The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1220 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I went up to see how Julie was, half expecting to find her hanging from the light fitting; instead I was delighted to see Danny sitting with her and they were talking quietly together–they didn’t even see me. Julie had mascara all round her eyes which made her look like a rather attractive panda, but otherwise it wasn’t immediately obvious that she’d just had a dressing down and the major object of her affection had been removed by Simon.

I looked in on Trish; she and Livvie were making jokes about an imaginary letter they were sending to Sister Gonzales–they sounded like ordinary six-year-olds and were amusing Mima who, at the time, was shrieking with laughter.

“Dear Sister Gorgonzola,

Trish (I’m a genius compared to you) Watts.”

Billie, when I found her was playing draughts with Tom and Simon was watching the telly with Stella. I went and sat in with them.

“No suicides, then?” asked Simon, watching that oaf Jeremy Clarkson with the other two stooges in Top Gear.

“Not so far–I don’t know how you can watch that man, he makes my skin creep.” I replied almost breaking out in hives.

“Go on, he’s really funny.”

“In the head yes, he hates cyclists and about five million of us feel the same about him.”

“I didn’t know there were five million cyclists in this country.”

“Well there are about forty million bikes, and I don’t own them all.”

“No, there’s all of Boris’s ones too, plus thirty nine million rotting away in garden sheds and garages and thousands awaiting sale in bike shops and warehouses, so that leaves the half a dozen you’ve got plus the ones the kids have.”

“Very funny, Simon, but he’s still a creep.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion and he is to his.”

“That’s all well and good, Si, but he has a much larger platform to expound his idiotic views than I do–the major difference being that my views and opinions are very reasonable and correct, his are at best half-cocked and at worst, total dick-head. The man thinks with his prostate.”

“Most men do,” chipped Stella.

“You aren’t both being a trifle sexist and biased, are you?”

“No,” we both replied and giggled. We did it so closely together it was like a rehearsed act.

“So what d’you want to watch?” conceded Simon.

“How about a DVD of something?” I suggested then heard the baby crying. “’Scuse me someone’s playing my tune.” I went off to see what the problem was–more teething probably.

When I got to the cot, Trish and Livvie were already there and making a fuss of her. “We’ll look after her, Mummy–see, she’s stopped cryin’ now.”

“I think I’d better see what the problem is first.” She’d had a bit of a nappy rash probably brought about by the teething. I picked her out of the cot and her little face was all red and wrinkled where she’d been lying against a crease in the cot sheet. She looked at me, recognised me after a moment–she had been fast asleep–and then began to smile. It’s one of those moments with babies when you feel so rewarded on a good day, or so exasperated on a bad one, when they recognise you and begin to coo and chuckle. If you’ve just been woken from a broken sleep the last thing you want is a noisy morsel chuckling away when you feel like shit–but–such are the joys of parenthood.

Thankfully, I was only missing Jeremy Clarkson, the thinking woman’s báªte noire, give me Brian Cox any day, so that was no loss. I sent Livvie to see what Julie was doing and asked Trish to help me with the baby, accompanied by Meems.

She’d pooed her nappy so we changed it and cleaned her up, with Trish making all sorts of disgusting faces and comments. The baby’s bum was still sore so I beat up some egg whites and painted the paste on the sore bits and left it to dry. Trish’s face was a picture.

“Ugh–sticking egg on Baby C’s bum–ugh.” Meems of course was roaring with laughter when Trish was making faces and comments. “Eggs are for eating not rubbing on yer bum.”

“I beg to differ, it’s an old fashioned treatment but it works.”

“If it doesn’t, what d’you do then, shove a kipper in there?”

“No, porridge is next and failing that, we use a haggis.”

They both roared with laughter, “That’s silly, Mummy,” declared Trish and Meems was still wiping the tears away from her face.

“Of course it is, but the egg whites will probably work.”

“Eggs? Work on what, Mummy?” asked Livvie coming back to the kitchen.

“Wee yin’s got a rash, so I’ve painted her bum and groin with beaten egg whites. It’s a very old remedy but it works and is still recommended by paediatricians.”

“She’s got a meringue in her knickers?”

“Nappy,” corrected Trish.

“Whatever,” responded Livvie, “It’s still a meringue.”

“I think not,” I challenged, “meringue is beaten egg whites with sugar–there’s no sugar in that lot–taste it if you don’t believe me.”

“I’m not eating something that’s been on a baby’s bum.”

“That hasn’t, the bit I put on the baby’s bum is in that little dish over there.”

“Can we make some meringues for Christmas, Mummy?” asked Livvie.

“Oh yes, Mummy, can we make some mewangues, fow Chwistmas.”

“We’ll see, depends upon if you behave or not and how busy I am.” I actually loathe meringue, it’s too sweet and tastes like shaving foam. How do I know that, having never shaved my face? I put some on my toothbrush by mistake in the dark–it wasn’t very nice but better than hair removing cream–I’d imagine.

“Julie’s okay, she’s gone to bed and Danny’s gone downstairs to watch telly with Daddy.”

“Oh another lover of Top Gear I expect; it’s a programme aimed at adolescent boy racers and presented by three male chauvinists.”

“Wossa maleshownist?” asked Trish.

“Someone who thinks girls are silly and only fit for the amusement and service of men.”

“That’s silly,” offered Livvie the meringue maker.

“It is, but sadly there are still loads of them about.”

“Daddy’s not like that, is he?”

“Not very often–all men can act like little boys, and that usually involves laughing at fart jokes and showing their willies.”

“They don’t, do they?” asked a horrified Livvie. Trish and Meems were rolling about with laughter.

“That’s the sort of thing they try to do, especially in all male environments like rugby clubs–they’ll do stupid things like trying to light each other’s farts with cigarette lighters.”

“Do they?” Livvie was still horrified.

“Isn’t that silly, Mummy?”

“Yes–it can cause serious burns in a very sensitive place, but children don’t see that and effectively they go back to childhood when they’re doing things, sometimes after drinking alcohol.”

“Yuck, boys are so silly–I’m sooo glad I’m a girl, aren’t you Trish?”

“Oh yes, boys are yuck–except Danny of course–he’s alright, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes, Danny’s awwight,” agreed Mima and Livvie nodded. I didn’t have the heart to point out that girls can be just as dumb–as Julie and friends proved the night before.