At first I was thrilled to be resident at Buckingham Palace. However, I hadn’t understood that once welcomed in, there was little prospect of getting out. I begged the security staff to show me the exit, explaining how much I missed TPR, but it seemed that they would not budge. I was doomed to live out my days with the royal family.
I must have escaped somehow because next we were out on our bikes with KT and JH, plus a few friends from our running club. We had the whole day to play with and eventually agreed that a ride along the causeway to Holy Island and Lindisfarne Castle would be fun. It was only when we were heading back to load the bikes onto the cars that four of us remembered simultaneously that we were meant to be travelling to Harris from Uig (Skye) that day. By now, however, we had missed the ferry and had no prospect of ever reaching our holiday destination.
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Another morning I found Belle dozing in a tiny single bed on the left hand size of an immense dormitory. As I squeezed in next to her she greeted me with the full-blown account of her latest dream set in Dorset. She was desperate to give me all the details before she forgot them herself.
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Back at work we were late for the meeting (but still there before my boss arrived). This was because I stopped on the way to the hall to show DT my latest girl geek-themed video. A further delay was caused when I stopped to scold a man smoking a cigarette indoors on the stairs. In the meeting room I found two more smokers. This was outrageous! CO told me to calm down: the smokers were probably part of some modern art installation.
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I opened the discarded Daily Mail. The feature headline read “David Cameron: our first seven-pack Prime Minister”. The whole article was directed at Cameron’s seven year-old daughter “Caroline” (in reality Nancy) urging her to persuade her father to pose as a magazine centre-fold. It argued that since he would not be remembered for his political achievements, he might as well be remembered for his impressive torso.
Dreamaticus 