The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 96 Dozen by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Gareth did phone her after he’d emailed me. The area of the woodland requiring fencing was a couple of hundred metres, the rest of the woodland being protected by existing fencing or some hawthorn hedging, which had been laid and trimmed less than ten years ago and was practically impenetrable–nature’s barbed wire–the other side of which was a dairy farm. So we couldn’t exclude deer entirely, just make it difficult for them. Some of the old fencing was metal poles and fence posts, which was more of a boundary marker than anything, and we had been planting hedging material inside it for the three or more years I’d been surveying the site.

I was miffed that the timber thieves had destroyed nest boxes and killed at least five animals. If only they knew how long it had taken to build up the population there, and the two cold winters we’ve had in the past two years makes it harder. I had a licence to take any underweight animals into the university labs to see if we could get them through the winter, and my survey team had removed one family–I guess they missed the other one. One of the problems of delegation–I like to think I wouldn’t have done so.

I was missing my practical work and wondered if I might do the odd session to maintain my handling skills and licence. Altogether we had five licence holders in my team, although mine was the most comprehensive one, the others being technically supervisees of mine.

The fencing was going to cost a fair bit, I won’t say how much in case any of you invest in the bank, although I thought it was worth it–I hoped Henry agreed. I sent him the quote.

He replied by email: ‘In view of the cost of this, I think a page three type photo with strategically placed dormice, would be in order.’

I have to give him his due, he’s a trier. I wrote back. ‘If you will, I won’t. How about a strategically placed Versace?’ I just happen to have a Stella cast off suit which should fit the bill.

‘The bank is not paying for a dress as well–who do you think you are, Stella?’

‘I’ll provide the clothing.’ I replied.

‘You shameless gold-digger, you have a deal, but I do want photos, so get your hair done.’

I was tempted to ask if he was paying for it but thought better of it. So far he’s been a great supporter, I wouldn’t want to annoy him. I sent an email to Gareth telling him Henry agreed, but telling him I wanted a sign of some sort on the finished fence commemorating the bank’s involvement–I was tempted to tell him I wanted it on his erection, but he might have got the wrong idea–wait until he gets to know Stella better–he’ll get loads of wrong ideas.

I summoned my madam de coiffure, “Oi mush, come yer a mo.”

“You got huskies in here?” asked Stella entering the kitchen.

“No just Hush Puppies, your pater wants me to have my hair done, what’ya think?”

“Seeing as it looks as if it’s spent the last six months up the Amazon while you were in Croydon, it needs doing.”

“Badly, I suppose?”

“Cathy, if you want it doing badly, I have plenty names of grotty salons. If however, madam would care to consult a genius...”

“I’m not letting Trish near it,” I interrupted spoiling her build up.

“Not Trish, you dipstick, me.”

“I suppose you have been known to wave a comb about.”

“Huh–that’s like saying you might have seen a dormouse.”

“Well, I mighta done.”

“Grrrrrr–you infuriating offspring of a canine.”

“Me? I was born under a wand’rin’ star,” I began to sing it almost as badly as Lee Marvin did in Paint Your Wotsit, only a shade higher in pitch. I must admit I prefer the sequel, Emulsion your bathroom.

Stella had her hands over her ears and Kiki was barking, “Please stop, I’ll do your hair for you.” I did as requested. “Thank you, I suspect if they do a horror version of that film, they could get you to do the soundtrack, people would turn white overnight.

“I’ll have you know I was in the school choir.”

“Which school was that, one run by the Royal National Society for the Deaf?”

“No, Bristol Grammar, I was the only sixteen year old male treble, all the others were about eleven.”

I began to sing, Thank you for the music,’ the Abba hit and she joined in with me. Jenny came to see what the noise was about, it wasn’t our singing, honest–it was Kiki’s howling. Well how was I supposed to know she didn’t like Abba. Then the baby woke up and I had to feed her. By the time I’d fed and changed her, it was time to go and get the girls.

I was playing the CD of Abba’s greatest hits, which I’d had ever since I first knew Simon. Trish grumbled, “Is this, Mamma Mia?”

Just then it came on, ‘Mamma Mia, here I go again...’ Trish put her hands over her ears and squealed loudly. “What’s your problem?” I said, pulling her hand off one ear.

She began giggling and then so did the others. It was several minutes before I could get any sense out of any of them. Eventually I did–apparently, whatever music I had on or the news on the radio, Trish was going to pretend she hated it.

“You little maggot.” I declared which set them all off again. I switched off the CD player, “Hmm, I know how to get my own back.”

“Betcha don’t,” dared the ringleader of the mutiny.

“Be careful, people have been known to throw themselves under buses rather than listen to my ethereal siren.”

“Wassat then?” asked Trish–when she gets a bigger vocabulary I’m in big trouble.

“My rendition of a popular dirge.”

“Mummy, please talk English, like wot the rest of us does.”

“Very funny.” Actually it was, coming from a six-year-old going on twenty-four.

“You gonna sing?” asked Livvie.

“It had traversed my frontal lobes.”

“Eh?” commented Billie.

“It went through ’er ’ead,” said Trish. How did she know that?

“Mummy sings nice,” Mima proved she was still awake, but then I hadn’t yet started my lullaby, and Brahms it won’t be.

I started up the car and pulled out on to the main road, then clicked the child locks, they’d have to bale out the windows to escape.

“Wotcha gonna sing, Mummy?” asked Billie.

“Something from a musical.”

“Not, Mamma Mia, pulllease,” pleaded Trish.

“Okay, here we go–” I coughed to clear my throat– “I was born under a wand’rin’ star…”

There were squeals from the back and they were covering their ears but I continued, I’ll show the little buggers not to try and put one over on me, and I continued my deliberate off key dirge. Well I enjoyed it.

I stopped when Trish, who was sitting in the front seat, pressed the CD player back on and we all settled to sing-along with Abba while we drove home.