The black Labrador barked frantically above the well opening. Beneath him his blind owner was drowning. We managed to pull the man out of the water.
He was alive, but had shrunk to the size of a doll.
The black Labrador barked frantically above the well opening. Beneath him his blind owner was drowning. We managed to pull the man out of the water.
He was alive, but had shrunk to the size of a doll.
David Mitchell and a bunch of friends walked into the games room just at the point that we were to start play.
I knew that it would be much more fun for our two parties to join forces at the larger games table, so I was delighted when David himself made this suggestion. He even offered to teach us the advanced ‘piggy’ version of the game.
Setting off on a hill walk in yellow Crocs was a bad idea, but not as stupid as buying a modern three storey house on a remote Scottish island with an unpronounceable name that sounded like a sneeze.
We’d only seen the house once, had never visited the tiny main town, and had no idea of the frequency of the ferry service. The furthest that we had ventured was a café drowning in chintz, and crammed with patterned china and heavy lead crystal.
Worst of all, I felt such a hypocrite. How could I justify our purchase to AC having only recently explained to her that I was morally opposed to second homes?
My life was now the plot of a 1970s thriller. As yet unknown enemies had sunk my small boat in the harbour and I was back on land, attempting to blend in with the customers of an organised ghost walk in Borough Market. The leader of the walk turned around and waved an umbrella at a derelict-looking front door, saying “Now, there’s a story to be told here”. Realising our guide was Steve Pemberton, I said to myself “Uh-oh, this is NOT going to end well”.
Sick of listening to BP bleating on about my financial precarity, I invited him to leave the table and follow me outside.
‘There is no need for you to concern yourself about my fiscal position. It is, in fact, very healthy. I have £6 million in my bank account’ I explained.
In response, BP leant forward and kissed me with an unexpected passion.
When we returned inside, one of the others whispered to me quietly (and knowingly) ‘Rousse, you need to straighten your dress’.
After delivering my lecture on the management of book groups, I met my old school mates for another of our ad hoc reunions.
The location of the venue was meant to be a surprise. When I opened my eyes I saw that I was standing next to a Dunlop factory on the edge of a new housing estate, with a small town visible in the distance.
The others asked me to guess where I was. They congratulated me on my suggestion of the Midlands, then held up postage stamps that commemorated the 150th anniversary of the Stockton to Darlington railway in 1975. This was rather confusing: Stockton and Darlington are not in the Midlands. Could they think (incorrectly) that York – with its railway museum – was?
My school mates deemed York a very poor guess. They announced the right answer (inexplicably) as Durham.
While I had been away on holiday, the gym had undergone a massive transformation. Pilates classes were now taking place in a huge gym hall, with three instructors simultaneously leading sessions. The two instructors on the lower level favoured ‘traditional’ pilates. I was more interested in the activities on the mezzanine, where the focus was on dance moves.
I had travelled to the gym by car with PM, intending to join the same class as her. However, when my colleague BP rushed up to me to invite me to partner him in the dance pilates class, I abandoned my friend. We struggled at first with headphones and ear pieces, but not long afterwards BP and I were soon dancing our hearts out. What a blast!
The next day I learnt that BP had fallen down a well at his sister’s house in Australia. My dance partner had survived his fall, but broken many bones.
My skills as a bus driver were called into question when I offered an apologetic explanation for poor stop management.
‘I saw that there was a stationary bus in front of me, and another behind, which I guessed was also hoping to pull in. I used intuition to determine my manoeuvres.’
‘Intuition is irrelevant to insurance claims’, said the other driver.