Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 887 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

---

After breakfast, I took the girls to school–it was their first day after all the snow and Simon and I had been out early to get their uniforms. There were no press outside the house and I decided we’d go back home that day.

The story of paedophiles in our universities had the Echo in orgasmic trances and the cash registers ringing. I was consequently left alone–at least until they found out I was there, too. Thankfully it hadn’t dawned on them, all they had to do was follow me round for a few days and some sort of story will manifest itself. I must be nearly as reliable as the prime minister for a history of unfortunate events.

Once upon a time, I thought it was Simon’s family who had brought about all this bad luck, but now I do wonder. I seem quite capable of having it run amok in my own little life.

Back at the house after the school run–everything was as it should be, I made a few calls–our suicide was Perryman and they had found a note. He’d written something on his leg apparently. It was something like, Tell Charlie this is his fault.

If it were true, then it tended to suggest that Perryman had made his own choice not pushed into anything by someone else or even executed by someone. That felt a relief in some ways–it wasn’t Simon or Henry.

I wondered how much poo the local police would be in–the same division wouldn’t be dealing with Southampton and Southsea which are miles apart. Henry had explained that Sir Michael would be looking to make them pay big time for my assault.

The police surgeon had examined me and taken some photos which I countersigned, it wouldn’t surprise me if the file disappeared before the complaints authority saw it. Even if it did, the police surgeon could be made to testify and other officers who witnessed things could be subpoenaed.

Stella came back later that morning, with Puddin’ of course, and we had a good old chinwag over a pot of tea and some sandwiches.

“Did you say Luke Skywalker wrote something on his leg about you?”

“He was insistent that you are what you were born...”

“So he was born a paedo was he?”

“In his reasoning, I suppose it would follow.”

“I can see that in gender disorders, they possibly are present at birth but take time to manifest, as would sexual orientation–but how can someone be attracted to children in a sexual way–it makes no sense. Young adolescents, maybe–they’d be strong, but children is creepy and would have no biological advantage in breeding would it?”

“Neither does being turned on by fur or high heels or whatever else some people enjoy–but none of that does anyone else any harm, except perhaps the animal the fur came from. I mean, in some ways same sex relationships don’t increase the population, but they may serve some purpose in other ways–we’re not here just to breed are we?”

“If we are, I’m afraid you missed the boat, Cathy–but isn’t this revolutionary talk? Your mentor Professor Dawkins wouldn’t agree with you, would he?”

“I don’t agree with everything Richard Dawkins says, besides he has no experience of my situation, so we have to let our lives inform us as well as our intellects. I suppose I’d be the victim one of his Memes.”

“One of his what?”

Me and my mouth–“Dawkins picked up on the idea that some cultural and intellectual ideas appear to act in an evolutionary manner, like genes do. Some prosper and mutate, some stay the same and others become extinct.”

Stella thought for a moment then said, “Hmm–okay, I can see some sort of analogy there, but how is GID a cultural thing?”

“It isn’t entirely, except we tend to demonstrate ourselves and our identity by the way we dress, behave and adorn ourselves.”

“Unless you’re hiding something–disguising it, like you with your chest bandages.”

“Eh?”

“Well when we first met, you were pretending to be a boy–hiding your light under a bandage.”

“Yeah, so I didn’t want people to see I had boobs until I was ready.”

“So you were disguising yourself–saying what exactly–I’m a normal man?”

“Yeah, I suppose I was.”

“And nowadays you’re saying–I’m a normal woman?”

“I suppose I am–within certain limitations.”

“So what has that got to do with memes?”

“How the hell do I know? God, look at the time–I have three little lambs to collect, can you watch out for the two bigger sheep?”

“Ooh, I might.”

“You are so definitely indefinite, Stel.”

“Absolutely–perhaps.” She laughed and went to vacuum Puddin’ or whatever she does during the mid afternoon.

As I drove to the convent I listened to the radio and was able to escape my mind playing with all sorts of silly ideas. Including memes, which are a variation in some ways, of Paradigm shift. I concentrated on staying alive in the traffic and collecting my girls rather than my thoughts.

They were pleased to see me as I was them, we had loads of hugs and as we got in the car Trish dropped a little bombshell.

“I used the blue light on a girl in my class, Mummy.”

“You did what?”

“I helped a girl who had fallen over and stopped her knee bleeding.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Some of the girls did, why?”

“Trish, I’ve asked you not to draw unnecessary attention to yourself.”

“I didn’t, Mummy. She fell over in front of me and when I went to help her up her knee stopped bleeding and healed up.”

Oh shit–“Look, sweetheart, please don’t use it for little things, if someone is in real distress, that’s more understandable.”

“I didn’t mean to do it, Mummy, it just happened;” she started to cry and I realised I done it again. Was I really the best person to look after children?

I put my arm round her and hugged her tightly–“Ignore me, kiddo, I’m being silly again–tiredness, I expect.”

“Why can’t I do the blue light thing, Mummy?” asked Livvie.

“I don’t know, darling–perhaps you can–have you tried?”

“Only on Meems, Mummy.”

“What did Meems need healing?” this was news to me and I probably showed it in my reaction.

“She cut her finger, Mummy.”

“When?” This was also news to me.

“This morning. Trish and I saw her at playtime, Mummy and she showed me her finger.
Trish told me what to do–and I tried really, really hard but nothing happened.”

“Did Trish try?” I asked.

“No, she was too busy helping the girl who fell over.”

“Is your finger still sore, Mima?”

“No, Mummy, Twish did it.”

“Did anyone see you, Trish?”

“It’s not my fault, Mummy,” she sobbed from the back seat of my car.

“What happened?”

“About six girls asked us what were doin’ and I told them trying to heal Mima’s finger and they laughed and said it was impossible–Trish said it wasn’t and showed them. They thought it was very clever.”

I hope they don’t start calling her a witch, now–what joy kids are–let’s get home before she turns someone into a toad.