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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Cambridge conference saves Rousse from North Sea diving job

Although I agreed with the guest house landlady that her daughter looked a fright, I kept my views to myself. The poor girl obviously considered herself a beauty, yet to most she simply looked fake with her long blonde hair extensions and unseasonal golden tan. The mother then confessed that she was desperate to wean her daughter off the tanning tablets. She worried that these did more harm than good, and that her gullible child would soon be a tanning pill addict.

The conversation came to an end when the landlady gave our canal boat a shove and waved the three of us off in the direction of Grantham. Via the waterways of Britain we were on our way to a holiday job that TPR had picked for the three of us. The contract was underwater equipment maintenance in the North Sea. None of us were trained divers, but we could all swim and had packed our costumes, so that was sufficient qualification for the job – at least as far as TPR was concerned.

We passed through shabby Cambridge en route. After years of battling the elements, many of the roadside buildings, including ancient college libraries, were eroding into the street. When I saw groups of people wandering about wearing name badges I suddenly remembered that I had a gold conference pack in my bag. I asked to be excused from the diving job: I would be so much more useful as a conference delegate.

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Become a personal trainer – but not on this course (Rousse)

Completely fed up with work, I decided to ditch academia to train as a fitness instructor, and joined the same course as FM. The pace of the classes was incredibly slow, largely because the tutor took a 15 minute break at the end of each exercise to go and wash her hair. A further disappointment was this woman’s poor cycling technique. I was appalled at her lack of expertise when demonstrating “wheel turns” up Arthur’s Seat, especially since she broke my mountain bike in the process.

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Rousse’s perilous journey

This was highly embarrassing. My gym membership had run out several weeks earlier and somehow I had ended up in the changing rooms with everyone encouraging me to pretend that I was still a member. This was not right and I had to escape – fast!

My route out was highly dangerous. I followed the river as far as I could, but now that it was winter the stream was much wider than before. Without help, I had little chance of crossing the rivers that joined it. I was grateful that the two kayaking Africans (who had earlier tried to sell me paddling lessons) followed me along the riverbank and offered to carry me across when I reached a swollen tributary.

The next challenge was a huge expanse of mudflat. If I put a foot wrong here, I would be sucked under and drown a dirty death. Somehow I managed to skip my way across, again with the help of my new friends.

Unfortunately my guides had both disappeared by the time I reached the exit stairs. All that I needed to do now to return to “normality” was negotiate the stone spiral staircase. The problem, however, was that the stairs were incredibly narrow and steep. The only way that anyone managed to negotiate them was to pair up with a partner and steer the first person downwards wheelbarrow-style. All alone, I was doomed to be stuck here forever.

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Talking dog finds a new home (Rousse)

TPR and I found a new place to live on the top floor of an abandoned Victorian orphanage in Manchester.

Admittedly it would take some time to make the cold grey rooms comfortable, and we’d have to do something with the all the tiny baby clothes that we found carefully organised, labelled (but faded and moth-eaten) in every cupboard that we opened. However, a major compensation was the length of the corridors. On the days when TPR chose to switch to his alternative form of talking golden retriever he would have plenty of room for exercise.

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