The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1175 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Julie didn’t need me to be there for her interview with Stephanie, so I gave her a hug and went off to do some food shopping and then home. Stephanie promised to speak to me if there was anything I needed to know–usually there isn’t much.

It took me an hour and a half to fill a large trolley with enough food to keep us going for a few days. If Simon stayed home, one day less. I didn’t think anyone could eat so much and be able to walk about, but he seems able to. I shall have to watch his weight because he sure ain’t going to.

I paid for my groceries and loaded the car, one of these days I was going to do it all online–even in the better supermarkets, it is a total pain and waste of useful time. Back home, my boobs told me it was time to either express or feed the wee yin. You might well have guessed it was the latter.

Tiny wee isn’t quite so tiny, despite my neglect and she now has the odd solid food as well, usually something like Farex or Farley’s Rusk. The latter we soak in milk until it becomes like sludge–but she eats it with relish. I also do a little bit of dinner in the blender and she’ll have a spoonful or two of that.

She had a bit of Farley’s in milk followed by breast of foster mother, chewed not shaken–little monster. Sometimes I’m really glad I’m a human, because the thought of being something like a mother cat feeding a litter of kittens with their needle sharp claws and teeth makes my eyes water. This little toad with just two teeth and jaws like a badger, sometimes makes me feel like I’ve had my nipples pierced–by a staple gun. She is definitely going to be a carnivore–she’s been practicing on me for over two months.

While I sat with the baby, I had time to reflect on recent days–boring it has not been. I still couldn’t understand why anyone would want to hurt Julie. I know she can be a pain in the arse, but really no more so than any other teenager, and I didn’t see stacks of other teens ready for chucking on the bonfire. Ergo, there must be a more specific reason; such as she did something or said something or witnessed someone else doing something or talking about it. I was speculating and wearing out my surviving brain cell–I suppose I should have got my super-brain computer thinking about it–we call her Trish.

On Monday, I would visit the college and show the photos to students and see if anyone recognised the rider on Julie’s scooter. After lunch, I went to visit Julie again, taking Trish with me. We also took the photo she’d found on the CCTV site to see if Julie recognised the rider.

She was asleep when we entered her room, but she soon woke up when Trish planted a smacker on her cheek. If she kisses like that with boys when she’s a bit older, they’ll be calling her Dyson, because it’s about the only thing with similar suction I’ve ever encountered.

Julie woke up lazily stretching and opening her eyes. “Oh hi, Mummy–Trishy, oh wow.” They hugged like they hadn’t seen each other for several months, not a couple of days.

“How did you get on with Stephanie?” I asked Julie.

“Dunno, she hypnotised me I think–I like went to sleep an’ when I woke up, she’d gone–I suppose she got bored an’ left. If she talks to you can you say soz from me, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“If she calls, of course I will–however, she knows what she’s doing, so if you slept, then it was probably meant to happen.”

“She could sleep through a firework display,” said Trish and then saw my expression which was not one of approval. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed to me and I gave her some more scorn.

“Don’t be daft,” replied Julie, “the slightest noise and I’m awake.”

“That isn’t what Danny says when he tries to get you up in the mornings,” I reminded her.

“Oh I do that deliberately, just to push his buttons.”

“It might be rather nice one day not to try and annoy him, but just get up and get yourself dressed.”

“Yes, you should,” agreed Trish, trying to divert attention from her own failings.

“Will I get my jacket back–from the police, I mean.”

“If it’s like my phone, it won’t fit you by the time they give it back,” Trish commented.

“I don’t know, we’ll get you another one sometime if they don’t–it might be forensic evidence, you know, DNA and all that sort of stuff.”

“Oh, d’you know this person?” I handed her the photograph.

“He’s got a scooter like mine.”

“It is your scooter, Jules,” beamed Trish, “I got it from the CCTV camera down the road from where they found your scooter.”

“Cor, you are so clever, you’ll have to show me how you did it.”

“I wouldn’t bother if I were you, Julie, it’s such a long winded process creating a fake identity so they can’t trace you. But she has promised me she wouldn’t try hacking into the military, because I don’t think it would be very funny to give the order to start World War 3.”

“The Prime Minister does that, Mummy.”

“Yeah, but if you said your name was Cameron, they’d probably think it was him. It gets very boring in those nuclear submarines unless you’re playing tag with the Russians or Chinese, or even the French or Yanks. I remember when I was in school in Bristol, we had this war hero bloke come and speak to us. He was with the submarines and he and another British sub together with an American one were about to attack a Japanese convoy in the Pacific, the two British boats got underneath the escort destroyers and were waiting for the Yanks to follow, when they bottled out and fled–apparently it was a very young crew. The two Brit boats got depth charged for nine hours. He was livid when the American avoided a court martial.”

“What’s a depth charge, Mummy?”

“It’s like a bomb that explodes under water and creates a pressure wave against the submarine. If it’s close enough, it can break the welding on the outer skin of the sub and it sinks.”

“But it’s under the water already, so how can it sink?” Trish protested.

“It’s sailing under water or even resting on the bottom, not lying on the bottom with the air and the pressure inside it escaping, which means if the sailors in it don’t drown or asphyxiate, they get crushed by the weight of millions of tons of water on top of them.”

“Yeeewwch,” Trish made a nasty face, “I don’t think I want to go down in a submarine, sounds dangerous.”

“Only if men are driving it,” I joked, thinking about the latest British sub which ran aground while sailing on its maiden voyage and had to be towed back to its depot.

“Do they have ladies in submarines?” asked an astonished Trish.

“I have no idea, but you certainly wouldn’t get me down in one either. They’re very cramped and noisy and I don’t trust nuclear power, except we’ll have to use it to keep the lights burning in future however much people object. Wind farms are a waste of money.”

“I thought you’d be all in favour of green energy, Mummy?” suggested Julie.

“They’re nowhere near as green as they’re made out to be and they kill large numbers of sea birds.”

“That’s it,” snapped Julie.

“What is?” I asked still thinking about wind farms.

“Bird, that’s the bloke’s name in the photo.” Julie looked pleased with herself.

“Bird?”

“Yeah, they call him The Vulture, he’s the guy who does fetching and carrying, and dishwashing at college. He’s a bit creepy, has funny eyes–like really heavy lids to them.”

“Like some types of vulture–well done, girl. Now all we have to do is work out why he abducted you.”

“Oh he didn’t did he? Yeeeeeuck.”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure you didn’t give him permission to ride your scooter.”

“No way, he’s far too fat, he’d break it.”

Trish made a mime of someone huge sitting on something not strong enough to bear his weight and getting stuck between the handlebars and the seat as it bent in on them. It was quite funny–maybe she’s going to be an actor?