Cathy blows her top at a right little banker!

Easy As Falling Off A Bike.
by Angharad.
part 87.

It's interesting that when you can't do something how badly you want to do it. Then when you get to do it, the experience is very different to how you had imagined it. While living as a boy, I always wanted to be able to wear high heels and hear them clicking as I walked. I sometimes even slipped on my mother's when I was younger and tottered up and down the patio, listening to the noise they made.

Now, I suppose I could wear them whenever I wanted, and I did still want to wear them. I mean a couple of weeks is hardly enough to compensate for years of yearning. However, clattering my way along the hospital corridor was so noisy and being a self-conscious soul began to grate a little. Outdoors it was okay, just about. Indoors and in an echo chamber like a hospital corridor, it sounded so loud. I almost walked on my toes to make it quieter, instead of the crash, crash crash of my heels.

I suppose this took my mind off the business to which I was heading like a ship in full sail. I entered the ward, and my father was walking up and down with a physio helper. I stopped and watched as he tried so hard to get mobile and independent again. I was nearly in tears watching him, and I felt so proud of his efforts, a bit like watching a toddler master walking.

I was aware of someone behind me, it was that bloke from the bank. "Shouldn't we, get on with this?" he said waving a sheaf of papers at me.

"That man struggling to walk is my father. If your bank can't wait for two minutes while he tries to regain his independence, then I shall get him to close his account first thing tomorrow morning."

"There's no need to be so combative, Mister um Miss erm."

"I have spent the whole morning dealing with piddling, petty bureaucrats, so my tolerance is low. I am Miss Watts, that is my father Mister Watts. If you haven't grasped that much, then I would prefer to deal with someone who can."

He flushed with anger but controlled himself. Good, I thought, serve you right you bastard! I've taken it all day, now it's my turn to dish it out.

My talking in a loud voice made my father recognise me and it gave him the excuse he needed to stop his exercises. He slumped in his chair absolutely knackered and I wondered how much participation he would have in this business.

It turned out as I predicted, he managed to stay awake just long enough for it all to be legal enough to allow the bank to grant me power to deal with his affairs, like paying his bills and writing cheques.

He identified me and brought a tear to my eye when asked who I was, he replied. "C-ath-y, m-y dor-or." He couldn't sign, so the sister on the ward was asked to witness this problem, which she was happy to do.
A little later, my dad was dead-oh and snoring, and the sister was asking if I could bake him another cake, because that was all he was eating.

"Why isn't he eating hospital meals, they're not that bad are they?"

"I don't know, but he insists on eating your sponge."

"Why for God's sake?"

"Because you made it for him."

It was a good job we were in her office, because I said, "What?" very loudly, "but we hardly spoke for the past year, except to insult each other. The only thing we had in common was our mutual contempt."

"Life threatening illness changes people's perspectives. The stroke probably gave him quite a fright, especially so soon after your mother's death. You are all he has, you have suddenly become important and precious to him."

"Oh hell, I don't need this. I'm just about to start a PhD, I haven't got time to look after him. So I hope that isn't what he's hoping for."

"I don't honestly know. The opinion is that he is making very good progress and may soon be able to go to rehabilitation centre. It would be their assessment which determined what happened next together with his progress. I don't honestly know if he will become independent again."

I shook my head, I could not give into the blackmail that was afflicting my conscience. Why should I? Because he needs me, came back the answer. How about what I need? That doesn't count, daughters often sacrifice their careers to look after elderly or infirm parents.
Tough, this one ain't!

I sat and watched him sleep. I did love him but I wasn't sure if it was enough to risk my future. Was there some way I could compromise by doing half my stuff at Bristol Uni and linking with Portsmouth? I didn't know and was half afraid to think too much about it, the amount of work the whole thing would generate was enormous and I doubted I could cope. Why does this always happen to me? I stood up and went off to the hospital cafeteria and had a cuppa and a bun. When I clattered back to the ward, he was still asleep so I pecked him on the cheek and walked out, tears almost obliterating my vision.

As I walked I looked up at the sky and cursed it, "Having fun are you you bastard, fucking up my life again just when I think it's working out. Well I'm not gonna let you, so you can stick that exactly where you like!" In response, the skies opened and I was soaked before I got back to the car. I laughed, "I suppose I asked for that, but I still think you're a bastard."

The rest of the week was spent baking cakes with a variety of fillings and flavours, taking them into the hospital and and writing my plan for the government study. The latter took me longer than I'd hoped but I had managed to email it to Prof Agnew by the thursday evening.

Of course I day dreamed about Simon, and dreamed about him at night several times. There was no sign or sound from him. I began to worry that he'd heard about me and done a runner. I felt that I couldn't contact Stella either because he would hear of it and feel I was pressuring him. The future began to look far less rosy and I must admit, I began to feel a bit depressed. Even the joy of laying in bed worrying over what delicious bit of clothing I should wear today, got boring. I was becoming an ordinary woman, cooking, cleaning and visiting my dad, with some of my own work thrown in when I could find time. It was as far from glamorous as I was from those dreadful tg stories I used to read on the net, which suggested women must always be just so, with perfect clothes and make up. Yeah that was me, scruffy jeans covered in flour, waiting for the machine to finish the washing so I could hang it out. Yeah, very glamorous!