Car chaos in central Edinburgh, and mixed Morgans (Rousse)

Posted on February 7, 2011 by Dreamaticus

I handled the mark 2 silver Ford Granada like a tank, and with complete disregard for the other vehicles parked on Edinburgh’s Cockburn Street. When it came to reversing into a space I was so lazy that I didn’t even glance at the mirrors to check that there was room. It was inevitable that I would damage someone else’s car, and on this occasion it was a metallic green Ford Fiesta (also a mark 2). The crushed bodywork reminded me of the green foil of a discarded Quality Street chocolate triangle wrapper. This latest incident brought my tally of write-offs for the day to two. In the morning I’d already wrought havoc on the High Street in my red Peugeot 205.

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I’d seen it done before in public at a conference in Berlin, and it was an easy mistake to make. However grey-haired financial services executives should be able to distinguish JP Morgan from Morgan Stanley. As it was, IS had not started a new job at either of these firms. He’d had a much better offer. As the men discussed his merits at the board room table, IS was actually out of the country – with me and TPR, on holiday in the desert.

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Nigella Lawson versus Gordon Ramsey, and information retrieval with Winnie the Pooh (Rousse)

Posted on February 6, 2011 by Dreamaticus

The terms “August” and “camping” go well together. However, when the word “Scotland” is thrown into the same sentence, a small alarm bell should sound in your brain. Unfortunately TPR and I were so delighted when my sister J and her family asked us to join them on holiday in the far north west that we conveniently forgot that August is Scotland’s rainy season.

So now I found myself deep in misery, sheltering from another downpour at the tiny basin of a communal camp site bathroom. I had volunteered to wash a long dress and two shirts, none of which were mine. When I stepped back outside into the damp gloom of the rainy camp site I geared myself up for a day sitting in the car waiting for the clothes to dry. However, I’d temporarily forgotten that the others had taken the car to go fishing, so I would have to hide from the rain in the tiny, soggy tent. What a waste of annual leave!

When the others eventually returned to the camp site my sister J had already embarked on yet another madcap plan. She wanted to host a party at which she would “do” a Nigella Lawson. When she showed me the lobster and spaghetti recipe, I pointed out that she would, in fact, be “doing” a Gordon Ramsey. This dish was one of his creations. I could tell that I was putting my place on the guest list at risk by questioning her knowledge. However, it didn’t matter because I already knew that I would not make the party. On that day I had a prior engagement in Finland.

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At the end of the conference programme committee meeting PB handed me a small yellow guide to information retrieval. I leafed through to see if any of my papers were referenced. There was no mention of me at all, but PB’s work on social media was covered. Best of all, however, were all the examples, each of which was based around the exploits of Winnie the Pooh.

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Edinburgh butchers came up with a scheme to get rid of their surplus stock at the end of the week. Passengers returning home at Edinburgh airport were offered slabs of steak to take home for their supper.

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The “dead” return to life at the British Library, and deer management concerns (Rousse)

Posted on February 5, 2011 by Dreamaticus

I walked into the foyer of the British Library and identified the conference registration desk. Beside it some delegates were crowded around an electronic display board on the wall. Some others were fighting over a grubby postcard at a table further over to the right. NI greeted me and explained that the display board and postcard provided an update of corrections to the list of members who had been mistakenly declared dead at the recent AGM. The list of names was known as an “Avanti list”. I was very relieved to see that amongst those “returned” from the dead was SW. However, I was shocked that the list gave false hope to friends and family of at least one person who had definitely died earlier in the year. I also spotted that my name appeared in pencil at the bottom of the postcard. I clearly needed to do something more to raise my professional visibility.

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The variety of my external work commitments became more extensive and ludricrous by the day. Now I found myself on the outskirts of Bristol with caretaker-type responsibilities for a small modern dwelling on a new housing estate. One of my first jobs was to sort out the fencing. This was to put a stop to the regular night-time visits of deer. Evidence of their forays into the garden were everywhere in the form of droppings across the lawn. One poor creature had even shed a hoof on “my” land. The fat father of the family in residence said he’d be pleased to mend the fence. I fear that he may have noticed my surprise at his offer. He looked more the type to watch DIY programmes from the sofa than actively participate in such activities. Meanwhile his wife and daughter were busy hanging out the washing. Every item, including the clothing that they were wearing, was white.

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Great-grandmother returns from the dead in Lancashire, and a once secret lottery win (Rousse)

Posted on February 4, 2011 by Dreamaticus

I found my great-grandmother running a busy household in Lancashire. With her beautiful long silver hair, smooth skin and a perfect set of teeth, she looked great for someone who had died in 1967. I never expected to meet her at all, but here she was caring for a complete generation of my third cousins who ranged in age from a podgy baby to a teenager triumphant at having just passed her driving test. My great-grandmother told me all about her early life as the eldest of fifteen siblings and of Willow, her favourite brother. I admired the antique pictures on the wall of her modern house and wondered if I might eventually inherit any of them.

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KT would kill me. I’d accidentally leaked out the news of her £6 million lottery win.

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Dog stitched up by fox (Belle)

Posted on February 4, 2011 by Dreamaticus

Fox by Brendan MacNeill

Fox by Brendan MacNeill

I was working in a department store, wearing a crisp white shirt and a pencil skirt.

