Yet again, TPR had fallen in love – this time with a young fresher.
He could be more subtle in his dalliances. Why would anyone issue a dinner invitation to a prospective lover in the presence of his wife?
The object of his affection was rather confused by TPR’s approach to courtship.
JS led the public engagement workshop, and EH recommended a book that identified a suitable theoretical framework for the approach to be adopted.
When it was my turn present, I elected to argue the case for information literacy. I told my imaginary audience that information literacy is crucial to (a) individuals for their effective use of technology and (b) society to underpin democracy.
‘Did you say to Humpty Dumpty that it was OK to get off that wall?’, I asked TPR, accusingly.
I was the hero of the exhibition hall when I caught a toddler-on-the-loose by the arm and promptly returned her to her grateful parents.
We’d heard rumours of the wild animals that preyed on visitors as they left the venue. The first we encountered were the owls that swooped down if to attack, retreating at the very last moment. The golden monkey didn’t cause us any trouble, other than linger nearby as we headed towards the exit. The most frightening creature was a huge maned lion. It leapt down from a high bank to land right at our feet – thankfully in the form of a small purple cat. We managed to leave before two men armed with shotguns had a chance to aim their weapons at us.
We walked back along the country lane to the spot where we had parked the black Porsche. Along the way my companion confessed the extent of her love for TPR in the 1990s. I listened with compassion, pleased that all three of us now enjoyed a friendly relationship.
The happy atmosphere was shattered when we discovered that the car had been stolen. I couldn’t remember whether I had left the rucksack that held my laptop on the back ledge. If so, I was in deep trouble: none of the presentation files on the desktop were backed up.
I thought that I was doing quite well interviewing the two older graduates who had turned up for the reunion. The first was very obviously impressed that I was able to guess his degree and recognised him as a famous musician: I didn’t let on that I had crib notes.
However, my former colleague JK was not impressed with my performance. She shouted from across the hall ‘This would do for an honours project, but not for an event like this!’
If she really believed that she would be better at drawing the two men into conversation, I would be happy for her to take my role. I stepped off the stage and handed over the microphone.
While TPR fixed my cousin A’s computer, I was watching my father in conversation at the other end of the room.
He was telling someone about his contacts inside, and their assumptions about his work as a vet. He was looking forward to seeing them again after his couple of days of Christmas release.
Finally I had an explanation for my father’s recent absence. He’d been in prison! But what had been his crime?
Pressed up against KJ, I could feel his erratic heart beat through my clothing. I whispered ‘Are you OK?’, and he nodded his head.
At the other end of the dining table, another friend raised his eyebrows in question. I interpreted this as a silent comment on my apparent intimacy with KJ. I mouthed back that I was checking up on an ill friend, and not to worry.
DTJ, seated between us, observed this exchange. She was of the opinion that KJ was faking his illness. She pointed across the table at another guest and shouted ‘Look at him! He’s the one who is really ill!’.
Before she was a housewife, HVJ worked in publishing.
She kept a tiny souvenir of her short career in her beautiful house: a proud display of blue-backed Mills and Boon titles, tastefully encased in a table-top cabinet.
My husband scampered up the narrow wooden foot-ladder, dropped down into the next room, then rushed off to seek the rest of his family at the massive party. I followed him up the rungs, but hesitated at the top. This route to the celebration wasn’t as straightforward as I thought.
I saw TPR’s sister JLR in the room beneath me.
‘Please could you call TPR back to help me?’ I shouted down to her.
I waited for a while, but when nobody came to my aid, I managed to make my way down to the huge hotel room. I walked along a corridor and peered into the conference halls. In each one there appeared to be a different party underway.
When I eventually cornered TPR, he looked pale and sheepish.
‘You’ve not fallen in love again?’ I asked him. I was really beginning to tire of his pathetic infatuations.
Ancient deer antlers transform into the most beautiful fossils. They keep the same shape and texture, but as sections of heavy glassy amber.
Dreamaticus 