How to retain staff (Rousse)

I visited IS in his plush new London office. Everything – including the walls – was branded with either his name or initials. I wondered why the company had gone to such extremes. IS explained: (1) he was the boss here; (2) his own boss wanted to make it impossible for him ever to resign.

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Belle the gangsters’ moll

It was the 1920s and I had infiltrated a notorious gang operating from barges on the canals of south east London. They had early mobile technology, years ahead of its time, which involved carrying around television monitors. By the end of my undercover operation, I was carrying a gun in my garter belt and I was no longer clear which side I was on. I liked these boys very much indeed!

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The Obamas admire Belle’s dog

It was a long, long walk down a canopied pathway to get to the event dinner in the giant marquee. I was glad that I could follow the crowds or I would have lost my way. As I arrived to a glass of champagne, our great leader gave me a hand-written fortune. It read “Remember your vows”. I realised that he had mistaken my colleague Simon for my husband.

As I wandered into the dining room I was horrified to see my dog waiting at the table, holding a knife and fork. I would have to take him home and I was bound to get lost AND miss the starter. As I tucked him under my arm for the long walk, I saw Michelle Obama and her children admiring him. Along the canal tow path, a group of workmen on both sides of the bank were using their oars to create a giant flower sculture. I had to cross a wobbly iron bridge and an old boyfriend barred the exit. I begged him to let me pass. “I have vertigo” I screamed, but he just laughed. Eventually I calmed down, grabbed his bottom and said “Your arse has got really fat”. He backed down immediately.

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The running club birthday party and plans to ruin Rousse’s reputation

It was a huge effort to sandpaper the silver coating off the polystyrene cake rounds but I wanted everything to be perfect for the running club birthday party. We started promptly at 07:30 with all the familiar faces around the kitchen table. These included RK, AC, LF, RA, FMcL, as well as QM graduate and champion night-runner AL. It was all going so well that I was really sorry to leave everyone for the gym just an hour later.

On my way out I passed university friend and international sportswoman SB in the hall. She was deep in conversation with someone that I did not trust. I picked up that they were on a mission to gather all evidence possible that would prove once and for all that I was a terrible teacher.

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Career highs and fashion lows (Rousse)

The careers of all my friends were taking off big-time. DT was now a renowned social media expert, NP an internationally acknowledged poet, and JW a retail queen who administered her empire from her babywear shop in Stockbridge.

I was really keen to catch up with NP because I was about to perform in a poetry reading competition. I needed to discuss with her my choice of reading. I hoped that she would give me permission to use one of her poems.

In the meantime I wondered when it would be polite to take off the two beanie hats that I had been modelling for JW. Designed for six month old babies, they looked rather ridiculous on me.

(However, I didn’t look quite as silly as TPR. I caught him lifting weights in the gym wearing his black brogues because he forgot to pack his trainers. Formal shoes and skin-tight lycra – not a good look).

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The magic flower (Rousse)

Whenever you called out our niece F’s name, the magic flower echoed your words back again. At the same time, one by one, items in the garden went invisible. The job of folding up the blankets became more and more difficult as each one “disappeared”.

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Rousse’s travel trauma

The up escalator confused everyone when it switched direction from up to down. Then someone knelt down, stroked the metal teeth from front to back, and travel upwards resumed once more.

Later on KT and I were trying to get my Peugeot 205 through the narrowest of gaps past a council truck. When we finally realised that this was impossible our only option was to abandon the car in the forest. The next problem, however, was how to apply the handbrake. No matter how hard we tried, the car just kept on rolling down the hill.

Yet another vehicle was in trouble. The bus from campus veered out of control in the snow. As it crashed into a small house in Livingston I said to the person sitting next to me “If I die, they won’t be able to identify my body. Nobody would ever expect to find me in West Lothian”.

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JK Rowling’s cot death charity competition and the Scottish slave trade (Rousse)

I chased my north Northumbrian cousins through the corridors Scooby Doo style as a strategy to keep them entertained while were waiting for the main event. Then the word came that the real fun was about to start. We gathered above a stairwell amongst a heaving crowd held back by cinema staff dressed in red uniforms. A banner dropped from the rail to the floor below. It announced that the competition was in aid of a cot death charity supported by JK Rowling in the memory of David, the baby who died in book 5 (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix). I had no memory of this character at all. To win the (unspecified) prize you had to grab hold of the tail of the white balloon about to be released into the crowd and take one of the question paper scrolls. Inside the scroll would be a couple of challenges. The first to complete the challenges could claim the prize. Unfortunately the balloon was punctured within minutes. I managed to grab a scroll as the deflated balloon was trampled underfoot. There wasn’t a single challenge noted on it. Apparently I was the winner, but it felt like cheating.

Eighteenth Century World was found in another corner of the theme park. This promised to be lots of fun, especially since you could dress up in long dresses and wigs and sit down to a massive banquet with your friends and family. Then I spotted a small dejected-looking crowd being led over a rough piece of land a little further away. “Who are they, and what are they doing?” I asked. “Slaves” came the answer, “required so that everyone understands the full context for the wealth of the upper classes in eighteenth century Europe”. Then two people grabbed me, and before I knew it I was dressed in rags, blind-fold, and strapped to a hard chair under a heavy, hairy rope. As a slave I was meant to be grateful for a meal of plain rice and hope that I would not be whipped. When I questioned the authenticity of all this, I was told that Duddingston village was formerly the centre of the Scottish slave trade, the loch fed by slave ships from Leith. Someone had to pay for it now, and that someone was me.

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

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What has Rousse got up her sleeves?

If truth be told my Norwegian jumper was too big for me. What I should have really done is pass it on to someone larger and buy myself a new one. Instead I decided to adapt it. I cut off the cuffs. Inevitably the wool started to unravel. Without drastic action all the tweets that I stored in my sleeves were about to escape into the atmosphere.

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A fortune in apps, an Andy Warhol masterpiece – and Mark Kermode (Belle)

The launch of my third motoring-related app was going to bring in £100,000. It enabled drivers to top up their parking meters remotely. The app’s success meant millions of pounds in parking fines were being lost by local authorities and I was enemy number one. Perhaps that was why they had relocated the 47 bus stop to the top of this mountain. I was never going to catch the bus.

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I was in the drive in car wash when the business owner turned off the lights and locked me for the night. I had to bed down in the back seat while my ex best friend regaled me with stories about how she had talked all the way through the latest film. How selfish she was. Mark Kermode would be livid.

When the owner returned the next morning she laughed saying “you did that deliberately so you could spend the night with Andy Warhol’s The Finger“. What a ludicrous suggestion. The Finger was hanging in her office, pride of place above her desk.

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