The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1478 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I showed Simon the name and address of the miscreant driver who had besmirched my big cat. He sniggered, Miss Louisa Alcott, Orchard House, 13 Concord Avenue, Southsea. I’d checked on Google and it was near Clarence Parade, so quite close to the sea.

Simon sent an email to the legal department of the bank asking them to initiate proceedings against the woman for damage to the car of one thousand pounds. In other words they would threaten in legalistic terms to take her to a small claims court to recover the money. The letter would be sent by recorded delivery so we’d know she’d got it.

As the week progressed we heard nothing, then on Friday evening, Julie arrived with Phoebe who’d be sharing a room with her. Simon had helped put up the portable bed in her room, so when they arrived after brief greetings they went up to Julie’s room much to the annoyance of the lesser females who wanted to be included in the big girl stuff.

I made dinner for us and we were just finishing the dessert, homemade yoghurt and fresh fruit salad, when the door bell rang. Phoebe was nearest and offered to answer it. I was collecting dirty crocks when there was a tremendous noise from the front door of shouting and a large dog barking–which of course set off Kiki.

Simon leapt to his feet as I was stuffing dishes in the washer, and went quickly to the door, “What’s going on here?” I heard him shout followed by, “You keep that dog under control.”

By now were all curious and perhaps worried about what was happening. I got to the hallway just as a woman’s voice said, “That’s what I think of your letter, you bully.” Then the door was slammed and I saw Simon staring at an envelope. When I got to him he showed me an envelope filled with what looked and smelt like dog poo.

We took photos of it then dumped it in a plastic bag and binned it, he then went off to the police. They didn’t seem interested, it was a civil dispute and as she hadn’t actually set the dog on him or threatened him, it seemed it wasn’t their domain. He remonstrated and asked to see a senior officer–he got no further than that. We had no witnesses. He showed them the photo of the dirty envelope and apparently the copper laughed. Simon was furious and promised to write to the Chief Constable. They even provided his address. By the time he came home he was buzzing with anger.

I spent the next half an hour calming him down. Then I called James and asked him to find out what he could about her. I was just watching the end of the Elite Women’s World Championship Road Race where Nicole Cooke couldn't quite get through the bunch to win it, she took fourth place and this is without much racing this year. At least Vos didn’t win it, although the Italians have done so ever since Cooke won the Olympic and World champion’s titles in 2008.

Anyway, I was so disappointed for Cooke not getting on the podium because of those nasty foreigners when the phone rang. “Hi Cathy, I’ve emailed you a load of stuff about your irritating old lady.”

“Gosh, that was quick.”

“You know me, missus, a fast worker.”

“Thanks, Jim.” I put the phone down and went to my computer.

I scanned the email, it appeared that our subject was seventy five years old, had two convictions for driving offences–driving without due care and attention, and speeding both this year.

She also owned her own house, was a retired teacher and had assets of about fifty thousand in the bank plus a pension of six thousand a year.

Then something which completely surprised me, she was a member of CASSM–a group which stood for, Christians Against Same-Sex Marriage. I didn’t like her much beforehand, now she positively made my hair stand on end.

She was a paid up member of the Tory party and the Royal Horticultural Society–the latter was the only thing to my mind that she had going for her, or should that be growing for her. I felt like sneaking into her garden and spraying weed killer on her immaculate lawn to spell ‘HOMOPHOBE’ but I’m not sure she’d understand. Possibly she kept the big dog to keep intruders out of her garden.

She won a prize for flower arranging–her own blooms–in the Southsea flower show, and a commended in the preserves section of the show, for her strawberry jam.

I’d like to preserve her–dump her in a large jar of formalin.

Simon was taking out a restraining order against her to ban her from our property and he told his legal people to start proceedings against her for the car damage. This would probably cost more than we recovered unless we were granted costs, which is doubtful in a small claims court.

We had nothing really juicy, apart from her intolerance to gay marriage. It didn’t say which church she attended, so it could have been any of them–I didn’t fancy staking the place to see where she went on a Sunday.

As I was still reading the first email, another arrived. James had found something in the local paper from three years ago:

‘Congregation upset at church outburst–members of a Southsea congregation were upset to hear one of their worshippers stand up and harangue the vicar, Rev David Wimpole, after he preached a sermon on tolerance of minority groups following the attack on a parishioner who had attended the Portsmouth Gay Pride March and had been badly beaten by a gang of yobs.

Rev Wimpole, said he appreciated that everyone was entitled to their opinion and he regretted that Miss Alcott’s seemed rather lacking in old fashioned Christian values of love and tolerance of others. He suggested that were Jesus alive today he’d probably be marching with the supporters of Gay Pride to show solidarity with oppressed minority groups.’

The article was accompanied by a photo of both the vicar and the woman. He looked prettier than her, despite his beard.

I printed off a copy of both things and showed them to Simon who had come in from digging potatoes with Danny–actually he was digging potatoes with a spade, and so was Danny. They left them in one of the greenhouses to dry off before bagging them in large paper sacks.

Tom had been picking and storing apples with the help of the girls. We had a shed which was pretty well mouse and rat proof, which Maureen had improved during her days working for us. The door and windows fitted, the woodwork on the roof had been replaced and sealed with plastic stuff and the walls had been damp-proofed and sealed to stop little rodents burrowing in them. We stopped short at electrified fences and machine gun towers with searchlights–too expensive to maintain.

Simon read the emails and at first looked cross then sniggered at the second. “She’s what the navy call, a Dagenham station.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“One stop from Barking.”

“What?”

“Dagenham is one stop before you get to Barking on the railway.”

“Right.”

“Well go and make some dinner, then I'll let you watch the cycling in peace.”

“Okay, okay. I’m watching it tomorrow too, Cav could win the race if it comes to a bunch sprint.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the Aussies and the rest will just sit back and let the Manx Rocket fly away by himself.”

“It’s Manx Missile, and he’s well aware they’ll all be trying to stop him–but he’s still the best chance we have.”

“Well we’ve got two more rows of tatties to dig–it’s damned hard work, especially on the back,” he stretched and groaned.

“Go and take a hot bath and I’ll make some tea and bring it up.”

“Now you’re talking, girl.”

“Don’t get too carried away, I’m only making you one because I need one.”

“Oh poo,” he said and went upstairs.