The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1999 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I woke up with Simon looking at me as if I were an object of curiosity not his wife. “Hello, darling,” I said and smiled at him.

“Yesterday, all men were bastards and rapists–what’s changed?” He didn’t wait for my response which was possibly just as well because I just lay there completely and utterly gutted. I cried silently. He might have had a point but he’d almost demonstrated his first statement–or was he trying to show me what I was accusing him of being–only I hadn’t accused anyone of anything.

I might have been a bit over the top about the sexual assaults in India but they do worry me. I worry about vulnerable people everywhere–I’m a feminist. The fact that women are the most frequent victims gives some justification to my concerns. I hadn’t accused Simon of anything, he’d taken the cap and worn it even though it didn’t fit.

I heard him in the shower and glanced at the clock–it was only six. It was tempting to go back to sleep and hope he eventually worked off his bad temper–but my mind wouldn’t let me do that, in typical control freak modus, I’d caused him to be this way so I had to fix it.

Had I been thinking rationally, I’d have seen that he chose to argue as he was doing. He could have reasoned with me, he could have argued loudly and emotionally against me–but he didn’t, he chose to sulk and then abuse me at his leisure.

I climbed out of bed, and despite the euphoria at seeing Billie, well I thought I did so that’s good enough for me, I felt tired and down in the dumps. Simon had curdled the milk of human kindness that Billie had helped my heart to produce over night and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Part of me felt very sad, part felt very angry and part of me felt like a little girl who had just welcomed her daddy only for him to be cross with her for something she didn’t do.

I pulled off my pyjamas and pulled on a sweater and my jeans and went downstairs shod only in my slippers. I filled the kettle and switched it on while I sliced some bread and dumped it ready to brown in the toaster. Simon would take a few minutes to dry himself and get dressed. I waited for five minutes then pushed down the bread into the toaster and began to make scrambled eggs. Sammi was down first, so she had the first plate and she smiled and sat down to eat. I made another plateful and placed them down for Simon. he looked at it and then me–“What’s this for?”

“Your breakfast, what else.”

“Nah, I’m a bastard and a rapist, remember–better get my own food.”

“For God’s sak,e, Simon grow up will you? I accused you of nothing last night.”

“You accused all men, thereby indicting me as well.”

“Rubbish, I was on about a specific example quoted in the Observer.”

“Is this the same Observer that published an anti-transgender rant by one Julie Burchill?”

“Why are you doing this to me, Simon?”

“Answer the question, is it or isn’t it?”

“You know it is–you also know the article was withdrawn.”

“Like your accusation?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you let alone the question.”

“Your accusation is deemed to be invalid.”

“Why was that?”

“You didn’t approach the bench before we started.”

“What bench? Simon you are talking total bilge.”

“Am I? You sure you got the name right? You sure it wasn’t Charlie.”

“I’m not sure about anything anymore, I picked up the scrambled eggs on toast and scraped them into the bin and ran upstairs to my bed which I jumped on and promptly burst into tears. Thankfully, he didn’t pursue me possibly because he recognised my flight as a desire not to fight back.

When I woke a while later I had three girls on the bed with me who were looking very concerned. “Are you all right, Mummy?” asked Livvie.

“Yes thank you, darling.” The expressions on their faces went from doom and gloom to sunny periods in a blink.

“Why were you crying?” asked Trish who presumably wanted tear samples to compare to a list of crocodilians.

“I had a misunderstanding with your daddy which caused him to shout at me. I don’t like it when he shouts at me.”

“Me neither,” she agreed and the other two nodded.

“Why did Daddy shout at you?”

“I’m not going to go into that now, it’s grown up stuff.”

“Sex, I s’pect,” suggested Trish and smirked.

“I told you I wasn’t going to tell you, so you can stop guessing.”

“It wasn’t a guess, Mummy.”

One of these days...

“It was sex, wasn’t it, Mummy?”

“You believe what you want and I’ll do what I want–okay?”

“’Snot fair, Mummy,” whined Trish so much so that I got off the bed and locked myself in the bathroom where I took a shower. If they wanted breakfast, they could find one of the other adults to assist them.

I don’t think I felt any better, just cleaner when I emerged from the bathroom and redressed in clean underwear and pulled on the same jeans and jumper. With an air of trepidation I descended the stairs to catch Trish discussing my sex life with Stella and Jacquie.

“...I don’t think she gets it often enough, or Daddy doesn’t–I read this article which said that women who don’t have enough sex get all crabby and men get all aggressive.”

“Trish, sweetheart, I think that article might have been a bit simplistic; lots of things can make people crabby including stress such as having one of your children attacked.”

“I’m not listening to any more,” said Danny and he almost walked directly into me. I had to hush him so as he didn’t give me away to the debaters in the kitchen. He nodded that he understood and he went upstairs. I just waited in the hallway at the foot of the stairs listening.

“Is sex nice, Auntie Stella?”

I could feel Stella blushing through the wall, “Um–it can be–you’ll–um–have to wait until you’re older to find out.”

This child seemed preoccupied with sex–I decided I needed to speak with Stephanie but not right at this moment. My tummy rumbled and I worried that the others would hear it. I glanced at the grandfather clock, it was nearly nine–no wonder my tummy thought my throat had been cut. I walked briskly into the kitchen, “Have you had breakfast?” I asked to all and none.

“Yes thank you, Mummy; Auntie Stella made it for us.” Trish tried to sound accusing but I ignored her anyway, I wasn’t playing her mind games today, I was doing what I wanted and that wasn’t to argue with an eight year old.

“Can we go out on our bikes?” she asked me.

I glanced out of the window, “It’s raining, sweetheart.”

“So?” she sounded indignant.

“So–you can’t go out.”

“I sick of this regime,” she said and tossing her hair back she decamped leaving us all speechless.