JM came with terrible news. The authorities had sniffed out the rogue academic in our midst, and the University’s reputation was now on the line. Added to this, my former colleague VC was making accusations against me for supposed misdemeanours of the 1990s.
This might explain the discovery of the uniformed police officer who walked out of my flat just as I entered the front door.
Our new neighbours were BP, SF and their two daughters. Amongst the upgrades to their new flat, they completely renovated the kitchen, putting in the most enormous range oven. When my sister J called in, BP served her a plate of roast chicken and vegetables straight from the hob.
‘Who made this gravy?’ J asked. With one glance at her plate, I could understand her question. The thin grey trickle across the cooked chicken breast was hardly appetising.
Later that day, when the family went out for a walk, I broke into the flat. Armed with an Oxo cube and some fresh herbs, I would make some decent gravy, serve it to the family on their return, then teach them my winning technique.
Queen Elizabeth II and I held hands – or, more precisely, we interlocked little fingers according to the limits of royal protocol.
I wanted to introduce Her Majesty to my second cousin EB, but she was far more interested in another of my relations – my third cousin-once-removed PB. First, however, I would need to explain the child’s medical history.
When my necklace snapped and the chain and pendant fell to the floor, I considered it an accident – but then someone else joined me on the floor to scramble around hunting for lost jewellery. Was there a thief in our midst, tugging on the chains that decorated the necks of wealthy women in the hope of stealing their jewels?
This theory was tested when my cousin BB left her handbag stuffed with costume jewellery in full view on the hotel reception desk. I wasn’t sure if this was a deliberate act on her part, but I removed her credit card from her purse to minimise the potential for damage, should the thief make a visit. Sure enough, within minutes, the bag was gone.
William, Prince of Wales, followed me through the house, pen and paper in hand. Ignoring the antique furniture, he was most interested in the pictures – and completely oblivious to the mess in all the rooms.
This was so much fun that I forgot that I hardly knew this man and laid my hand on his arm. When I realised my mistake, the Prince winked at me. There was apparently no need to apologise for my breach of royal etiquette.
When we listed the art and antiques in my mother’s house, we missed the beautiful early twentieth century picture of a red-haired girl walking through a walled garden. It was painted in oils by my great grandmother, and had been lost in a gap between the bedside table and the wall of my bedroom.
I disputed my sister S’s claim that the picture was hers. This was on the basis of (a) the main subject – a child who shared my colouring – and (b) its storage location. I was determined to take the picture home and hang it in my newly decorated spare bedroom. Unfortunately my sister would not drop her claim (and nor would I).
When I later saw my other sister J with the canvas in brown paper, I was furious. She told me that she was wasn’t taking it for herself, but had wrapped it for S. I grabbed the parcel and tore off the paper, only to find underneath a dirty oil painting of an eighteenth century scene. It was only then that I realised that J was on my side.
The wallpaper had only been up for a couple of weeks when the bedroom was suddenly flooded from above. The first surge of water tore down the newly decorated walls. The rest puddled into a heavy pool over the ceiling, bound to burst its banks at any moment.
The workman who came to inspect the damage warned us that it would take 27 months to complete the full repair. All that could be salvaged from this mess was a pair of heavy blue curtains.
I knew that I needed to be at Waverley Station to meet JS and RR off the train from Bristol at 18:30. Nevertheless, I cycled down Broughton Street on my static exercise bike, and followed the new-to-me narrow street that I spotted from the London Street roundabout.
It was extremely hard work cycling up hill on a heavy bike that was never meant to travel at all – so much so that I gave up on my mission, turned around and headed back to the street. En route I passed two young ladies. They were very elaborately dressed, all lace and stockings in the ‘Edwardian hooker’ style. I concluded that there must be a high class brothel at the top of the street.
It was now 18:15 and I needed to get to the station, but not until I had taken a look at another new feature of Broughton Street. Where there was once a dingy restaurant, there was now a new antique shop. Perhaps here I would find a towel rack for our spare bedroom there? Within seconds of entering the shop I had set off its alarm. The owner hurriedly ushered me out before I had a chance to browse his wares at all.
I never made it to the station to meet JS and RR, but instead caught up with them after they found their own way to the huge house where we were all staying.
JS was furious with me for my poor hospitality skills. I was sure that I would be able to placate her in private in one of the upstairs bedrooms, if only I could find a way to them.
We never made it up the ‘alternative’ staircase’. This was because some of the individual spear-like struts of the ‘steps’ fell from their frame as we clambered over them. They almost took out a couple of children playing on the floor below.
Since the sale of our beautiful Georgian flat in Edinburgh, we were staying in a cramped modern, windowless, flat in a rough part of Bristol. This would be a temporary arrangement until we found a new home more to our tastes in Clifton.
What had prompted us to moved house? Why had left our home of 30+ years with its gorgeous garden, our friends, and easy access to the Scottish highlands and islands?
Bristol offered slightly warmer (but wetter) weather, and a shorter distance to family in West Sussex, but that was all. What a huge mistake we had made in moving south.
Elizabeth Archer asked me if I could look after Ben and Daniel Graham for the afternoon, then take them to East Linton to spend the night with their grandmother (ED).
Aged 8 and 6, these two boys were quite a handful. TPR was not pleased that I was giving up a free afternoon in favour of unpaid childcare.
It fascinated me that Ben was now the same age as his father when I first set eyes on him at primary school. Sadly, Ben was nowhere near as handsome as JG.
Dreamaticus 