The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1388 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I saw Gareth off, he was going home to start packing stuff that he’d need to bring here if he was staying with Stella–just what I needed, a couple more mouths to feed. As soon as he’d gone I went to bed so by the time Simon came up I was fast asleep.

At breakfast he muttered something about conjugals and I found I’d gone deaf–didn’t hear a word of it, funny that. He went off in a huff to work while the kids hid from him–they all appeared to breakfast as soon as he’d gone. They do this sometimes when one of us is in a grumpy mood–I’d prefer they challenged me–Julie does sometimes and so does Danny, the younger ones avoid me and grumble.

Gareth had promised to let me know when Stella and he would be moving in, but I anticipated anytime in the next few days. I went shopping after dropping the kids off and filled the fridge and freezer just in case. If the family continued to grow at this rate, I think we’d just as well sell all the cars and buy a double-decker bus.

Back at the ranch, once the shopping was put away Jenny kept an eye on the little ones while I made up a bed in the new wing, for our new parents–well Gareth was new to it, you could tell by the fact his eyes weren’t bloodshot yet. You know there’s twenty four hours in a day when the baby keeps you awake for all of them.

I also wondered who Puddin’ thought was her mum, Stella, Jenny or me. She called me, Anny-Affy, Jenny was Ennie, and her mum was–absent. I kept showing her a photo of Stella but perhaps she was too young to take it on board. A chance for Stella to build some bridges and some mother-daughter bonding. If Puddin’ loses out to baby Fiona, I shall give Stella a piece of my mind. I don’t think Pud is losing out on much in terms of love and affection, we all give her loads, even the younger girls–Meems loves her–she’s like a large size dress up doll.

I got the bedroom ready, then we had lunch–while that was digesting, I fed baby Kate and Puddin’ watched me licking her lips–at two she would still be breast fed by some mothers. My baby went off to sleep and as I felt there was still some milk there, I gave Pud a little suck–she clung on to me like a limpet and fell asleep at my breast.

Jenny came back from loading the dishwasher and smirked at me, bra undone, with child’s head under my jumper. “She’s either hiding, sleeping or been having a crafty slurp.”

“If you make some tea, I’ll tell you which.” I sat there while Jenny provided some fluid to replace my recent depletion. I felt myself chuckling, I’ve told you what Pud calls me, well she calls Simon, Daddy–because everyone else under twenty does. It used to drive him crazy and we had some real arguments over it because he thought I was setting him up, but I wasn’t, she refused to call him Uncle Si, and persisted with Daddy. He doesn’t say anything now–she won–but babies do unless you assert yourself physically–and that’s illegal. Sometimes I think the law was drawn up by babies–I mean, fancy it being illegal to send ‘em up chimneys or down the mines, or even to the workhouse–all Charles Dickens’ fault, him and Charles Kingsley, and Lord Shaftesbury–they’ll abolish slavery next.

I woke Puddin’ up and she sleepily walked over to the sofa in the dining room and curled up going back to sleep. She isn’t a lot of bother really, so does it matter who she calls mummy? It might later on when she’s trying to act like a grown up and needs to be told a few of the facts of life–although some of it she’ll learn by osmosis, like we all do.

I got on with producing a dinner for everyone–a pasta bake with chicken and a side salad. It would keep hot for late-comers but be ready for the kids to eat before Julie and I went off to the play.

And so it came to pass, at the eighteenth hour of the day, with stomachs modestly replete, Julie and I set forth to perform the Scottish play and entertain the masses–hopefully at the same time, or simultaneously, whichever comes first.

I did my makeup while my personal assistant cum hairdresser, added to my tresses. This was one part of the acting game I hated--the greasepaint–that Leichner moment.

The play itself went quite well, though there were one or two fluffed lines, except no one but an expert would have noticed–let’s face it, unless you know the entire play by heart, you’re not going to miss the odd line which has either been fluffed or forgotten–unless it throws the actor delivering the next one and who waits in vain for his cue. Iain was word perfect, but some of the so called pros did a few fluffs tonight.

The sixth form girls were also word perfect–as for me–yeah I was too–I think. Gordon kissed me at the end and told me that the sleepwalking scene was even better tonight. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing–if I get too confident I could mess it up–so I chose to ignore him, except I couldn’t–his compliment had got through and I was bemused and embarrassed at the same time.

“Guid ‘un again tonicht,” said Iain putting his arm around me and pecking me on the cheek–“you know, I’ve worked with loads worse leading ladies who called themselves pros. Was never sure if it meant professional or referred to their alternative occupation when things were slack.”

I sniggered, let’s face it, actresses were often seen as fulfilling both rolls during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries–and still are by some folk.

I returned to the ladies changing room and was taking the gloop off my face–as soon as I could get the blowlamp working–when there was a knock at the door. One of the youngsters who was already decent, went to answer it.

“It’s for you, Cathy,” she said smirking.

“Oh, okay–thanks.” I wiped off the makeup and then rubbed my face over with a wet wipe and a tissue. Julie had detached my extensions and I combed my hair into a ponytail and shoved on a black scrunchie.

I got up from the stool I’d been sitting on and went to the door, I had the shock of my life–Gareth and Stella were standing there and she shoved a huge bouquet into my hands. “That was bloody brilliant,” suggested Gareth.

“Aye, it were okay like,” said Stella in a broad Yorkshire accent–I knew watching Emmerdale could be life changing.

“Aye, ’appen,” I replied.