The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1471 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“I can’t remember the last time we went out for a meal together–I mean just the two of us.”

“I can, that bloke started choking.”

“You went home and left me to it, so that hardly counts, does it?”

“No it’s not a calculator,” I replied remembering the reason why I left that time–bad dreams and prophesies–hopefully no such difficulties today.

I’d popped on a dress I hadn’t worn for ages, black background with a line of quite large poppies which spirals round the skirt and then back over the bodice to disappear at my left shoulder. It has cap sleeves and I wore one of those short cardis which leave most of your back uncovered.

Simon likes the dress because the scoop neck means he can see a bit of cleavage and I wore my mum’s sapphire necklace and earrings, so my engagement ring fitted well with them.

We drove in Simon’s car, which meant he’d either not be able to drink or I’d have to drive home, and he doesn’t like anyone else driving his car, so he’d be restricted to one glass of wine with his meal. The weather wasn’t particularly good for the time of year, the winds making it feel cooler despite the sunshine and I was glad I’d worn the little cardi–in fact, at one point I began to wish I’d brought a better jacket with me.

The conversation on the way there was mainly about what we fancied to eat and he as good as threatened me that if I ordered tuna salad he was going to have me thrown out on my ear. I told him it was one of my favourite meals and if I couldn’t have that I’d have another–egg and chips. He nearly ran over some old bloke coming out of a newsagent’s shop. I smirked all the way to Southsea.

The obsequious assistant manager was on duty and he was at his unctuous worst, making Uriah Heep look assertive. Even Simon was fed up with him before we got to the table and politely told him to scoot.

Fortunately the head waiter was less fawning and we were left to peruse the menu while we sipped some fruit juice.

In the end I opted for rack of lamb, it was Welsh lamb which makes a difference, it’s probably the sweetest, and coming from Bristol, it was in reasonable supply. I had melon starter and Simon chose pate and sirloin steak on the grounds that I didn’t do steak very often. As he eats it almost raw, there is no way I’m going to cook it for him because it’s so expensive to get wrong. I mean if it was any less cooked it would still be walking round a field somewhere.

I know the theory–if you order medium or well done steak, you get rubbish–but surely that wouldn’t happen in a place where you can make ripples the size of a tsunami–would it? Apparently not, the steak met with his approval and my lamb was perfect–tempting me to eat more than I needed or had intended.

I declined the pudding, unlike my husband who is fast turning into one–he had sticky toffee pudding with custard. I settled for a latte coffee. Simon did drink three glasses of wine and was stupidly prepared to drive home until I told him I’d take a taxi if he did.

After something of a contretemps he accepted he could be over the limit–when I checked he’d had pretty well the whole bottle–and he handed me the keys to his precious Jaguar. The drive home was uneventful and probably slower than he’d have done it. I thanked him for my meal and left him struggling to get out of the car.

Minutes after getting home, I discovered that the others had had pizza–no wonder they wanted rid of me. I just don’t understand why people go so mad over a piece of burnt cheese on cardboard.

The rest of the evening was spent preparing for the girl’s return to school, making up piles of clothing. Checking it was all name tagged and getting them off to bed was hard work–they were all like bottles of pop. Even Billy was quite excited, she was starting to sprout a little on top so felt pleased that she now needed to wear a bra–after my shoes, it’s the next bit of clothing I feel happiest to shed when I go to bed or sometimes even before that–but then mine have grown quite a bit since I started breast feeding. All these celebrities who have one baby then write a book about it, and two weeks later are back to a size ten; are obviously not breast feeding.

Monday morning arrived before I was ready for it–must have been express delivery. I staggered out of bed and showered myself, got the girls up and showered and washed, then dried their hair. The next bit was time consuming as each wanted something different done with their hair, so we did that. Next they got dressed while I went down to do the breakfasts–I felt harassed the whole time and began to think that an extra pair of hands would be useful, especially when I went back to teaching.

Simon phoned just after I got back home from the school run telling me that he’d organised a new car for me and it would be there by lunchtime. I thanked him then spent the rest of the morning doing chores while wondering about what sort of car it would be. All I knew was that it was a few months old and very low mileage.

When the doorbell rang, I was busy breastfeeding Catherine and so Jenny went to the door. She came back a few minutes later with a car key and placed it on the kitchen table. I finished sorting Catherine, burping her, changing her etcetera and after I put her in her play pen with a few toys for her to eat–she’s teething–as my nipples will testify–I picked up the key without looking at it. I assumed it would be another Porsche or similar, so I was quite surprised to see a white car parked outside.

When I got to the back of it, I could see it had a leaping cat on the back and a disc on the front of the bonnet with a round logo with a cat’s head on it. The interior was amazing with leather seats and aluminium dashboard decoration. It was a diesel turbo and when I checked the ignition, came with a full tank of juice.

Purely in the interests of checking it out before embarrassing myself when collecting the children, I grabbed my bag and a jacket and took it for a test drive–it was so luxurious and only about three thousand miles on the clock–it was practically brand new.

I found out later that it had been leased to one of the directors of the bank who’d had to retire suddenly when discrepancies in his expenses were found by one of the auditors and the car was taken back by the bank. Simon got to hear of it and took over the lease–now I had the use of it.

It felt faster than the Porsche and more stable, closer to the road on cornering. I drove up to Southampton and back and on the motorway, it fairly flew along–mind you it has a three litre diesel engine with turbocharger, so I suppose it should. I would have to try not let this befall any disaster–my record with cars seemed less than useful.

One bit of fun, charging down the motorway, some of the other traffic seemed to think–white Jag–must be the plod, so they slowed down or pulled over. It made me smile, all the way home.

The girls loved it and Danny asked for a ride in it when he got home. Julie asked if she could borrow it and Simon asked if I liked it–I had to admit that I did and he explained how I could show my gratitude later. When I threatened to make him eat the key, he explained he was only joking. I then confirmed that I wasn’t. He was not best pleased.