The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1224 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“What’s the matter?” he asked bemused possibly by my reaction and too much claret.

“I’ve been stuck in the snow and ice for over an hour, I had to borrow a spade off Pippa and dig myself out.”

“I got you a four wheel drive, next time I’ll buy you a tractor.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, women drivers–I should have thought and taken them myself.”

“What is wrong with women drivers?”

“You got stuck in a snow drift in a four b’ four–I’ll say no more.”

“It wasn’t a snow drift, it was six inches of ice–it was rock hard and slippery as wet glass.”

“C’moff it, Cathy–in Canada and parts of the States, they have races on the ice.”

“With dog sleds,” I snapped back.

“No, with performance cars. Remember that scene in James Bond where he fights a battle with a Jaguar on a frozen lake.”

“With a dog team?” I hadn’t seen the film.

“No, in his Aston.”

“No I don’t bloody remember because I haven’t seen the stupid film nor do I understand where this is leading except to try and make me feel inadequate.”

“It’s about technique–you’ve either got it or you haven’t.”

“I obviously haven’t, Mr Smart-Arse.” I turned on my heel and slammed the kitchen door and locked it. He knocked and called a few times but I ignored him and made myself some tea. My immediate need was to calm myself down.

I sat down and sipped the hot fluid and realised I still had my coat on. I took it off and placed over the back of the chair. It touched the floor, but I knew it was clean, I’d mopped it a couple of days ago.

I sat and mused as I sipped my tea. Simon was wonderful man and a good father to my assorted waifs and strays. He was generous to a fault and totally and completely fucking stupid. How dare he tell me about my driving? It’s not as if he’s Mr Bloody Wonderful Driver of the Year and yet like most men, he assumes because I’m a woman he can drive better than I. So bloody what? I don’t give a toss–I can out cycle him over any distance or terrain–and that is a physical thing–so bollocks.

There were probably lots of things he could do better than I but there were some I could do better than he, so that made me feel better. I don’t claim to be able to drive that well, but generally I do it safely. I accept I appear to have something of a record of destroying cars, but it’s not usually my fault. Maybe I should ask him for a humvee or whatever those ‘Merican things the military use–you know do about eight gallons to the mile, or just get a tank–nah we’d have to get the gate widened–actually we wouldn’t–just get the wall rebuilt afterwards.

My cuppa had calmed me down enough to be able to face him without screaming at him or bursting into tears. I went into the lounge where he was watching some inane programme.

“Better now?” he asked.

“Yes thank you.”

“I’m sorry I criticised your driving. I wasn’t there...”

“Apology accepted–but if you think that’s bad, you should see my putting.” I delivered this with a deadpan face and walked out of the lounge and into the dining room.

He followed me, “What did you say?”

“I said I accepted your apology.”

“Yes, I got that bit–but you said something else?”

“Nah–you must be mixing what I said with the telly.”

“You said something about putting.”

“Don’t be silly, darling, I’ve never played golf in my life–and I intend to keep it that way. Silly game–real men ride bikes.”

“I wouldn’t say that if Monica is about, she loves her golf.”

“So, if spoiling a good walk is her idea of fun–that’s her choice.”

“Miaow,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh I thought you’d understand.”

I paused for a second–“Don’t tell me, because I’m being a cat?”

“In one.”

“Better keep away from my claws then.”

“Those I can cope with, it’s the tongue which frightens me the most.”

“You say the loveliest things,” I teased.

“You don’t, sometimes you speak to kill–shoot from the lip and all those things.”

“Meeee?” I feigned innocence, “Why I’m completely harmless up against a big lump of a thing like you.” I rubbed up his hairy arm with my hand.

“Yeah, I’ll bet that’s what praying mantids say to their partners.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard one talk.”

“Oh they do, except when they’ve got their mouths full, of course–usually of their partner’s brains.”

“Yes, apparently they need it to fertilise their eggs–oh and it’s the equivalent of Viagra to the males. They can’t get it on until she bites his head off.”

“Sometimes I think I almost understand how they feel.”

“Metaphorically, I presume.”

“Natch, but on your PMS days–like today–it’s easy to empathise with male praying mantis.”

“Perhaps it’s to do with my stress levels–we have been quite busy today, and as the hostess–I do get saddled with quite a bit of responsibility.”

“Yes, but we could all go to the hotel–let someone else deal with it.”

“That would cost a fortune.”

“I get a sizeable discount if you recall, and I think if I stopped Stella’s pocket money for a week, I could afford it.”

“I thought she had her own money?” I queried.

“Yes she does, but she keeps hers and spends mine–done it ever since she was at Bournemouth University.”

“She was at Bournemouth?”

“Yeah, they do nursing studies there.”

“I’d have thought they did it at Portsmouth too, or Southampton. They have a med school there.”

“We were in London then, she could have done it all over the place there, but no, she fancied the seaside. I used to go down for weekends but I never liked it–too pretentious for its own good. Full of old colonels and admirals or retired civil servants–what an oxymoron that is.”

“Can’t say I know it that well, and we have Southsea here, but that’s a bit like Cheltenham by the sea.”

“Cheltenham by the sea,” he repeated and laughed, “Yes, that probably sums up Bournemouth, too–Tunbridge Wells on Sea–full of disgusted of Tunbridge.”

“I thought Tonbridge and Tunbridge Wells were different places?” I didn’t know that area at all well.

“Oh they are but only a few miles apart–okay, we’ll settle for Carping of Kent.”

“As in Hime Kinetees?” I said in a silly voice.

“Have you been watching the Queen’s Speech again? You know I told you not to.”

“But I’m addicted–it’s the funniest thing on telly.”

“That sounds like sedition to me, and as a peer of the realm, I should have you clapped in irons and taken to the tower.”

“We don’t have any irons–except in Tom’s golf bag, and nothing like a tower.”

“Okay, I'll have you clapped in mince pies and taken to the turkey.”

“Is there something Freudian there? You into bondage or something?”

“Never had time, was always too tied up,” he replied predictably–good ol’ Si.

“Did the kids go to bed without too much fuss?”

“Yeah, after I hanged the first one, the others did as they were told.”

“I see you learned loads from the Stella Cameron school of childcare.”

“Oh definitely, I have her sex manual here, wanna try some?” he winked at me.

“Not really but you could give my back a rub–it’s all stiffening up after that digging.”

“Madam, your personal masseur awaits,” he said opening the door.