I looked out of the bedroom window and couldn’t believe my eyes: there was a woodpecker on our bird feeder!
I looked out a second time and saw my old colleague BP picking up logs from the lawn. ‘Please just add them to the wood pile by the pond’, I requested.
I met CW outside the beauty salon on Broughton Street. She told me all about the botox treatment around her lips as we walked up the street.
Later we met the other members of our book group to travel to a party out of town. On arrival at the venue, we discovered that we had the ‘wrong date’. The hostess’ old retainer told us that his mistress had been away for some time, but we could make a meal for ourselves if we were hungry.
We managed to scrape together a few scraps in the shabby kitchen with its peeling 1970s wallpaper. None of us thought to question the whereabouts of the lady of the house.
The school secretary informed me that my first class as a newly qualified teacher would be mathematics with the fourth years – even though I was completely unqualified to teach this subject at secondary level. When I learnt that my group was the remedial set, I agreed to give it a go.
Then the secretary added that the focus of the class this week should be ‘safe smoking’. I immediately withdrew my agreement, stating that I had a strong moral objection to teaching such a subject. I suggested that the school invite instead my friend LF to lead a session on smoking cessation. The secretary did not have the authority to act on this proposal, so she left it for the time being and then said that she would give me a tour of the premises.
First we passed a small classroom where four hulking teenage boys dressed in ‘leisure wear’ sat at a row of desks. When the secretary told me that each of them was paired with a teacher, I assumed that these were the special needs pupils. I was completely wrong. They were the stars of the school, destined for top universities, with specific members of staff serving as their academic mentors.
Next, at assembly, I heard the school song for the first time. All the staff and pupils joined in at the tops of their voices, some with their hands over their hearts as an act of loyalty.
I later learnt that the school song was composed by the person responsible for the soundtrack music for Trainspotting.
‘Hey Shorty!’ I heard someone shout behind me. A course figure lumbered into view. I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman, but s/he was definitely calling me.
‘I need a lift to work’ said she, for indeed this was a woman. ‘You’re heading for the car park, so I expect that you can give me one’.
With no public transport from the nearby housing estate into town, I appreciated that anyone without a car would struggle with a commute. I agreed to the stranger’s request, happy to take biscuits as the fare.
It all seemed a fair exchange until my passenger gave me dodgy directions – and the pair of us ended up lost together in a remote Scottish highland glen.
T arrived at our door in a terrible state. His marriage was on the rocks. and he had no idea how to win back L.
I accompanied T back to his house by foot. We passed some of the royal family en route, including the late Queen Elizabeth II and the (even later) Queen Mother. They were walking to a wedding, dressed in all their finery.
L was at the marital home with the two grown-up children. She barely looked at her husband as we entered the room. This served as confirmation that something was seriously wrong between our two friends.
I took my mind of the problem by joining in a kitchen conga with the children.
A set of Highland triplet spirits danced across the heather as they sought to reunite me with my mother and sister S after I came off the narrow single track road in our hire car. As soon as we found one another again, I once more took to the wheel and drove us to the nearest village.
Here we joined TPR to take a look round the small shop that sold hopeless handmade gifts. I took a fancy to some glass wall hangings, but otherwise despaired at the quality of goods for sale.
Then we decided to visit the free element of a major tapestry exhibition. However, when we reached the venue we found that the entire collection was beyond the ticket barrier at a cost of £11 per person.
‘If they are charging that much’ muttered TPR and pointing to a corner of the room, ‘They could at least move their public lavatories into cubicles’.
I visited J and GC at their new house in the US. They had relocated there for G’s job. His role now extended beyond sound production and included procurement. These days star-struck hopefuls would approach him seeking fame and fortune in a broadcast slot that he might bestow upon them. I witnessed this during my stay when a young woman demonstrated her skills at wax flower creation at our dinner table .
Whereas GC was always in demand and extremely busy at work, JC was mainly idle. She whiled her time away eating, shopping, and sunbathing. She also kept an eye on the second property that she and GC jointly owned in the same street as their main residence. They had purchased this as a tax dodge and were planning to sell it soon.
I was keen to make the most of my visit and counted myself lucky not to suffer jet jag after my long flight. Unfortunately my hosts neglected me as a guest, expecting me just to follow them round restaurants from one meal to the next. As a result, I lived for phone calls from TPR, and listening to podcasts.
Others occasionally phoned me too. When someone called Trine rang, it took me a while to remember that I taught a Norwegian student with this name in the early 1990s. Could this be the same woman? JC informed me that I was mistaken. This Trine was the woman that I had recently told off for smoking on the decking of a restaurant in the Scottish highlands.
It was so much worse than I feared. Not only was the house incredibly untidy, the whole top floor now served as a makeshift brothel.
I hurried upstairs to collect my e-reader, unaware of the new purpose of my bedroom. On seeing the crush of naked bodies dotted in pairs and threes across the room, I rushed in and out as fast as possible to grab my belongings from the top of my chest of drawers. Then – in a rather shocked state – I headed straight back downstairs again to have words with my sister.
She really did need to start cleaning up the place.
An ex-boyfriend presented me with a small pyramid of white powder on a silver platter, like an old-fashioned butler.
As soon as I approached him, with my finger outstretched, I developed chickenpox.
My mother and I returned home late – it was 1:30 in the morning. The street was packed with badly parked cars. I was even more confused when I let myself into the house to find it full of unknown party-goers holding a wake. I greeted everyone in the front room and continued to walk through the house. Each room had its own sound system, and the music was fantastic. I recognised an Aswad tune I hadn’t heard in years.
In one room everyone was wearing West Ham United shirts and I burst in waving my arms in the air shouting “You Hammers bastards” and joined in with the dancing.
I knew my mother was hating every minute of it, which made enjoy it even more.
Dreamaticus 