My new best friend the Duchess of Cambridge and I travelled by bus and train to Norwich. My companion blended in well: none of the other passengers spotted royalty in their midst.
When we diverted via Bristol, I offered to introduce Catherine to my other friend JK Rowling. It completely slipped my mind that she probably already had access to any British celebrity that she ever wanted to meet.
About to play their first gig after the coronavirus pandemic lockdowns, Edinburgh covers band Chil had a complete sell-out on their hands. Hundreds queued to be let into the open air venue in the Edinburgh New Town. Many were much younger than hardcore Chil fans.
All seemed to be in place for a great evening, but there was a problem: Chil was a band member down.
For some reason, JH believed that I would be the best option for a replacement musician. I disagreed. TPR would be so much better. Unlike me, he had a beautiful singing voice and could play guitar.
David Tennant bred and sold parrots as a sideline to acting. I knew this because I was his secret mistress.
The tattoo inked into his right arm read ‘SAFE’.
‘What a lovely idea’, I thought.
I learnt later that this arm had been labelled for his lover, and not his wife (me).
We all stood in a neat line on the corridor conveyor belt that carried us through the main building of the new lakeside campus. We were interested to see our new workplace and discover the names of our future office mates.
I advised the new head of school that the last time we moved campus we elected to share rooms with others outside our home research groups. This was to encourage interdisciplinary research. I also noted that it was not a good idea for line managers to share with their reportees.
While I had easily partnered up with BB last time around, now it was more difficult to choose an office mate, not least due to the recent influx of new appointees. One – a man called Vivien – was a jewellery maker. He had set up a stall to display his wares as a means of introduction to our colleagues, even though he wasn’t there in attendance himself.
Really I just wanted to share my office with BR. The only issue here was that he wanted a water feature in the room. When I found him to propose that we partner up, he was busy constructing channels for a stream to flow past his desk and into the lake.
First a brand new suit, then three pairs of brown Loake shoes to be delivered to his city apartment…
I had no option but to force TPR to confess to his affair.
BD slipped through the door that connected his flat to ours. It was lovely to see him, but I’d rather that he’d visit clothed. He told me that he had run out of underwear and asked me if I thought that TPR could help out. I took the backstairs up to TPR’s bedroom (we slept apart at this time) and found him sorting out his wardrobe. TPR could easily spare a pair of Saxx for our naked friend.
Later, MSB and DB persuaded us to go for a winter outdoor swim in the River Tyne. TPR followed them straight across the snow to the water while I struggled to undress. A kind woman undid my bra strap for me, then I removed my trousers – only to discover that I had forgotten to put my swimming costume on under my clothes. I resigned myself to missing out on all the ‘fun’ of splashing about with the others in the freezing river.
I expected to sit with JB (resplendent in a green dress) at table 19 at the staff meeting, but instead found myself next to GR. Even though retired for almost a year, LM joined us. GR had just swept the board in the annual teaching awards. He was happy to share the secret of his success with the pair of us: giving his students ‘the eye’.
After the meeting, I invited my immediate colleagues back to my street for a party in the shed that I had installed on the pavement just outside number 20. PC, DH and FR hesitated over my invitation, eventually refusing. So instead I walked with BR back to his house.
We took a long, boring route along the main road, trudging like a pair of refugees, or recently released prisoners. We passed some people fly-tipping, but were too nervous to challenge their behaviour. We were also sorry to see that the yellow-painted building that used to be a nature centre had been sold by the council and was now a residential property. Then we had to navigate our way round a group of drunks fighting outside a pub.
Eventually we reached BR’s house at 8:30pm. From there I rang my mother and told her that I would soon set off home by bus.
When TPR refused to take me on holiday, I set off on my own independent adventure: to hunt down the Brazilian mafia on the mean streets of Sāo Paulo.
The three neat spots of blood on the skirt of my bridal gown would be enough to convict me of murder. There was no option but to burn the (otherwise) beautiful dress – now.
Dreamaticus 