The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2503 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

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I’d got Sammi to create a Christmas card picture for me which involved photoshopping a dormouse onto a background of holly with glistening snow—well I thought it looked cute. The quote from the printer’s was reasonable for a hundred printed on 200gm card, so I sent them the image and asked for some proofs. Then it was time to go and collect the girls from school.

Stella was talking vaguely about sending Pud to the convent and I assumed Cate would go there as well, and presumably, so would dizzy Lizzie. Considering her sad background, she is such a happy child always gurgling or giggling and saying the odd word—most are so odd that no one understands them, except Meems. She seems able to translate for our youngest arrival—wonder why that is?

Did you know it’s St Catherine’s day? Neither did I, it was Trish who announced it as I collected them. I knew there was a St Catherine’s hill in Hampshire which was a place of pilgrimage in bygone days. Apparently, St Catherine was one of these characters from history which although much celebrated seemed to leave no evidence of ever having existed, and are only mentioned hundreds of years later.

I suspect there are plenty of saints in the same position and possibly the founder of the faith they all supposedly served. As yet, I know of no definite evidence that Jesus as a historical figure existed, but that doesn’t matter to people of faith, which I respect. Sadly, Mohammed is a historical figure, but some of his followers seem to have inherited all the barbarism of mediaeval Christians.

The breaking wheel, with which my namesake is associated, was an instrument of enormous cruelty and used in places up until the mid nineteenth century, especially what is now Germany. The victim was strapped to the wheel and their limbs were smashed with hammers or clubs. In some they had their chests or abdomens crushed or their spines broken. The wheel was then mounted on a post and the victims were left to die from their injuries or dehydration or predation by birds. There are apparently records which suggest one person took four days to die. In a more humane method, the victim was garrotted or beheaded. In the original myth of St Catherine, the wheel is supposed to have fallen apart and she was eventually beheaded. It concerns me, that in however many years since this was supposed to have happened, we have learned nothing which could conclude we were intelligent or civilised beings. Today, two women suicide bombers blew themselves up in a market in Nigeria killing fifty people. I rest my case.

Back to my kids, as we drove home, I got excited bits of the hagiography of St Catherine of Alexandria, interspersed with the excitement of having an England footballer in the family. Danni seemed ambivalent to the latter, blushing with embarrassment while almost bursting with pride that she’d managed to outdo her younger and cleverer siblings at long last. I chose to let them continue until we got home then called for quiet. Amazingly I got it.

“Right, I’m happy that you celebrated St Catherine’s day, even though I doubt she ever existed. I’m pleased that you’re excited about what your sister might achieve in playing football. However, she hasn’t got an England cap yet despite our total agreement that she’s good enough, so tone it down a little and allow her to concentrate on her school work and training for football.”

They cheered, then Trish asked, “Why won’t she be picked if she’s good enough?”

“These things get quite complicated at times, Trish, including the fact that we’re still waiting for Danni to get full legal status as female.”

“She’s not a boy no more, she hasn’t got a willie for a start, she’s got a fanny, like all us girls.”

“The legal element can take longer than we’d like.”

“Why?”

“Because it does.”

“But why can’t the judgeman say she’s girl, only takes a minute.”

“There is a protocol to follow...” as soon as these words left my mouth I knew it would take a while to explain what I meant. I was right, I was there for ten minutes with Trish interrupting every few seconds. I eventually managed to explain that the legal process took time because once it was done there was no undoing it, so they had to be sure in the first place. I don’t seem to learn, do I? But I possibly had more sympathy for the lovely Brian Cox trying to explain the second law of thermodynamics to the average UK television viewer, in words of one syllable. At least they can’t interrupt when he’s in full flow, unlike our own brain-box. The sad thing is, she probably understands the thermodynamics bit but not due process of law. Having said that, I don’t understand either—there’s a surprise.

We trouped into the kitchen to find that David had had the day off. Wonderful, that meant I was head cook and bottlewasher and wasn’t Stephanie coming over for dinner? Stella confirmed she was and bringing little Emily with her. Just great. The girls were sent off to change while I perused the freezer. It was going to be a cop-out, I was going to do spag bol.

Pleading with Stella to make some tea while I ran upstairs to change, I stripped off my work outfit and threw on some jeans and my Yorkshire TdF tee shirt, then dashed back down to start defrosting two pounds of lean minced beef and opening half a dozen cans of chopped tomatoes.

I sipped my tea in between giving various schoolgirls drinks of milk and a biscuit, and putting a pot the size of a witches cauldron on the range. Into this I dumped the bags of mince—having removed said bags, duh—and applied heat. While that defrosted itself over a low heat, I chopped onions and mushrooms, crushed garlic and anyone else who interrupted me. In an even bigger pot, half-filled with salted water, I turned on the heat for the spaghetti.

I’m sure everyone here has their own favourite recipe, I quite like spaghetti Neapolitano as well or carbonara, but tonight it was Bolognese, and they’d have to like it or lump it.

We did have a lump of suitably disgusting Parmesan to sprinkle on the top of the finished meal, so that was all progressing nicely. For a pudding, I made up a flan case with circles of tinned Mandarin oranges, then used the juice to make up a quick setting gel, stuck a cherry in the middle and consigned it to the fridge to set. I had a large tub of cream to finish it, which according to the latest wisdom on fats and carbohydrates, the cream should be less threatening than the gel or the actual sponge case. Oh well, we’ve all got to die sometime—though I’d prefer it happened after we’d all finished eating.

It was all cooked and simply keeping warm when Simon arrived home closely followed by Stephanie with Emily in tow. “It’s spag bol, I’m afraid,” I said apologetically.

“Oh great,” said Simon, “my favourite,” he says that about anything I cook.

“Absolutely,” echoed Stephanie, “I hope you have some dirty socks to sprinkle on it, as well.”

We all laughed at that, “I have some well-rotted partisan in the fridge.” Her response was to roar with laughter. It might prove to be a better evening than I thought.