The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2647 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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Poor old Simon muttered to himself for several minutes unable to see me smirking as I was facing away from him. He cuddled into the back of me and went off to sleep before I did. Nothing much keeps him awake, including once or twice being involved in supposedly pleasuring his wife—in other words the lazy sod fell asleep on the bloody job, my pleasure unmet. In all fairness he offered to finish the job the next night but I’d gone off the idea by then and it gave me a stick to poke him with.

Don’t get me wrong, we love each other—I love him and he says the same about me—and we’re good friends too; but there is a need to fight one’s own corner, so to speak, including sexual needs and rights. He’s quite vocal about his, I’m much quieter because I suspect my needs are less—or less frequent. Gosh, I’m blushing even thinking about this—jeez, I’m thirty one and still embarrassed by sex. I don’t consider myself a prude or anything but thinking about it or worse, talking about it makes me glow hotter than a sun spot. Though I admit I have needs and sometimes that’s just for a kiss and cuddle and sometimes for something more energetic. Can you believe that after turning a blind ear or a deaf eye to Simon’s suggestion—I only pretended to be dead—I fell asleep thinking about sex and wishing I’d perhaps done so earlier. It did cross my mind to wake him but knowing my luck I’d just be coming up to simmer when he finished and fell asleep again.

I didn’t wake up thinking about sex, it was more fundamental than that, I wondered what day it was as my consciousness began to surface from the depths of sleep. I could have done with another hour—no make that five or six—of sleep, but it was my turn to get Lizzie up. I’m no longer breast-feeding her she’s on cow’s milk now plus solids, but most mornings she wakes up sodden. She drinks quite a bit and what goes in must come out and it does, despite two terry towelling nappies, she almost floats in her own cot.

Checking she was still asleep, I quickly showered and dressed before quietly waking the school girl contingent and the workers. While they were sorting themselves I got Lizzie from her cot and washed and changed her in my en suite. By the time I’d dressed her the others were washed and dressed in school uniforms—it must be Monday morning again—bugger, I had a full schedule today of meetings about funding and other exciting things. Still someone has to do it and they pay me according to the amount of boredom I have to suffer, or at times it seems that way. However, after I caused mayhem in the accounts department, they tend to treat me more respectfully—well that’s how it comes across, it might just be plain fear as I don’t take prisoners—been mucked about too often.

After breakfast, during which Julie let drop they were signing a lease on a bigger shop, they shot off with embarrassed giggles before I could ask any questions—too busy shovelling porridge down Lizzie. I began to realise how a stoker felt on board an old fashioned steamer. Can this girl eat? It’s like having a captive blue whale at the table.

The others, except Cate, feed themselves, even making toast—we have a large toaster which can do six slices at once—so my lot eat plenty of it. I buy thick sliced wholemeal and we get through a loaf a day besides what we make in the bread machine. As Lidl, the German discount store is currently charging under sixty pence for a large sliced loaf, I’ve been buying them there recently. The rest of them aren’t complaining, so I assume they like the bread. I bought a new cycling helmet there the other week, seems okay and half the price of one from the internet. Okay, it doesn’t boast the designer names like Met or Specialized or Bell, but it does the same job.

Delia made me a cuppa as soon as I arrived which helped me recover from the fright of a near miss in the car. Some nice person in something called a Q5 cut me up at a roundabout and I nearly ended up on the blessed roundabout. I didn’t get his number. I say his, but it could have been a woman driving, they seem as aggressive as the men these days. By the time I got my car in the right lane to come on to the university, suffering unsympathetic honks from other drivers who seemed to delight in condemning me, I was very hot and bothered. The cuppa did help me calm down.

I went to get a file I’d left in the car when in the next row was the Q5. I recognised it because it had a dent on the nearside bumper and wheel arch—I had a good look at it while it was trying to run me off the road. I was sure it was the same car. I took the number and asked Delia to see if it was registered to anyone working at the university.

The meeting with the accountants over and the result being a draw, I considered it a good outcome, I didn’t lose any funding or have to make further cuts; when Delia handed me a slip of paper. The car was owned by a computer consultant who was working with the IT department. As we fund some of their services and had half an hour before my next meeting, I took myself over to our computer department.

One of their secretaries pointed out the man, a bloke of about forty, tall, fat and balding who was in a meeting with one of the IT post grads. I interrupted their meeting, standing in front of the slob with the Audi. “Yes?” he said.

“The next time you drive dangerously anywhere near me, I shall report you to the police.”

“What are you on about?”

“That’s your Q5 in the car park?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“You came in from the Gosport direction?”

“Yeah, so did half a million others.”

“Well the others didn’t try to kill me at a roundabout because they were in the wrong lane and almost forced me off the road.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are, lady, but butt out. I’m having a meeting here.”

“I was driving quite happily before you tried to kill me, so don’t come the old soldier, you arrogant road hog.”

He stood up and was only a couple of inches taller than I was, although I had heels on. “Piss off.” He said and I could smell garlic on his breath.

“I’m going—jeez—your breath stinks nearly as much as your driving.”

As I left I heard him ask, “Who’s the old tart with the twisted knickers?”

“I’d say a big problem,” replied the student.

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“She’s the professor of biological sciences and probably a director of your bank.”

Back in my office, I sent James an email with a car number on it and told him to get his spade and do some digging. I wonder how much debt he’s in, our macho driver?