The first of these was nothing to do with me; as for the others, well, innocence is often over-rated…
One of my college mates went away for the weekend, leaving his room keys with a friend. His parents brought him back to campus on Sunday night. When he opened the door to his room, his mother was knocked flying by the first of two sheep, which had spent the weekend safely grazing on the turf (delivered by the local garden centre) which covered the floor from wall to wall. I understand that the smell lingered for some time (and yes, the sheep were fine, once they had been returned to the agricultural unit).
Variations of this theme were replayed over the next two years. When Sim went away to a football match on Saturday, we carried back an old abandoned bath from the nearby village and substituted it for his bed, arranging his duvet and pillows neatly inside. As the rooms were so small, he had to sleep in the bath that night. The final version appeared on the last morning of term, when a complete room, with bed, wardrobe, bookcase and even sink, was dismantled and recreated in the courtyard. This was a work of art, complete with posters suspended from fine wire, and assorted student crud littering the floor.
Finally, a tale of the biter bit. Scene: my first job, in a hospital as a finance trainee. I pick up a call from an irate woman:
IW: I haven’t had the results of my test yet, and it’s been three weeks.
CE: I’m sorry, you must have been tranferred to the wrong section. This is the internal audit team. May I put you through to the right section.
IW: You’re just trying to keep it from me. I know that you think I’ve been sleeping around. I come in here for a smear test, and now no one wants to tell me what’s wrong. I’ve not slept all weekend, and now you won’t give me an answer.
CE: I think you have been put through to the wrong extension. You must be looking for Cytology. Bear with me one moment, and I’ll transfer you.
IW: (Getting progressively more irritated). I’ve been fobbed off enough here. You ARE the right section. It’s because of my internals I came here, and now you don’t want to talk to me…
After what seemed like an age, but can only have been 3 or 4 minutes, the irate woman’s voice drops an octave, and I realise that not only is everyone in the room laughing at me, but that the voice on the phone is my mate Rod. Rod, I still owe you…