The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1467 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I showered and dressed then went downstairs to receive a very enthusiastic greeting from the girls. “D’you feel better now, Mummy?” asked Livvie with a hint of concern in her voice.

“Yes thank you, I was very tired, but now I feel much better.”

“Oh good,” said Trish, “Maybe we can ’ave some dinner then.”

“Very good, milady, what would milady like to eat?” I said, curtseying in sarcasm. The others thought it was hilarious, but Trish, who at times seems to live on a different planet was ignorant of the fact that I was in fact mocking her.

“I don’t know, that’s your job isn’t it? What have we got?”

“Oh loads of stuff, milady, oak smoked earthworms, dried meal worms, fresh maggots, whole fresh slugs and boil in the bag snails–but we’re fresh out of puppy dog’s tails.”

“Can’t we have an egg or something?”

“Which sort of egg would you like? We have ant’s eggs–fish like those; snails eggs they’re quite small; fly’s eggs, and hen’s eggs.”

“Ewww,” she replied, “don’t fancy any of them.”

“Hen’s eggs? Are they the same as chicken’s eggs, Mummy?” asked Mima.

“They are indeed–would those suit your royal highness?” I again teased Trish.

“Yes thank you, Mummy–I’m not royal, am I?”

“I’m not sure what the law regards as such, but I suspect that Daddy’s family somewhere way back have some connection to royalty.”

“So I am royal?”

“I’m not sure, Trish because you’re adopted, not a natural daughter.”

“But you an’ Daddy are, so I should be–shouldn’t I?”

“I’m not, sweetheart, I’m a plain old commoner–a poor working girl.”

“Hardly poor, girl,” sniped Stella, walking past.

“Here, Auntie Stella will know more about her ancestors than I do.” I set Trish off after her.

“One thing I can tell you about my old ancestors...” she offered.

“What, apart from them being dead, you mean?” I quipped back.

“Damn, you’ve heard it before.”

“Stella, I might not be that bright, but I’m not exactly stupid, either.”

“Are you royal, Auntie Stella?” asked Trish.

“I’m not, no–wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy–it’s like some birth handicap.”

“Oh I don’t know, Kate Middleton seemed to get on alright,” I suggested.

“Jeez, she must be bonkers to marry into the world’s most famous dysfunctional family.”

“If she is, she’ll fit right in,” I smirked, “but it was a lovely dress.”

“Cathy, sometimes you can be so girly.”

“Yeah, so?”

“But you’re right, it was a beautiful dress–but that doesn’t stop her being mad.”

“I think I know the feeling.” I blushed as I said it.

“Just what is that supposed to mean?” she walked back to me, Trish still waiting for an answer to her question.

“Nothing,” I blushed even deeper.

“Are you insinuating that you married into a bunch of nutters?”

“Um–.” I continued displaying a series of shades of red.

“Quite right, all us aristos are barking–intermarriage you know. You remember that nonsense riddle about my father’s son?”

“Sort of, it refers to the individual themselves–this father’s so and so is my father’s son, that one?”

“The very one, well we’re so intermarried way back, it probably means something quite different, your father is your uncle, cousin, nephew and well since you joined us, your mother as well.”

“Gee thanks, Stella–I love you too.”

“Are we royal or not, Auntie Stella?” asked Trish now poking her aunt.

“If we are it’s a long time ago, probably two or three hundred years–back to the Stuarts or earlier, and in that respect would relate to the Kings of Scotland, not England. So your mother, who is Scots, despite her protests, could also be related. So pester her, I have to feed Fiona.”

“We must be royal, Mummy, if you’re related to some King of Scotland.”

“Trish, the closest I came to being Scottish Royalty was playing Lady Macbeth twice.”

“See, I knew we were,” she went off smiling while Stella had to turn away and hold her mouth to hide the giggles.

“Bitch,” I mouthed at her when she turned back, but she only nodded and went to fetch Fiona.

The rest of the day, Princess Trish, spent making herself a crown like tiara out of cardboard covered in aluminium foil, with some laser printed paper to act as jewels. She also cadged an old curtain to use as a cloak. If she’d had her wellies on, she would have looked more like Supergirl than Good Queen Bess.

