Two coffins for TPR (Rousse)

By the time that I realised what was going on my world had transformed into the climax of a Stieg Larsson thriller. To ensure that there was no doubt about the death of TPR two coffins had been ordered and filled: one in the south of France, and the other in the north. In reality, of course, the bodies inside were of random strangers and TPR was fit and healthy elsewhere. We just had to give the impression that he was dead. The other corpses were disposed of quickly: one thrown down a ravine, another destroyed in an exploding car.

Afterwards a girl who resembled Lisbeth Salander asked me to microwave some fish for her, with a request for home-made cheese sauce, and the F family confessed that they could no longer cope without a nanny for T and K.

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An elaborate plan to find a husband (Belle)

Almost everyone survived the plane crash – it was a miracle. We all had to stand up, wherever we were, when the lady mayor came past. Everytime I spoke about my ideas for community cohesion (“they hate us because we live in social housing”) the ‘creative’ journalist from The Wire was standing behind me taking notes. It seems I was on the campaign trail.

When we went to investigate the ghostly noise in the kitchen we discovered it was caused by a draft and a roller blind. In the dark kitchen window I could see the pale reflection of my spooked husband standing behind me – was it the journalist again?

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Stephen Fry and other uninvited guests (Rousse)

At JG’s insistence, RA reluctantly drove him, and my other undergraduate friends from Birmingham University AR and PS (the boy with the beautiful eyes), to meet us. The journey from the Isle of Man took them 6 hours, and they only had time to stay with us for one so – admittedly – RA did have a point.

The following day we returned the favour and travelled south to visit RA, who now lived with his wife C and their three children in a beautiful penthouse flat within a massive shopping mall in Reading. RA and C were expecting me and TPR at 7:30pm for dinner. We were late. Added to this, we had accidentally invited some other participants, including my school friend JP (now JC), her husband GC, and Stephen Fry, to the meal. The mall was enormous and packed with shoppers, and no matter how hard we tried, it was impossible to navigate our way to the lift to take us to the flat. Eventually we ended up outside the mall again on a fairground roller coaster masquerading as a train headed to the south coast where, we believed, we would find RA and C. The route offered fabulous views of the blue sea of the channel, white cliffs and sea stacks. I tried to take photographs with my phone, but the the roller coaster motion was too fast for this. By the time we arrived we had picked up even more uninvited guests, including my cousins SA, NA and FA, and their (late) parents. I banned the whole family from the meal on the grounds that dead people would not be welcomed. Stephen Fry, however, was still allowed to come, so long as he brought a stacked of signed business cards to share with everyone there.

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Drag queens and dogs (Belle)

Even though it was Saturday, I had gone into the fashion college and felt very pleased with myself. Looking for the bathroom, I met two very tall gothic drag queens who gave me directions. Tan-coloured thigh-high boots were displayed on the walls of their studio and I thought they looked badly made.

I had to unscrew the toilet. Out of the window, SS, a childhood friend, was busy ignoring her dogs who were lying down on top of other dogs to form a sort of column. I was on my way to the cinema in Clerkenwell. Janet Street Porter was mentioned.

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Rousse’s Angolan trip

My husband’s work assignment took us to Angola. He was a journalist investigating the exploitation of citizens by the state following the end of the war. Young men could earn a fortune tending the verdant hillside – simply to keep it looking pretty for the rich, white population. It had become a tradition for locals and white settlers alike to observe the workers from the safety of the roadside in the valley. In the crowd were several former workers, now sporting false legs. At least one worker was blown up on the hillside every day – for beneath the lush grass lurked mines planted by the Iraqis during the war. Many former workers were proud to show off their prosthetic limbs, comparing and contrasting their features as if they were sports cars. They also enjoyed the “sport” of spotting which of the workers on the hillside would be the next to hit a mine. Later we visited a municipal rubbish dump and discovered that the Angolans throw out many valuable things.

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Belle on a bicycle – and a hospital visit

I bicycled up a dual carriageway in Surrey at a fast speed and made it to my interview with hours to spare. So I hung around in an underpass admiring and trying to get noticed by a gang of ultra cool kids wearing bright colours.

I was three minutes late arriving at the venue and all the catering staff I was managing sat around on the floor and had to be prompted to help me park my bicycle which had folded down to the size of a twelve-inch single because of ‘all the clever hinges’. I wanted to take my test and rushed to the lift.

The hospital ward was pretty basic and it’s a good job I took my duster and a some lavender scented furniture polish. My sister was either the patient, or the matron.

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Belle’s sweet tooth

At lunchtime I approached a well turned out Finn who was standing up eating a salad and said ‘will they be bringing our puddings out soon?’

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Rousse’s wedding day 2 antics

So I’ve been married 23 years, but here I was getting married – to the same person – again. We slept with a bunch of friends in the coach house. The next day, the first indication that a ceremony was in the offing were the portions of smoked salmon scattered across the lawn. I was upset that LW and the M family from France couldn’t make the celebrations, and it was a quite a struggle to eke out a conversation in French when the Ms rang to congratulate us. My groom could be found in bathrooms all over the house preening in the mirror, but I was more interested in talking to the boy with beautiful eyes. I think that this could have been PS from Birmingham University days.

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Cat fur fortune (Rousse)

My sister discovered that her cat’s fur was highly collectable. I was delighted when the postman arrived at the door with a sample for me. It came in a 6″ x 4″ crinkly clear plastic bag decorated with black lettering cut out from sticky-back plastic. It didn’t look worth £12.50 and I wondered if it contained fleas, but others were apparently clamouring for it to the extent that the poor cat was now almost bald. We left the pack unopened on the sideboard in the hall, unsure whether or not to open it due to my cat allergy.

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Belle takes a walk and slaves for a toddler

I returned from a long walk and was told to go on another one over open fields. I suggested I could manage three miles, and IW said to me, ‘Well, that should take us three hours’. I thought ‘That calculation seems wrong’.

Mike Tucker’s diversification into organic chorizo needed to be registered with the BBC.

A brattish child was using my bathroom and demanded an anglepoise lamp. As I was unplugging it, I loosened the fastening on a one day diary and all the pages flew out.

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