The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1699 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“Thank you,” offered Stella as I pulled on my jacket before going to get the girls.

“What for?”

“Rescuing Pud.”

“That’s okay, I’m just relieved that she was found safe and well.”

“I rather panicked, didn’t I?”

“Understandable in the circumstances.”

“Anyway, I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, remember for all my sins, she’s still my niece.”

“I know, but...I was so frightened.”

“I think we were all very worried, anyway, alls well–must go and get the girls.” I gave a her a hug and went off to the convent to get the three mouseketeers. They grumbled because I was a couple of minutes late and it was raining. The traffic was dreadful, presumably because everyone else with a car had used it to collect their sprogs from school. Naturally, I feel that everyone else should walk their kids to school so the roads are clearer for me to drive mine there. I was smirking to myself at this absurdity when I found my three sat in the cloakroom just inside the school entrance.

A cloakroom is unusual in schools these days, most children have to carry their coats round with them, which I’m told is one of the reasons many of them don’t wear coats to school. I see them wandering about in blazers or just shirts in quite heavy rain and wonder if they’ll suffer rheumatism later from the wet chilling they receive. I expect the experts will laugh at me, but I know that Tom grumbles about his screws when there’s wet weather about, and we’ve had loads recently.

We trotted back to the car, and jumped in quickly as the rain got heavier by the time we got all the doors shut, it was thundering on the roof of the car and bouncing up off the pavements. Just in time, I thought to myself as the girls grumbled about having wet legs. I’d make them wear their raincoats tomorrow if the forecast suggested more of the wet stuff. Today, they’d insisted on wearing just short jackets which left them exposed to the weather from the waist down.

It sounds as if they were naked from the waist down, they weren’t, they were in their usual skirts and opaque tights, neither of which keeps rain off very long. Thinking about this suddenly reminded me that Simon and I had a wedding to go to on Saturday, and I hadn’t decided what to wear. I decided to speak to Gloria before committing to any one outfit.

On returning home while the girls were up changing into playing clothes, I quickly called Gloria, who told me smart casual was fine. I tried to press her for what she was wearing, but then realised as the bride she’d be expected to stand out, so I’d have to dress down or potentially put her in the shade–I have a bigger budget.

In the end I decided I’d wear a dress and jacket, one of Stella’s donations, the dress was in a black material with small lavender flowers embroidered on it and the jacket, which was a collarless one, a la Chanel, was the reverse, lavender with black flowers on it. I had black shoes and bag and even a hat if required. I’d wear it with plain gold jewellery.

I tried on the outfit and was just changing back to my usual casuals to get the dinner when the phone rang. It was Danny, he’d finished his soccer game–they’d won by a single goal, scored by him. I congratulated him and asked if he wanted a lift home–which of course was why he’d rung. Could I give some of his friends a lift as well? I didn’t do much for him in regard to that, so I agreed.

I ended up with four muddy hooligans in my nice clean Jaguar. To be honest, they were all as good as gold, two had never been in a Jag before so were suitably impressed.

“You know Kelvin?” Danny said to me as we headed home.

“Which one was he?” I asked for clarification.

“The black one.”

As there was only one black boy in the group, he did rather stand out. “What about him?”

“He thinks you’re sexy.”

“Danny, I’m more than twice his age.”

“So, I think it’s good having a sexy mum.”

“Do you now, or is one who has a Jaguar better?”

“I’ve got a sexy mum who drives a Jaguar.”

I felt my face getting hotter, “Well, let’s just keep it between us, shall we?”

“Why? I’m proud of it.”

“Danny, beauty or the lack of it is very superficial and entirely due to one’s genes.”

“Yeah and yours are like, very tight.”

I blushed, the problem was my arse had grown a bit in the last year and the stretchy material showed it in all its glory. “Oh, I suppose I’d better not wear them again.”

“No, Mum, wear them all the time, you have a splendid bum.”

“Danny, you’re not supposed to say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s better than saying you look like an old boot, isn’t it?”

“Marginally,” I replied blushing. The protocol is that all boys love their mothers but are only supposed to say they look nice, because anything else is vulgar. Of course we all know about Dr Freud’s Oedipal complexes and so on, but I try to ignore them in the hope that my son doesn’t kill his adopted father in order to marry me, because it wouldn’t be allowed and he’d be in prison anyway. Hmm, somehow, the full detail of the Greek myths doesn’t always fit today’s climate, for which perhaps, we should be grateful.

The rest of the short journey home was in relative silence, just the sound of the windscreen wipers sloshing back and fore and the patter of the rain on the roof. Back in the drive we ran from the car to the kitchen and into the house before we were soaked. I sent Danny off for a shower and dumped his sopping, muddy football kit into the washer and his boots I left under the radiator to dry on an old newspaper. I then began preparing the dinner. I had a load of mince and asked which the children fancied more, cottage pie or spaghetti. The vote was unanimous–cottage pie–damn, it takes longer and is more work. I think I might do away with democracy next time. I began peeling a mass of spuds...