Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 954 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“Remember your liver, darling,” I smiled at him and he gave me a very embarrassed look.

“More coffee then?”

“You know where all the stuff is.” I smiled at him, “Perhaps you could make some for Henry and Monica as well.” I left before he could reply.

It was about an hour later that Julie and Maureen came back from my workshop, dashing in through the back door as the rain lashed down again.

“Everything, okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, fine, Maureen is gonna phone the shop tomorrow, see if we can fit her in for restyling.”

“Oh, okay–just remember she’s not made of money.”

“That’s okay, I’ll sort it out with the girls,” winked Julie.

I shook my head and refilled the kettle to make tea. No one was hungry, so I made tea and put out the cakes Trish had helped me make yesterday. They all had one of those, except me–they were all gone before I had a chance–oh well, less food to work off.

The youngsters then dominated things–apparently Trish and Livvie had written a play–remember they’re only six. The others had helped, but we all had to sit while they made last minute adjustments to the lounge, which was to be their theatre.

What they did was to concoct a story from nursery tales, mixing them up where they felt it necessary, so Bo Peep found little Jack Horner instead of her sheep. They used one of Tom’s walking sticks as a shepherd’s crook. They consulted Old Mother Hubbard, who went to the freezer and found it full of frozen lamb, sold to her by Tom Tom the butcher’s son.

We were soon in fits of laughter, as they continued reconstructing Little Miss Muffet, sitting on a tuffet eating a Milky Way. Mima sat munching and pretending to read a book. Danny lowered one of those rubber spider things and she grabbed it and pretended to eat it. “Spiders, the snack you can eat between meals,” she managed to get right at the fourth attempt, which had us falling off our chairs.

Henry was filming it on his camcorder so the kids were likely to be embarrassed by it for years to come. Trish came rushing in with my red duffle coat, hood up, draped around her and one of my shopping bags draped over her arm.

“I must hurry to see Grandma, but this forest is very dark and full of wolves.”

The next moment Danny jumped out in front of her howling and growling, obviously one of said wolves. She reached in her bag pulled out a pretend gun, and shot him. He howled once more–very tragically, and keeled over. I recognised the plot as in Roald Dahl’s fairy stories.

Finally, Livvie was Sleeping Beauty, and Billy was Prince Charming or whatever and he kissed the sleeping maiden, who yawned, stretched, yawned again and said, “Merci, monsieur,” Billy shrugged his shoulders and said, “You have to kiss a few frogs.”

We all fell about laughing but I was astonished as well–it eventually transpired where Stella had been, helping them write it and direct it. She insisted the kids had produced the ideas, except the last one. I was still, most impressed–perhaps Shakespeare won’t be the most famous English playwright after all?

Maureen left and the party started to break up, Henry and Monica distributed Easter Eggs, Stella and I got one, too. Simon was given a bar of chocolate and Tom a bottle of his favourite single malt Laphroaig, from Islay. He immediately offered Henry a wee dram, and Simon smiled as well. I went to put the kettle on again and carried the dirty cups and plates out to the kitchen.

Later that night, Simon talked to me about Julie, “Why was Julie absent at lunch?”

I sighed, “She was nervous of meeting Maureen.”

“But why? They seemed like old friends a bit later.”

“I know–look it’s a tranny thing, they don’t like being seen together except to compare notes. The younger ones are sometimes horrified at those who transition later and look more masculine.”

“Why?”

“Partly because they consider they’re being compared with the less adapted people and it makes them feel uncomfortable, and secondly, if they aren’t very early transitioning, it could make them more likely to be read.”

“Read–what, you mean twigged as transsexuals?”

“Yeah, exactly that.”

“Well until you opened the house to these people, I wouldn’t have noticed them if they walked past me in the street.”

“Even Maureen?”

“Okay, I might have considered she was a bit ugly, and the blue shadow might have caused me to read her, as you say.”

“Darling, I think you would have noticed.”

“That would depend on what I was doing, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so, you mean like standing at a bus stop.”

“A bus stop? What’s that?” He started to tickle me, and I was laughing already at his horrified tone.

“You sounded like Lady Bracknell,” I teased in between giggles.

“A hendbeg?” he said in a falsetto with plum and I was in danger of wetting myself I was laughing so much, my eyes were running and I had to struggle to the loo, I had a stitch from laughing.

“I was very impressed by the children and their play, Nutty Nursery Rhymes.”

“That was quite remarkable–I know Dad will be showing that around the office after the holiday.”

“I loved the twist on the kissing frogs–but that was Stella, I suspect.”

“She said, Trish and Livvie were almost there by themselves, but they were going to do it with amphibians–she made it a little more subtle.”

“Does she speak much French?” I asked him.

“She speaks it like a native…” he replied.

“Oh,” I was further impressed.

“A native of Peru.” He laughed at his own joke and began stroking my breast.

Despite the lubrication, I still got sore, but then I wasn’t dilating much these days–I relied on him to do it for me, which I must admit was a chore he was happy to fulfil, he can be so helpful at times.

The Saturday, it poured again–I was too uncomfortable to go cycling anyway, but the weather would have made a saint swear–and I’m well below them on the list.

“This bloody weather,” I said to Simon who was finishing his breakfast, “is just ridiculous.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled back, his head in the Financial Times.

“I said, I’m going to take all my clothes off and run down the street.”

“Don’t forget to wipe your feet on the mat when you come back, dear,” he muttered back. Obviously, he can carry on a conversation without his brain being involved.

“I’ve been having an affair with Henry,” I tried again.

“Yes dear, I hope it was nice.” Then a moment later–“Bloody hell,” he said loudly.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, wondering if he’d processed my last remark.

“The pound has gained a whole cent against the Euro.”

“Oh, is that bad?”

“No, unless you export things, but it’ll make it cheaper to buy Euros–I’ll organise a couple of million.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah–we have to hold them for punters anyway–so, if we have loads, the next time the pound falls, we profit by whatever that amount is when we sell to punters later.”

“Is it worth it for a cent.”

“Ah, but if it falls a couple of cents, we make a reasonable profit.”

“What two per cent?”

“As we’re providing the service anyway, we make a profit as it is–this adds a couple of pence per Euro. When it’s duplicated a couple of million times, we make a few quid extra.”

“Is there anything you don’t make money on?”

“Not if I can help it. Oh, there is one thing we lose heavily on.”

“Have you got to provide the service?”

“Yeah, otherwise we have to pay someone else.”

“For what?”

“Ah–that would be revealing too much.”

“So what do you lose heavily on?”

“Wives and girlfriends–they cost a fortune.”

“So who else would you have to pay?” I goaded him.

“Physiotherapists.”

“Physiotherapists–why?”

“To sort out my sore hand.”

I dropped the plate I was taking out of the dishwasher.