The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1952 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

December 1st 1952:
o The New York Daily News carries a front page story announcing that Christine Jorgensen, a transsexual woman in Denmark, has become the recipient of the first successful sexual reassignment operation. (wikipedia)
December 3rd: The authoress of this interminable saga was born in Cardiff.

Back in Portsmouth, the two sleeping beauties woke as soon as I switched off the engine, which seeing as it’s pretty quiet, means it was probably the lack of motion which woke them.

“C’mon sleepy heads, let’s unload the car and see what David has made for dinner.” They followed me into the house each carrying a bag of some sort and muttering. Stella came into the kitchen.

“I’m glad you’ve arrived home at last, David has got some sort of bug, so you’ll have to cook.”

I was tempted to suggest fish and chips, but we had those last night and I won’t countenance pizzas. If David was ill yesterday, they probably had them then.

“When did he become ill?”

“Yesterday afternoon, he began vomiting and I had to send for pizzas.” Or you could have cooked something, Stella.

“Put the kettle on, let me get my bearings for a few minutes and I’ll see what’s what.” I finished unloading the car and by that time Stella had made some tea which I sat down and drank.

“Your broadcast was quite good,” she offered as I drank my refreshing beverage.

“Oh well, it’s done now.” I finished the tea and wandered over to the fridge, according to the menu, David had intended spaghetti bolognaise for dinner yesterday, so if the ingredients necessary were still there, that’s what we’d have tonight.

I checked inside the fridge and we had the necessary including a lump of Parmesan. After washing my paws, I set to making the sauce, frying the mince to seal it before adding the mushrooms, garlic and onion then finally the tomatoes. I stirred the simmering cauldron and refilled the kettle.

Grating the cheese into a dish, I checked the sauce, which was fine, and my cup–which wasn’t, it was empty. So the kettle went on yet again, though I washed the smelly cheese aroma off my hands before drinking any more tea.

Once that was drunk, it was a question of calling David, or at least the cottages, which was what we called the old stables where he and Ingrid lived, to enquire after our much missed cook.

“A lot better, now, thanks, Cathy. With luck I should be back tomorrow.”

“I’m doing the spag bol, if you lot would like some, I only have to add some more pasta to the pot?”

“That’s very kind of you, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“Would I say it wasn’t if it was?”

“Sorry, boss-lady.”

“That’s better, I’ll bring some over in a bit.”

In the end, I had to use two pans to make enough pasta, which was just finishing cooking when Simon and Sam arrived with Tom just behind them. I called for wannabe diners to wash their paws and come and get it. A veritable stampede occurred–I guess they like spaghetti bolognaise.

I served it up then after putting mine in the oven to keep warm, I popped over to the cottages with the leftovers. David looked tired, but he assured me he felt much better. Ingrid and Hannah so far hadn’t caught whatever it was he’d had. They joked it was probably his cooking. I took my leave to go back and eat mine before Simon found it and ate it for me.

“I think I prefer your spag bol to wossisname’s,” declared Simon.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good, Mummy,” added Trish and Livvie while Mima continued spraying the sauce over the bib she had on. Danny nodded, his mouth full of dinner–he’d been last to the table. Julie and Phoebe couldn’t tell which was better, and thought we should run a competition, which made Stella laugh–until I told her she could do the washing up. Simon roared and Daddy smiled without saying anything.

I’d chopped up some of the pasta into small lengths and added some sauce, so Catherine and Puddin’ were scoffing it like it was going out of fashion, and even Fiona had a bit.

Of course we had to have Italian wine with the meal, and Simon opened a bottle of Chianti which I admit I enjoyed drinking. Okay the food in Brunetti stories is probably better, but I still think I make a fair shot at it, though we were fresh out of aubergines and focaccia.

Meems was a bit clingy when it got to bedtime and I hoped she wasn’t coming down with whatever David had had. She wasn’t, it was just her way of saying she’d missed me. It’s funny, that she was the first of my adopted children to find her way into my life and yet she usually prefers to be with her daddy if he’s about. Tonight, she wanted to be with me, or for me to cuddle with her for a little while before she went to sleep.

I mused on where her parents might be and what they might be doing. I got no feeling about them at all, so they could be dead or so detached from her now that I could no longer tune into them via her. Possibly, she’s detached herself from them. It’s been several years since she was dumped on me–a dirty trick to play on a child, but I hope Simon and I have more than made up for it, in the love and affection we’ve given her.

In bed, I discussed the children with Simon who was tired and had difficulty staying awake, so in the end I left him to it and fell asleep myself while still musing about the birth parents of all our children.

The next morning the weather had taken a turn back towards winter and became significantly colder. The plans I’d had to take the kids out somewhere were curtailed. Danny went off to his football course for the last time–he’d really enjoyed himself.

The three schoolgirls helped me clean through and do some laundry until lunch time, for which David produced the most exquisite cream of celery soup and the machine made some nice bread. Then while he laboured over dinner I took the three mousketeers and Cate out for a walk. We all wrapped up really well, especially the little one in her push chair, and we found a cafe open which sold ice creams and while they froze their tongues I indulged in a cup of latte coffee.

The walk back was just as cold if not worse, and a bit of a fret was coming in off the sea, which seemed to make it feel even colder. Then as we walked home we heard the fog horn which is now all part of an automated lighthouse system, so even if I fancied running off to work as a lighthouse keeper, I couldn’t–all the best jobs are going or gone. Then again, they don’t have too many dormice in lighthouses, so that might pose a bit of a problem and I suspect the broadband connection might be less than satisfactory compared to the one we have here–fibre optic and pretty fast.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1952