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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Suicide bombers target ocean liner university campus in Leith – with bonus baby monkey (Rousse)

A huge media campaign grew up around the campus move to an ocean liner moored in Leith Docks. Thousands of visitors were expected to gather for the firework display that followed our open afternoon.

I was looking forward to the evening celebrations too. It would certainly be more interesting than standing on my own in an empty classroom next to a huge banner of myself hoping that someone would come along and ask me a question. (At one point during the day I had explored the corridors and staircases of the liner’s various levels in an attempt to identify an escape route, but the only way off the ship would have been to swim ashore.)

Eventually my banner and I had some company when RA and her baby son came to join me. I peered into the pram and noticed the length of the baby’s hairy arms. I wondered if anyone had ever dared to tell RA that her “beautiful son” was, in fact, a monkey?

When the time for the display finally came I took position at the window of the campus gym. The fabulous fireworks above were even more amazing when reflected back across the water. When we heard the approach of a military fly-over I was even more impressed, then suddenly alarmed. There was no way that the university budget would stretch to this! What on earth was going on?

The first of the three military aircraft turned its nose downwards, crashed into campus and exploded into flames. I felt a blaze of heat against my back and screamed “Fire exits. Hurry!” In a few moments the fireball would surely engulf us all.

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John Lewis suitcase switch and Tiffany diamond haul (Rousse)

In a flashback to the heady days of dot.com boom TPR and I flew to South Africa for an all-expenses paid incentive holiday in Pretoria. I was looking forward to comparing the twenty-first century experience of corporate excess with that of the 1990s, particularly now that it was possible to give a running commentary on the event to everyone back home, thanks to Twitter and Facebook.

Unfortunately not everything went to plan. Our first mishap at was at immigration, where we forgot to collect and fill in the correct forms. More serious was our entanglement with a family of professional baggage thieves. They crept up from behind and switched my shiny new John Lewis ruby suitcase for a battered black carry-on. The replacement was so light and flimsy that I spotted the change almost immediately. My shriek of “Thief!” spurred TPR to make chase and apprehend the culprits. He knew how important it was to retrieve my belongings: inside my suitcase were all the plugs and leads for my iPhone, iPad, MacAir, Kindle etc.

The rest of the thieving family looked on in horror when TPR grabbed the father and pinned him to the ground. They sensibly admitted their crime and agreed to take us to their make-shift home at the edge of the airport. Here my case would be found amongst their cache of stolen goods.

Inside the house the mother tried to win me over by boasting that one of her daughters had read the entire repertoire of Mills and Boon. I replied haughtily “I have a PhD in Computing. Why would that interest me?” I wasn’t there to make friends. I just wanted my suitcase back.

Mission accomplished, we returned to the terminal ready to start the next stage of the journey, travelling across the desert to meet everyone else at our 5 star resort hotel. TPR was keen to spot African wildlife from the coach window. Meanwhile I was distracted by my sparkly haul from the thieving family’s treasure trove. On every finger I wore at least one item of silver jewellery, including two Tiffany diamond engagement rings. Even more impressive was the huge medieval silver crown that I would wear on my head for the full duration of the holiday.

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Babies, text mining and Any Questions (Rousse)

All the middle-aged married women at the conference looked so much bigger than they did this time last year. Puzzled at first, I eventually worked out that all of them were either about to give birth, or had recently welcomed a new arrival. It appeared that even I would soon discover the joys of motherhood.

Regardless of this news, once back home again after the conference I set about redesigning my knowledge management module. A young man from a consulting firm offered to present a guest lecture on text mining. The students would love this!

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The working week ended, as usual, with Any questions on Radio 4. This week was extra-special because the radio crew was on our campus and one of the panellists was my colleague AC.

As I took my seat in the audience I noticed that the producers were experiencing a problem with another panellist. A tall, slim lady dressed in orange Indian robes and a turban wailed that she was uncomfortable. When she started to climb down from the stage I recognised her as my dear friend VE. I left my seat to force her to return to her position for broadcast. My tactic was to remind her to be big girl: “Remember when you were little, came downstairs and was told in no uncertain terms to go back to bed? This is one of those moments. Get back to your seat and answer the questions like a grown-up”.

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Holy Island Heights (Rousse)

Just short of the Holy Island causeway, TPR steered the tandem over to the right. Perhaps behind these dunes we would finally discover the most beautiful beach in Northumberland?

The sight before us from atop the marram grass was, indeed, truly spectacular. However, rather than the pretty yellow sand beach with a fringe of shoreline in the distance that we anticipated, here we encountered a huge drop down to a wide expanse of desert terrain stretching for miles and miles into the far distance.

I whipped out the camera. Nobody would believe that this was Northumberland. This view was more reminiscent of the Tengger Desert of Inner Mongolia.

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