but even I was shocked to find that he had no idea how to operate a tumble dryer.

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Rousse’s mistaken hot property purchase

I was looking forward to moving house. We were going back to the north east of England to be within a one hour drive of my parents. It would be wonderful to be surrounded by friendly northerners again.

TPR left it up to me to find somewhere to live. I found a big flat in a huge converted council building that overlooked a beautiful garden and the school playing fields. Our next door neighbour would be my school friend HP’s running partner who was moving up from York. With a new companion nearby it wouldn’t matter if I couldn’t find a job.

Slowly, however, I realised that our new home was perhaps not suitable. From the rota pinned to the back of the front door and the tatty decor it was obvious that the previous occupants were students. The floors also sloped awkwardly. It would be very expensive to put this all right.

Then there was the problem of the neighbours. It appeared that there was a busy children’s hospital on the floor below, and beneath this there was a noisy bar where anyone who challenged an indoor smoker risked a beating. I realised the full measure of my mistaken house purchase when a mad old lady on the staircase passed me in mid-rant, wielding the most unusual of weapons: a lime green, buckled, patent leather shoe.

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Lord Alan Sugar’s babysitter and JK Rowling’s secret (Rousse)

“Babysitting” was the answer I gave whenever anyone asked what I did for Lord Alan Sugar. He liked to keep me nearby. This usually meant that I could be found hanging around the main door of the office at street level, ready to greet my boss whenever he came in or out of the building. I was also responsible for fetching the evening paper for him each afternoon.

Although the work was very mundane, it did have one huge compensation: you heard about major events so much sooner than everyone else. On this occasion I was one of the first to discover that JK Rowling’s treasure hunt was now live. The rules were simple: find the trove and fill your pockets with the solid gold coins as fast as possible.

It took a while for me to realise that I was the one who held the key to the treasure hunt – literally. The trove was under a manhole cover in the street, and the tiny key to unlock the manhole cover was on my key-ring. I turned the key in the lock and, sure enough, just under the plate were hundreds of gold coins. I started stuffing my pockets, as did everyone else who spotted what was going on.

Back at the office afterwards, I discussed the advantages of my job with another of Lord Sugar’s workers. She agreed that we held very privileged positions, and wondered whether we could get our hands on the original artwork for the coins. This was bound to be extremely valuable (as would be my manhole cover key, I hoped). At this point JK Rowling stepped out from a door on the landing to show us the currency design documentation. Everything been very well-researched, with the final design referencing sources that spanned two millennia, from ancient Egypt to the twenty-first century, including Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. We were suitably impressed.

Perhaps what was most extraordinary at this point, however, was JK Rowling “herself”. We discovered that “she” was not, in fact, a glamorous mother of three who enjoyed the occasional splurge on handbags at Harvey Nicols, but a dumpy, geeky, middle-aged man.

JK Rowling features on Dreamaticus quite frequently. You’ll also find her here:

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News of Michael Jackson’s death takes time to register back in the 1970s (Rousse)

I met my new young man back in 1975. He squeezed into the seat next to me on one of the first 125 trains released into the fleet. We agreed to meet the next day beside the cave. He didn’t mention his wife and child, nor did I make any reference to my boyfriend.

As a time-traveller from the twenty-first century I had so much to tell. I started with the concept of e-mail. To set the context, I first explained e-mail’s impact on the ancient practice of memo-writing and the role of secretaries.

Then, upsetting the man somewhat, I revealed that the first marriages of Prince Charles, Princess Anne and Prince Andrew all ended in divorce.

My last piece of intelligence was that poor Michael Jackson died aged just 50. This name meant nothing to my companion at first. It didn’t register with him that the little boy who had enjoyed chart success with Rockin’ Robin just three years earlier in 1972 would die an international pop sensation in June 2009.

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