JS led us along the Yorkshire coast near Bridlington to a beautiful headland.
Beneath the proud cliffs on one side were yellow beaches of the finest sand. On the other was a channel of clear blue water through which the debris of generations of holiday makers – from lost beach balls to a brand new SLR camera – headed out to sea.
For months we had been gathering online to assess the health of academic research in the UK. At last we were meeting face-to-face to undertake the next tranche of work – dressed in horrible pastel-coloured pyjamas. The women looked particularly bad. Who had advised them that baby pink brushed cotton looked good on the middle-aged and overweight?
I joined the group rather late. This was because I thought that I had left my written assessment notes in Tesco. They were, in fact, in my red Peugeot 205.
My lateness meant that I didn’t have the chance to ensure that everyone used the updated version of the assessment form. I was rather annoyed when I realised that the instruction to use this new document had been completely ignored.
L and TF were avoiding me because we had not acknowledged that the young woman killed in the terrorist attack was their daughter K’s best friend.
Unwittingly, I was the star of a new reality television programme. A huge crowd of brash, rowdy women picked on me so mercilessly that the pitying viewers nominated me as a candidate in the general election. Not only did I win a seat in Westminster, but as soon as I left the show I was expected to move into 10 Downing Street as the new Prime Minister.
Of course, stuck in the house, I had no idea of any of this. My only thought was how to escape my tormentors. Would the small group of feminists welcome me?
I envied Paddington Bear when I saw him cross the lawn on his way home one evening. If only I were a couple of inches shorter. Then I would have easily fitted into the Paddington costume and found a much more comfortable career in television.
It snowed all the way through ‘spring’ in the Republic of Ireland. Even in mid-summer big patches of the white stuff were piled at the side of the road and scattered in patches in the fields.
TPR and I were the guests of JG and BG. We came to the Emerald Isle as tourists, but before long we knew that we were set up as terrorist kidnap victims. BG confiscated our passports and my Kindle (crammed with contact details of key members of the British establishment), and the tall man to whom I had taken a fancy confessed that he was an IRA ringleader.
While I spent the summer months researching the life and work of Robert Frost, TPR was experimenting with green and purple hair dyes.
With notice of about 60 seconds, we arranged ourselves in row to greet the Queen. I was the first in line.
She offered her white-gloved hand. I shook it gently while admiring the her elegant off-white sequinned dress.
When I asked about her summer holiday, she simply smiled and moved on to the next woman in our rather shabby line-up.
I met old university classmates KH and SB for a cup of tea in the Scotsman Hotel before they left Edinburgh.
SB confessed that – like me – she had not been attending the final year classes of our French degree. I wasn’t as worried as her about the exams, however, because I believed that if DM could wing them on no study whatsoever, then so could I.
It was almost by accident that we discovered that one of the language papers was scheduled for the same day. Although late, SB and I were let into the examination hall and showed to our desks.
I was horrified when I saw that the exam format made no sense to me. The questions looked like puzzles where missing letters and words needed to be added to French phrases and then translated into English. Had I attended classes, I would have learnt the technique to complete the paper.
I was surely going to fail my finals. My only hope of graduating was to plead extenuating circumstances to Dr B and beg for a place at the resit diet in August.
I was looking forward to talking to NP and SF over the meal, but as we sat down to dinner one of the guests declared that he was an orthopaedic surgeon and very interested in assessing my leg pain. This seemed too good an opportunity to miss, so I followed him out of the dining room into a bedroom.
I modestly turned away from the surgeon to take off my trousers. By the time that I turned around again, the surgeon had completely undressed! Propped up one arm, he lay on the bed, his pale, skinny, body fully displayed. This was not the kind of medical examination that I had envisaged, so I stormed out of the room.
When we returned to join the others it was obvious that they now ‘knew’ that the surgeon and I had embarked on a love affair. Even my long-dead former colleague BT believed in this ludicrous myth.
I walked along the river bank with my father. We saw a few people fishing, apparently without success. My father boasted ‘Watch me, I can pull one out with single cast’.
He stepped down to the water, expertly sent his line flying across the water, and instantly hooked a salmon.
All around were very impressed – I less so due to my familiarity with his amazing skills with rod and line.
Dreamaticus 