The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1418 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I lay talking with Simon in bed as we cuddled up together. “I can’t wait for next week,” I purred.

“Why–what’s happening next week?”

“Paris, silly.”

“We’re going tomorrow.”

I giggled, he does like to tease me.

“I’m serious–look you’re the TdF fan, when did it start?”

“Third of July.”

“And what’s the date today?”

“Um–twenty second, I think.”

“And how long does it run for?”

“Three weeks.”

“So what would twenty one added to three make?”

“Oh shit!” I exclaimed.

“I made it twenty four, myself,” he chuckled.

“You’ve got time to pack–I ordered a minibus to collect us and take us to the airport.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Of course you have.”

“I’m booked to do a dormouse survey tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“In a woodland near the Browne-Coward’s garden centre.”

“Oh, what does that involve?”

“Walking the woodland and looking for nuts or acorns which show signs of dormouse activity.”

“Can I or the children help?”

“You can help pack for me.”

“It’s not one of my better attributes.”

“I’ll do you a list–I’ll do the survey as soon as it’s light.”

“You’re going to make yourself ill, girl.”

“I’ll survive, have you still got that Dictaphone thingy?”

“In my desk, why?”

“I’ll dictate the lists of things you’ll need to pack.”

“Is this going to work?”

“It has to, the girls will pack their own stuff and Danny can do his too.” I jumped out of bed and ran to his desk to find the recording device. I walked up and down the kitchen making lists then, wiped them and started again.

In the end I wrote them down on paper–it was easier. I would pack my own stuff when I got back. Essentially, the baby was the problem–but how could I blame her for anything. Why didn’t I start packing as soon as he said it? Why did I lose a week somewhere? Am I going doolally?

I glanced at the clock–it was one in the morning–I’d been busy for nearly two hours. Geez, where did the time go?

There was no way I’d be ready in time, I sat at the table and wept. I felt a hand on my shoulder and almost leapt out of my skin. I’d fallen asleep at the table. “Come to bed, it’s very late.”

“I can’t, Si, bugger I fell asleep.”

“Look, Dad and Monica are coming to look after the baby tomorrow morning.”

“When did you organise that?”

“After you jumped out of bed.”

“Oh–I can’t let Monica stay here, I need to clean the kitchen and bathroom and tidy the house.”

“Cathy,” he said sharply.

“What?”

“You need to come to bed or I’m going to cancel the whole bloody thing.”

“You can’t.”

“Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that–the kids will be so disappointed.”

“So would I, but I’m not having my wife work herself up into a frenzy.”

“But Cav could get the green jersey.”

“And you could have a total breakdown.”

“I won’t–I’m strong, remember.”

“We all have our breaking points.”

“All right, I’ll come to bed, but I won’t be able to sleep.”

“What were you doing just now?”

“I just closed my eyes to think of something.”

“Do you normally snore while you’re thinking?”

“I wasn’t snoring–was I?”

“What d’ya think woke me up.”

“You lying toad–even if I was snoring you wouldn’t be able to hear me upstairs.”

He put his finger to his lips and pointed to the ceiling, through which the sounds of snoring were emanating–it was Daddy. I clasped my hand over my mouth but began to snigger which made Simon do the same. In a minute or less, I was giggling hysterically and had to run to the loo.

When I came out of the door of the cloakroom, Simon scooped me up and carried me up to bed. I got into bed kissed him, told him I loved him and then made him prove he loved me when I put my cold feet on his leg.

Somehow, I fell asleep, but was up by five and pulling things from my wardrobe. I washed, dressed and suitably clad for walking in woodland, set off in my car. I had my notebook, a hand lens, some plastic pots I’d had tuna pate in and my camera.

I was actually at the woodland and parking in a lay-by at six. The gate of the entrance was locked with a very new and expensive padlock. I don’t think the landowner was entirely friendly.

A quick survey found two areas which would be most promising–they had hazel bushes, some oaks, sycamore and lots of undergrowth below the trees, which dormice love. All that was missing was honeysuckle, and I found some of that as well.

The next bit is boring–you scan the ground for hazelnut shells or acorns which have been eaten by dormice. It’s that easy–mind you finding them isn’t. The holes they make have a smooth edge to them with diagonal tooth marks inside the rim of the hole–hence the hand lens.

By seven I knew there had been dormice in the wood, I’d found a dozen or more shells which met the criterion. Whether there were any here now, is another matter. Then I spotted a dormouse nest in the undergrowth–that made it almost certain we had some here.

My delight and attempts to photograph it were cut short when a shotgun was fired over my head, showering me in bits of shot and I heard a dog barking. I took to my heels and legged it, clearing the gate in a single leap with the dog hard on my tail.

Standing out in the road, I gasped for breath and was still doing so when the farmer arrived. “And just what were you doing–bloody trespasser.” The gun was pointed at me.

“If that gun is loaded I’m calling the police.”

“I have every right to escort you off my land.”

“You shot at me without even challenging me–what sort of moron are you?”

“You call me a moron–I wasn’t doing anything illegal.”

“Neither was I.”

“So what were you doing?”

“Bird-watching.”

“So where’s yer binoculars?”

“In my bag.”

“Let’s see ‘em, then?”

“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.” I have a way with words, which one day is going to get me murdered–it could be today.

“You cheeky bitch, I’ve a good mind to set the dog on you.”

“Fine, carry on. I’m standing on a public highway having been chased here by a man with a gun and a vicious dog, who is threatening to either shoot me or set his dog on me. He’s already fired his shotgun at me from a distance.”

“Who are you talking to?” he looked bemused.

“The police, smile you’re on candid camera.” I took a picture of him snarling at me nearly as nastily as his dog, and the gun was in full view as pointing at me through the gate.

“You’re jokin’?”

“I never joke about guns–I hate them. I’d have your licence handy–you may well lose it. Byeee.”

I walked off towards my car, some fifty yards away still talking to the police when I heard the bang and saw the window of my car shatter. I turned in disbelief and he fired again, I threw myself into the hedgerow and the shot hit my bag as felt bushes in my face.

“Are you alright?” asked the police person.

“He tried to shoot me, hit my rucksack.”

“Get away, there’s an armed response unit on its way.”

“The bastard shot the side window out of my car.”

“Get away–let the uniformed officers deal with it.”

“Get away–I feel like sticking it up his arse and pulling both triggers.”

“Lady Cameron, please get away, let the uniformed deal with it.” Moments later there was a helicopter flying overhead and I was running up the road as he shot at me again.