Rousse’s nightmare nuptials near-miss

Posted on July 13, 2011 by Dreamaticus

It was all so wrong, and I almost did it, but thankfully I pulled out at the last minute and didn’t marry NM. His last marriage floundered when wife number two had started hinting about babies. This was not part of the bargain as far as NM was concerned: his two children from his first marriage were quite enough. I wasn’t bothered about kids myself (although I did love NM’s sweet 11-year old son). On the morning of the wedding itself I eventually recognised marriage to NM as a recipe for disaster. The big clue was how much attention was focused on the choice of New Romantic-style shirt for the groom. My bridal dress was barely mentioned.

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First class to Washington with a ceilidh to organise at Buckingham Palace (Rousse)

Posted on July 11, 2011 by Dreamaticus

I now understood why people had been complaining about airport security. I had managed to help a friend find his seat on a service to Germany even though I wasn’t carrying a boarding pass myself. TPR had also followed us on-board. All sorted, we were just about to head back to the exit when the captain announced that the doors were secured and take-off was imminent. I called over a member of cabin staff in panic. It was imperative that I be released without delay so that I could return to organising the massive ceilidh at the top of the Mall in front of Buckingham Palace. The stewardess explained this would not be possible now that we were travelling non-stop to Washington DC (and not Germany, after all). By some miracle TPR and I already happened to have our passports on us. When I enquired about seating arrangements the stewardess asked me to look at the tiny corner of card in my hand. Perhaps things weren’t so bad after all: I had been allocated seat 1A.

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Girls get a raw deal in Italy (Belle)

Posted on July 11, 2011 by Dreamaticus

Half way throuugh the school trip to Italy, we girls began to realise that while the boys were staying in penthouse suites, we were sleeping in cupboards. When we raised the issue at the evening meeting the (female) teachers mocked us by snogging on stage. The boys roared their approval while I gave a speech informing them of my intention to ‘lodge a formal complaint’. I was the school firebrand.

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Shoes lost and children found in Oxford (Rousse)

Posted on July 10, 2011 by Dreamaticus

We were just taking our seats for breakfast at the guest house in Perth when suddenly the phone rang. In Oxford P, S, L and T were missing us terribly and demanded our company there and then. Miraculously we joined them almost immediately, although TPR did get flashed by a speed camera on the way south.

The main entertainment of the afternoon was to walk up a very dry red sandstone hill in unsuitable clothing, on a hunt for L & T’s children. TPR wore white chinos, a checked shirt and beige cashmere jumper; I was in a silk party dress and so hot that I eventually discarded it to continue the climb in my slip; L was decked out in a 1980s wedding dress, arguing that it was the latest fashion.

Children found, and back in town later that afternoon, I lost my shoes somewhere down a dark corridor of New College.

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Victoria Beckham brightens Rousse’s conference woes

Posted on July 9, 2011 by Dreamaticus

I walked up to the Sheraton Hotel in Edinburgh with BF. I was rather embarrassed to be attending a conference in my purple fleece pyjamas, but BF was almost identically dressed and didn’t care at all. Once everyone was assembled in the lecture hall, all eyes turned to me as the closing keynote speaker. This was the moment that I had dreaded all week: the one when I would be forced to admit that I had absolutely nothing to say having exhausted all my ideas in the opening keynote presentation that I had delivered at the same conference on Wednesday. There was silence for about five minutes as I summoned up the courage to suggest that we could run a Q&A session instead. When it became clear that I would not speak the delegates took to their feet and gave me a rapturous round of applause.

Afterwards IS invited me to Victoria Beckham’s birthday tea. Before she arrived I examined all the cards and presents laid out for her and wondered what was the point of them all. Surely someone so wealthy would not hanker after any more possessions? However, Victoria seemed delighted that IS had gone to so much trouble. Later, under the tea table, she confirmed how happy she was. She also whispered that she liked IS’s new red-headed boyfriend, explaining that his predecessor had been “sacked” for cheating. She accidentally revealed stubbly legs under her purple silk galaxy dress, yet I was more puzzled as to why she did not look pregnant. Wasn’t her baby daughter due to be born very soon?

