The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1126 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Simon was back in London and I missed him, the bed felt cold when I got back into it after feeding the baby. I still love doing it, but it is taking its toll of me. I seem perpetually knackered. I only had just got back into bed and the bloody radio seemed to come on, grrrr some days I just hate Jim Naughtie. I mean he has to get up about four o’clock every morning, how can he be that cheerful and alert? Maybe he’s on something more than strong tea or coffee?

I rolled out of bed and staggered to the loo. Then got in the shower before I realised I hadn’t taken my knickers off. Oh sod it. Usually it’s earrings or my watch–which thankfully is water resistant. I did once go in there wearing my nightie, but that was proving a point to Simon so was deliberate on my part, although he still doesn’t know that–you know what men are like.

I dried myself off and rinsed off my knickers in the wash basin, wrung them out and left them to drip dry over the bath. After chucking on some clothes I woke the girls and sorted them after they showered, by which time I’d combed my hair out and tied it back in a ponytail. Once dried and in their undies, I blow dried their hair and styled it very simply. Trish and Livvie like ponytails, while Billie has two pig tails. They finished dressing while I dried my own hair, re-tied it up and went down to feed them.

Danny usually gets up whilst I’m sorting the girls, in that way he’s quite good. Julie is supposed to get him up, but it’s normally the other way round–he wakes her. I gave him a quick hug while the girls were squabbling over their cereal, he was pleased, he was taking his new football boots to school for a training session.

While they were all eating and talking, I expressed some milk for the baby and left it in the fridge, I managed to drink a cuppa while I did so, and scoffed a slice of toast as we walked down the drive to the car–Meems holding my other hand, Billie carrying my handbag and Trish running on ahead to zap the locks so we could get in.

We drove through the rush hour traffic, full of four wheel drives containing one child and driven by a twenty something woman, presumably the mother. The road works cost us a few minutes and did nothing for my temper, when as I was pulling out past the temporary traffic lights a motor bike came screaming past us horn blaring. I didn’t see him coming and I still believe I had right of way. He obviously came up the outside of the traffic queue and pushed his way past us. I was fuming–I mean, I could have knocked him off–or worse, scratched my paintwork.

I know we all get impatient, and on my bicycle, I do occasionally work my way past queues of traffic, but not when someone is pulling out. The last time I rode on my own, I nearly got doored by an obese middle aged lard-ball, who opened his car door without looking in his mirror. He didn’t like my greeting too much either, the fat moron–I expect he was going to get his newspaper and fags. He probably lives about two minutes walk away from the shop, silly man–the exercise would do him good–on second thoughts it might prolong his life, so forget that.

I walked the girls into school and after they’d gone off to their respective classes, I went to see the headmistress. “Ah, Lady C, how nice to see you–we have a date for your talk.”

“Do we? When is it?” I asked temporarily having forgotten about it.

“Friday the twenty sixth of November.”

“A week before my birthday–yeah okay, what time?”

“Seven o’clock, so some of the kids can come and see it.”

“Fine, I haven’t got my diary with me,” and before I could say out-takes, she’d scribbled it very neatly on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

“From your surprise, I take it that wasn’t why you’d come to see me?”

“Um–no, it was Trish’s games lessons.”

“Ah yes, the Wayne Rooney of St Claire's.”

“She doesn’t like playing it.”

“What? According to my games teacher, she was one of the few girls who seemed to have some idea of what soccer is about. Most of them run round in circles giggling.”

“They are only six years old.”

“Yes, but she could be the star of our team.”

“I don’t think so–she said she hated it and only did her best because I made her promise to.”

“Oh, I see–d’you mind if I speak with her about this, perhaps at lunch time?”

“Not at all, but if she’s really unhappy, I think I’d like to see what other games are available.”

“I take it she won’t like rugby either?” said the headmistress very quietly and sniggered.

“Rugby? I hope you’re joking.”

She nodded laughing so much she couldn’t speak. Once sanity returned, we discussed options. Hockey, or field hockey as they call it across the pond, was the other main winter game, with netball a second choice–they apparently play a basics game called First Step Netball and go on to High Five Netball once they’ve got the idea of the game–it’s a five-a-side game instead of the usual seven in the more grown up form.

I left it to the headmistress to speak with Trish, who would then tell me what she’d like to do. Netball brought back memories of humiliation in school. I think I mentioned that I refused to cut my hair and dyed it bright auburn for the Lady Macbeth thing I did. Well, they made me wear women’s clothes to school during the play’s run including the week before, from the dress rehearsal–so I could acclimatise to wearing skirts. If it hadn’t been so public a humiliation, I could have quite enjoyed myself, and getting ready before school and after getting home, I kept my school uniform on–it was made up of stuff from the lost property in the girl’s school.

Of course wearing a skirt meant I was exempt games, to avoid bullying in the changing rooms, or so I thought. Instead, I was told to go over to the girl’s school to play netball. They provided the little skirt and passion killer knickers all in navy, plus a top. I protested and was escorted to the girl’s school by a teacher who made derogatory remarks the whole way, including suggesting I stay with the girls once I got there. I asked him if he was going to play Lady Macbeth in my absence. He nearly struck me.

The girl’s PE mistress thought it was real hoot to have a boy, dressed as a girl, playing netball. Never having played it before, I was total rubbish–I kept getting my feet wrong, stepping out of circles and so on, including dropping the ball several times. Altogether, I went three times and each time I came away almost in tears. However, being totally pig-headed, I wasn’t going to back down and wearing the netball kit and the school uniform really pissed off my dad, who thought being made to wear them would cure me of my girlish tendencies. Did it hell? No way.

I sat for a few moments before driving home, thinking about my school days–Tom Brown’s they definitely weren’t and I sincerely hoped that Trish would do better than I did if she plays netball. My experience couldn’t have been any worse if I’d been asked to go to cheer leading with a girl’s squad.