Meanwhile, a fox broke into the house and created a terrible mess – and smell. He then framed the dog who got blamed for the mis-deeds.

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Tattoos, travellers and television (Rousse)

Posted on February 3, 2011 by Dreamaticus

I was aghast: TPR’s latest protest at the time that I spend away from him in London took the form of a small tattoo just above his right breast. To me it looked like it spelt out the word “Greece”, but TPR insisted that the script represented the symbols of undying love. He then revealed two older tattoos, neither of which I had ever seen before. He told me that the one on his left hip was relatively recent, but the poetry across the top of his back had supposedly been there since 1979. How come I’d never noticed THAT before?

Still reeling from these revelations I stepped out of my sister S’s bedroom into the corridor of my childhood home where I tripped over two teenage girls, asleep on the floor. One was Malaysian and the other Chinese. They were squatting in the house too, having taken over one of the big bedrooms that looked down the valley to the river. Both seemed very much at home amongst the jumble of antiques and peeling wallpaper.

In the large sitting room in the main part of the house the other residents were transfixed, eyes apparently glued to the television coverage of events in Egypt. However, on closer scrutiny, it seemed that the girl with the remote control was of more interest. I recognised her as a PhD student. Here she was setting up the television to record her favourite programmes throughout the course of the day so that she could watch them in the evening after work. Task complete, she rewarded her audience with a beaming smile and everybody cheered.

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Twentieth century icons AJP Taylor and Paul McCartney keep Rousse amused

Posted on February 2, 2011 by Dreamaticus

Boy did we have something to celebrate! PT and I took possession of the enormous office on the other side of the D corridor, with its fabulous views over the verdant countryside. I was yet to furnish my end of the room. I could tell it would take some time given that my new space was twice the size of the whole of D30. PT, in contrast, had set to work quickly. He’d installed a blue faux marble fireplace and covered the floor with a swirly green carpet. What filled him with pride, however, was the art work rescued from a skip in East Lothian that now graced the east wall at his end of the room. The pictures included an eighteenth century oil painting of a ship in full sail, and a number of water colours of ancient Greece. The highlight of the collection portrayed famous twentieth century academics in robes, loitering at the Acropolis. PT pointed out dead historian AJP Taylor lolling against a column.

Meanwhile I was obliged to sort out some fall-out from the last exam board. I overheard a member of registry staff field a complaint from an Indian student that the Knowledge Management exam was unfair because one of the questions required knowledge of Eastern approaches to KM. Evidence was required to demonstrate that this had been covered in the module. I whipped out the module reader and pointed to the relevant papers.

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My school friend GT drove, while CW (one of my QMUC graduates) and I sat in the back. We laughed like drains as CW mocked Sir Paul McCartney’s mispronunciation of common words. He wouldn’t have minded: CW was one of his best friends.

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Rousse battles unconvention at a funeral, naked on the train, and with her man

Posted on January 31, 2011 by Dreamaticus

It was a tragedy. Cousin R caught a cold on the golf course and promptly dropped dead. Now everyone was gathered for his less than conventional funeral. This included not only a scruffy, elderly bride in a dirty mauve dress (we picked her up at the London Street roundabout), but also multiple, differently-sized coffins lined up at the front of the chapel. Perched on a pew between my weeping father and middle sister I cast a glance at the order of service. All the mourners and their achievements were listed. There had been a mistake with our entries. Under “cousins” two professions were noted, but I was neither a librarian nor the director of a global pharmaceutical research and information service. Then the all-white rap band took the stage and everyone loved the music, especially the grand finale. The players usefully made a commercial for their services before they left.

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I was in big trouble with my mother. How could I explain that the reason why I travel naked by train is that it’s warmer in the carriage if you sit in a hot bath under one of the large tables?

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My date was very handsome, if a little pale. This was our second outing so it was time for me to broach the subject of his “situation”. I wish I hadn’t: it was all bad news. He was a homeless drug addict already with a girlfriend who subbed him twenty quid a day to feed his habit.

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All men wear bras (Belle)

Posted on January 31, 2011 by Dreamaticus

I made another one of my public proclamations to an unspecified audience. “The one thing that all the men in this country have in common is that they want to own – and WEAR – a bra.”

In order to prove this, four of us chose a music video at random and, on careful observation, we could see bra straps peeking out from the lead singer’s outfit.

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Legacy of Lord of the Rings: will Gollum make adulthood unscathed? (Rousse)

Posted on January 30, 2011 by Dreamaticus

CS and I wandered the campus at night, arm in arm, devising plots to make a fortune from the delivery of social media master classes. We were not alone: JK was also hard at work in his office, and we also caught a glimpse of MS and IH dashing along a corridor.

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Our new investment was a run-down 1960s semi in a rough part of town. Curious to find out more about the neighbours, I was delighted when the family next door came over to meet us. The mother first introduced her own mother, and then the children. Very pretty and white blond, there were four of them, including a set of twins, ranging in age from seven to three. I admired this single mother and her beautiful family, but couldn’t account for the mishap of the youngest son’s name. She must have at least seen the film of Lord of the Rings even if she had not read the book. How would this child survive into adulthood with the unfortunate label of “Gollum”?

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