The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1472 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I didn’t make Simon eat the car key and I did show him some gratitude when we were in bed–so both of us ended up feeling happy. I did wonder why I needed another car because the Mondeo is quite nice to drive and a useful size, but he told me that sometimes Jenny would need to use it especially when I started teaching again.

That set me off thinking about my duties and getting some extra help to ease the burden on Jenny. Although she had leased the house previously owned by the Drummonds, she’d never really lived there. She knew that Maria had died there and I suspect it creeped her out a little, even though I’d decorated throughout and replaced all the bedroom furniture. When I told her I was going to advertise for help and that I might offer accommodation with the job, she was happy to relinquish the lease.

I was thinking of converting the house in Southsea to three flats and asked Maureen to quote me a price and arrange planning permission. She would get tenders from builders and electricians and also an architect to supervise the conversion while she managed the overall project. There was someone using the house at present but his tenancy was up in October, so I didn’t expect too many problems other than dealing with officialdom and we weren’t changing the structure of the building outside, just putting in a bathroom and kitchen in each flat and furnishing them after redecorating.

Hardly anyone these days lived in such huge houses, except us and we were effectively three families. When the kids grew up and went their own ways, and Tom moved on–I thought I might consider doing bed and breakfast, even if I’m still working, I could employ someone like Jenny to run it most of the time.

I glanced at the clock, it was nearly two in the morning and I was about as sleepy as a kitten on speed. My head was buzzing with plans and I needed to do something different to relax. I slipped downstairs and made some tea and foolishly began writing a course for ecological studies. I finished at four, having drunk two more pots of tea.

Back in bed, Simon sort of asked and sort of muttered, “Where have you been?”

I replied, “Out on my bike,” and wondered what he’d say.

“Okay,” was the disappointing response.

At seven, I crawled out of bed like a dead dog–somehow the kitten had been transformed by exhaustion. Jenny offered to take the girls but I agreed with them they could go in the new car after I took Danny to school early–he was off on some school trip. I’d signed the form ages before but forgot all about it. I helped him make his sandwiches and slipped him a twenty pound note, which made him smile a thank you.

However, his face beamed from side to side when we arrived at the school and all his mates saw him disembark from a white Jaguar. He pecked me on the cheek and collected his bag. I heard at least one comment asking if he could introduce the speaker to his big sister. They wouldn’t believe I was his mum.

So far my day was improving and I dashed home and ferried the girls to school. Jenny told me we were short of milk and I decided I’d use the nice big boot of the car and get some groceries while I was at it. After this decision was made, things got worse.

Tesco was the nearest supermarket to the school, so I popped in there and had soon filled a trolley with food and cleaning materials–we needed more detergent for the washing machine and the dishwasher–not surprising with a family of thousands. I spent quite a bit of money, even with my club card deductions and vouchers, but on the bright side, I had two vouchers for money off fuel when I next needed some. I left the store in tired but relatively buoyant mood. It wasn’t to last.

As I pushed the trolley up to the car, my nice new shiny Jaguar, my heart sank–there was long scratch which went across both nearside doors and both were dented. I gasped in shock and then came the tears.

A man walked from the car behind mine, “I saw some little old lady in an old Toyota bash your car and drive off.”

“Did you get the number?” I asked and he shook his head.

“Sorry, I was pushing a very recalcitrant trolley and by the time I got there she was away. It was red coloured and quite old.”

He gave me his name and telephone number in case my insurance company wanted a witness. I dumped my shopping in the boot and went back into the store asking to see the manager.

“Could I have your name, madam?” asked the woman on the enquiries desk.

“Lady Catherine Cameron.” I said and watched her expression change. She walked to the back of the booth and dialled up a number, presumably on the internal house phone.

She turned back to me, “Lady Cameron, I’m just waiting for someone to take you up to his office.”

I thanked her and a few minutes later a young woman appeared and asked me to follow her. My stomach was doing somersaults and I dearly wanted to find a certain old lady and have her transferred to a secure unit because the other urge that was fighting to express itself, was to find her and her stupid car and crush it while she was still in it. What was I going to say to Si–he’ll play merry hell with me.

Mr Watson, the store manager, was most helpful. He reminded me that parking was at the owner’s own risk, and I pointed out that if he so wished I could take him to court to prove that his signs meant nothing in law. He blustered for a moment, suggesting that as this was obviously an incident between customers, the store wasn’t liable.

I pointed out that he had CCTV in the car park, which he agreed and we visited the control room, where with the man who operated it, we found a record of the accident. The women reversed all along the side of my car, then tried to get out but it was too close, so she then scraped the car again as she pulled out, straightened up and reversed again. It was probably at this point she discovered the damage to my car and decided to drive off. Sadly the number plate wasn’t visible.

I agreed with the manager that if he gave me a copy of the video, I’d drop all thoughts of suing the store. Reluctantly, he got his man to copy it onto a DVD. I hoped someone would be able to blow it up and enhance the number enough for me to find the old biddy and have her terminated. I wondered if someone at the university could help.

Back at the car I remembered I’d have to face Simon–but at least I had evidence to show I didn’t do the damage myself. On the drive home, I wondered what it was with cars and me–I also wondered what I’d say to Simon–he’ll be threatening to take the car off me. I was really dreading it when he came home tonight, he was not going to be at all pleased–last night all he did was brag about what a wonderful machine it was, ‘A Jaguar XRF or something,’ it doesn’t say so on the back so how am I supposed to know–the only one I recognise is his and that’s mainly because he has personalised number plates, S1 MON. He was gonna kill me, I just knew it.