I was in an episode of Dr Who. It was an homage to different types of children’s animation so one scene was all fuzzy, like Rhubarb and Custard, and the next was two dimensional like Paddington Bear.
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I lived on a submarine with a friend and we argued about baths or showers and flooded the bathroom.
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I met Brooklyn Beckham who kept his new haircut under a brown paper bag.
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I couldn’t understand some car rental rules.
I lost my job, but all was well because I could live off the batches of £100,000 in fresh new notes that I found in the dole office when I signed on each Friday. I spent my period of unemployment cycling down (but never up) very steep hills.
I went to visit Tony Soprano who was lying in State in a meeting room. Sil was there. There was an answerphone next to the coffin taking messages for Tony. The phone rang while I was there. I also tried to re-heat chips in a trug.
I was holding business meetings in Catford where the blossom was falling like snow. People were painting landscapes on their hands.
After accidentally joining in with a roller-skating crocodile of commuters, and admiring some pretty factories, I was leafing through a book called The fishing communities of New Hampshire (when really I was trying to remember the name ‘Munich’).
I was a corporate Nancy Drew and I discovered the vital clue in the paper trail: a Pizza Express receipt.
A penguin wanted to come to the conference on 28 June.
The rope of the pallet carrying our belongings over the gorge slipped and half its cargo – including Bertie the collie dog, two cats and all the chickens – tumbled into the torrent below. The crane driver was unmoved; I was distraught.
I gave baths to young men with back problems in New Cross Gate.
I entered into a civil partnership with Dame Vera Lynn.
Dreamaticus 