Dancing bear imposter (Rousse)

The famous dancing bear lived in a plush apartment on the eight floor of a brand new tower block, above a branch of Boots the Chemist. I knew this because he belonged to my friends J and GC.

I almost didn’t make it on the day of my planned visit to see this extraordinary animal. First of all an old friend and I were distracted by the 1970s photo booth in Boots. We spent far too long trying to recreate the crazy black and white images of our teenage years. Then I realised that I didn’t have J and G’s phone number on me and had no way of letting them know that we were in the building. Thankfully, the kind staff in Boots were able to contact G somehow and he came down to meet us then lead us back up the building to the flat.

The dancing bear already had quite an audience, including my mother who was trying to video his antics. He stood on his hind legs and jigged gently, with his right “arm” stretched out and pointing to a begging bowl at his feet. He was a very entertaining act, but I wondered if I was the only one to spot that this was not a bear, but just a very big, well-trained, dog?

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A doomed flight from Japan (Rousse)

Flight by Brendan MacNeill

Flight by Brendan MacNeill

This was my second trip to the far east in a fortnight and, once again, I was astonished at the rudeness of the local population. I’d barely arrived in Japan and already airport staff had launched an enquiry into the quantity of luggage that I intended to fly home. This was not the best of starts to the long-anticipated incentive holiday.

After a short fierce argument over two small pieces of hand luggage (that could be collapsed into one, if necessary) I was released and allowed to travel on to the hotel. There I joined TPR’s colleagues and their “significant others”. But where was TPR? Apparently he had been allocated accommodation elsewhere, doomed to the equivalent experience of this holiday in 1994 (“Rome from a coach”).

It was several days before TPR reached my hotel. On arrival he dumped two big boards that declared him a rowing champion, grabbed my wrist, charged past our pal DJ, and pulled me onto the plane parked next to the main hotel swimming pool. This was some escape! Unfortunately, since neither of us had any piloting experience, our trip was very short-lived. I couldn’t be certain, but it looked like we only flew from the hotel back to the airport, and how we even managed this I had no idea. Of course now we would be in much deeper trouble with the airport authorities – regardless of baggage allowances – and unless we came up with a very good explanation for our actions, TPR would almost certainly be sacked.

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Snow, socks and sex (Rousse)

I rang the editor of Library and Information Science Research from a lone bus shelter on a snowy football pitch in the middle of winter as the sun set. Two strangers listened in.

Then I joined in a themed event where everyone had to wear old running socks.

If the above were not enough entertainment for one day, DT, TPR and I spent many happy hours peering out of the window of our high rise flat observing the antics of our neighbours. They really should have drawn the curtains…

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Alan Garner time travels (Belle)

Alan Garner came to visit me in my childhood. We sat in a Morris Minor on a hot, hot day. My legs stuck to the car seat.

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Traffic terror on the A1 and a reunion with the Spice Girls (Rousse)

The traffic on the A1 north of Newcastle was blocked solid. The only way you could now join the carriageway was to first reverse up the ramp, then continue along the hard shoulder backwards until you found a suitable spot to squeeze into the main queue heading south. This was a Saturday afternoon and we wondered just how dangerous it must be in the rush hour during the week.

I was the passenger as TPR tested out the terrifying technique. At one point he almost took out a cyclist, who was saved only by his quick action of leaping from his bike into the adjacent field. Once in the main queue of traffic we didn’t stay in our car long. An accident ahead had forced everyone out of their vehicles and we had to do the same. As we trudged along the road past the newly-dug graves there was nothing to do other than join in the chorus of the Deacon Blue songs along with everyone else.

Later on I met up with the Spice Girls. It was wonderful to be in their company again. The difference between their millionaire lifestyles and mine had no bearing on our friendship. Victoria Beckham even turned to me for fashion advice.

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Rousse offers advice on Gaelic, Java and T shirt printing

Everyone was seeking my advice on their artistic endeavours. First my boss asked my opinion of her latest magazine column. I had absolutely nothing to say about the content. It was composed in Gaelic and I couldn’t understand a word of it. I did, however, venture the criticism that the tiny typeface was barely legible.

Then I was approached by OM, who was making printed T shirts for the students. He’d got as far as the basic design, but needed some witty wording to stretch across the back. “How about a coded message in Java?” I suggested. Then I remembered that I had come across a whole web page of computing-related one-liners in the summer. I couldn’t remember the URL, but I knew someone who would have kept a record of it. I set off to find my mother. Although completely preoccupied with a hen weekend for one of her best friends, she confirmed that she had the web address somewhere in her Hotmail. Indeed, she had it on paper too – because, as might be expected, she lovingly prints out every e-mail message that I ever send to her.

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Illegal clown disrupts travel plans (Rousse)

We’d waited two hours at Digbeth coach station in Birmingham and still the 22:00 service to Edinburgh was not ready to depart. The tannoy announced that it would now leave at 02:00. This was far too late for us, so it looked like we would have to travel north in TPR’s old black Astra GTE after all.

Just before we set off I asked the station staff what had caused the delay to the bus. I expected an explanation that would refer to the lateness of the incoming service (or similar). The actual reason was that the driver had come into work dressed in a sequinned costume with long pointy shoes. They’d been forced to send him home again because it’s against the law to drive a bus if you’re dressed as a clown.

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Rousse messes up version control

As I settled into my seat to listen to the first speaker I caught a glimpse of the conference programme. It looked so much more colourful and detailed than the version that Belle and I had sent to the print room. This one included references to sessions in Vienna, possible alternative speakers, and even presented some of the text in strike-out. Then the full horror of my error hit me: I’d sent the wrong version for copying to the print room!

I muttered my mistake to the person seated to the right of me: my running pal LF. She quickly considered her priorities for the day, then replied: “Does that mean that there won’t be duck à l’orange at the conference dinner?”

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Lamb stew, jelly sweets and a yellow makeover (Belle)

Although about to fly out to Missouri to give a lecture, I was hopelessly underprepared. I was trying to pack, even as Dame Maggie Smith had the hotel staff move all my possessions to the room next to her. This confusion meant I now had two of everything in my room, including two boxes of Meltis jelly sweets. I was also cooking a lamb stew, which I was meant to be taking to my American hosts, although I forgot this detail and ate the lot.

Meanwhile my sister ‘did my make-up’. This involved her brushing yellow powder over my forehead. It now seemed likely that I would not be allowed into the US because I looked so ill.

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Russell Brand? No, Russell Grant (Belle)

Russell Grant’s costume was one of the most daring ever seen on Strictly Come Dancing. His underpants had been embroidered in sparkling lurex columns ‘Vote Russell’.

While the crowd applauded I called out to someone in the kitchen. “Come and see what Russell Brand is wearing” and immediately realised my mistake.

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