Of course when Simon came in, he played up to her delusions of grandeur, making up some family tree back to James I (VI of Scotland). He had to carry her up to bed, as a princess was far too important to walk up the stairs. She seemed to forget if she was royalty through his side of the family, he was closer to it than she was and she should have been carrying him. Oh well, she operates on Trish logic, which is probably from the planet Zog or somewhere similar.

Later when we were on our own I berated him for encouraging her, “Fancy indulging her delusions with your fictional family tree.”

“It’s not fiction, we are directly descended from the Kings of Scotland.”

“Yeah sure, so are we, via Robert Bruce,” I teased–it was a bit of a joke in our family and I was nearly named Bruce as a consequence. You’d think he’d be the king of Australia, wouldn’t you?

“What would you do if you were?”

“I thought he was a bit of a man about town and left a whole truckload of kids about the place.”

“He might well have done, and your family might well have descended from them.”

“It’s so long ago, what does it matter? I’m having enough trouble making sense of the present to worry about history.”

“You know what they say about history?” Simon smiled at me.

“It’s bunk? At least Henry Ford thought so.”

“Apart from designing rubbish cars, he was wrong about history, too. Those who don’t know their history are doomed to repeat the mistakes of history.”

“I think you mean, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are bound to repeat it.’ George Santayana.”

“Spot on, Cathy, you are wonderful.” He hugged me and kissed me, which seeing as I was feeding the baby, woke her up and she began to cry a little–I think she’s teething.

“Yeah, remember what Shaw said.”

“About history?”

“Yes, about history.”

“This is George Bernard Shaw?”

“Who else?”

“Well I don’t know do I? Could be Fred Shaw who works on the checkout at Tesco for all I know.”

I sniggered. “You loony, it’s GB Shaw.”

“So what did he have to say for himself?”

“Let me put it in context, we had a history teacher, Mr Davies, who was always quoting that one from Santayana to justify boring the pants off us. And one of the smart kids riposted with one from Shaw.”

“Well get to the point, what did Shaw have to say, or aren’t you sure about it?” he chuckled at his own joke, one of his more annoying habits.

“‘Hegel was right when he said that we learn from history that man can never learn anything from history.’”

“Well who’da thought George Bernard Shaw was such a philistine?” Simon said looking almost intelligent.

“He was supposedly quoting Hegel.”

“Yeah, but he sounds like a foreigner.”

“Who?”

“Hegel or whatever you called him.”

“Don’t forget, Shaw was Irish.”

“At least he had the decency to live in England.”

“They both believed in naturalism.”

“Yeah, he woulda been a naturalised Brit,” Simon smiled.

“Idiot, it’s about the balance of nature and so on–I’ve forgotten it all now.”

“You remembered more than I did–but then we didn’t do philosophy as such, more economics.”

“Shaw was one of the founders of the LSE.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You were the one who mentioned economics.”

“What’s that got to do with history?”

I burped Catherine, who let rip a big one which I think originated down in her toes somewhere. “I think the baby makes more sense than you sometimes, Si.”

“Only sometimes?” he looked rather abashed–“Tea?”

I nodded.

“I dunno, all that money an’ you had a better education than I did.”

“Human history becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe.”

“Is that one of yours?” he asked making the tea.

“Don’t be silly, I don’t say anything worth quoting–that was HG Wells.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge.” Simon gave a deep theatrical bow.

“He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.”

“Who said that?” he asked looking perplexed.

“Some Old Testament bloke in Ecclesiastes.”

“I thought you didn’t like religion?”

“I don’t, but remember, it was rammed down my throat for several years and what I learned I might not use or believe, while at the same time I can’t seem to forget it.”

“Oh, I don’t have that problem, can’t even remember the eleven commandments.”

“Eleven?”

“Yeah, forgot the first lot, but the eleventh is do any of the others but don’t get caught.” He laughed at his own joke again and I sipped my tea and hoped the baby would stay asleep this time.