After tea had been served IS took me for a wee dance away from the crowd in an effort to cheer me up after my conference shame. When the conversation turned to the Archers I had to shut him up quickly. I hadn’t heard a single episode for over a week and didn’t want him to spoil my plans to listen on catch-up later.

Unfortunately neither Victoria Beckham nor IS could retrieve my next conference calamity. We were driving north with speakers and equipment in a barrel trailer towed behind our car. The trailer dislodged on a bend, spun over the road, bounced across a field, and fell over a cliff to shatter on the rocks below.

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Paul the cobra and the early history of punk (Rousse)

Posted on July 8, 2011 by Dreamaticus

When our friends from the Isle of Lewis popped in to see us in Edinburgh they brought two pets with them. Paddy the black and white collie dog bounded round the house in excitement. Meanwhile, attracted by the smell of maple syrup, Paul the cobra slipped down the corner drain in the front yard. When the ginger-bearded window and shutter cleaner outside confirmed that Paul had disappeared I worried that we would never see him again. It eventually turned out that my concerns were unfounded. Paul the cobra soon returned. Following his little adventure underground, he slid into the house and curled up to sleep in the round metal vegetable basket positioned by the porch door. He looked perfectly harmless. In fact, when I examined him more closely I realised that he was not a snake at all, but a bright green cloth draught excluder that had been tidied away to the wrong place.

Later it was revealed that our former ironing man was a highly sought commentator on the early history of punk. If only we knew where he could be found…

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Will Belle’s birds bring Chris Packham?

Posted on July 7, 2011 by Dreamaticus

At the bottom of the garden, in a simple nest attached to the wall, I found a family of the world’s smallest birds. No bigger than my thumb nail, and elaborately enamelled, these tiny metallic birds sould surely attract Chris Packham to my house.

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Belle the revolutionary

Posted on July 6, 2011 by Dreamaticus

As I was standing at the junction of a wide, London street, I wondered why this excited crowd was gathering. Eventually an open-top carriage came by with an aristocratic wedding party seated within. The crowd cheered. After the carriage had passed I addressed the crowd. “Come the revolution they will be the first against the wall”. Although I was simply stating fact, the crowd turned on me.

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Sting serenades Belle (Rousse)

Posted on July 6, 2011 by Dreamaticus

Everything associated with Belle was new, including her fabulous apartment and hunk of a boyfriend. While Sting serenaded her from the courtyard below, I pondered the identity of the sulky teenager in the corner. We ended the night by each tucking into a bag of crisps, despite being fully aware that this would not help our diet.

With another bunch of friends we were discussing death. I announced my intention to be buried beside TF. The others asked why. “Because”, I replied, “he is the most honest person I know”.

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Tom Cruise seeks relationship advice and attempts to convert Rousse at restaurant

Posted on July 4, 2011 by Dreamaticus

My sister J was completely unfazed when I admitted at the restaurant table that I had taken up smoking. She confessed that she had done the same, then leant over and cheekily helped herself to two cigarettes from my pack. Meanwhile our primary school friend NC pretended that he wasn’t listening and stared at his salad a little longer.

Our table was sandwiched between the two factions of the Cruise-Holmes family, with Mr and Mrs Holmes senior and their daughter Katie on one table, and Tom Cruise with a rather over-weight and sulky teen-aged Suri at the other. Suddenly Tom Cruise stood up from his seat, turned to me and started a conversation about his ex-girlfriend Olivia. This was very confusing. Did Tom Cruise go out with Olivia Newton-John at some point? How did I miss this? I could only respond with the apology that although I was a fan of his work, I regretted that I knew little about his love life, nor anything specific about his many girlfriends (or even boyfriends for that matter). To make up for this, I wrapped my arms around him in comfort and was quite surprised to discover a bony frame beneath his smart suit jacket.

Tom then led me away from the dining area to a small room at the back of the restaurant where he requested “a word”. I had a feeling that this would happen: he was going to attempt to convert me to Scientology. When I refused he screeched that I was “a redhead and a whore”, then changed form into a evil-looking little old lady with a shock of faded ginger hair. I ran back into the restaurant and she followed at speed. I had to escape her, so I turned around, grabbed her by the waist, and flung her into a chair. We all watched in awe at this last phase of the transformation as Tom Cruise was turned into an tiny inanimate rag doll.

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