The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2666 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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I don’t know about you, but half the time I feel what took hours in a meeting could be sorted by one or two people in half the time, but we’d probably need a meeting to decide it—duh.

They eventually ran out of meetings for me to attend and after asking Delia about helping me sort the party for the visitor centre, she told me she’d organize it. I almost kissed her I was so pleased and told her to include herself in the numbers of people attending. She seemed to enjoy that. Well, I figured that if she comes the food will be edible—nah, it was intended as a reward for her efforts.

I collected the girls and upon returning home discovered David and Stella in a discussion which quietened as soon as the girls went through. Then once they’d got their drink and a biscuit and went off to do their homework, the discussion started up again.

“So what d’you think, Cathy?”

“I’m not thinking at the moment, been to three meetings today, my brain is boggled.”

All the sympathy I got was laughter. “So what about this call me Caitlyn business?” she asked.

“What about it?”
“What d’you think about it?”

“I don’t.”

“You must be aware of it.”

“I’m well aware of it but it bores me.”

“It’s raising the matter of trans people.”

“Perhaps.”

“It is isn’t it?”

“It’s like everything else about the Kardashians, it’s one dimensional. Good luck to her, but if they want to do something about transgender people why don’t they talk to the poor black ones in the ghetto, not self publicising wealthy white ones?”

“But isn’t all publicity ultimately good?”

“Possibly, I’m too tired to think but Jenner has a brand to sell, him or herself, she will make millions out of uncritical or sycophantic interviews with pictures by the photographers to the stars. It’s no more real life than anything they do; but the press are captivated by this bunch of self serving numbskulls so won’t be interested in how many black transgender women died from HIV or drug overdoses, or violence or suicides or even how many poor white women did.

“It’s all stage managed like everything they do but it isn’t real—it’s plastic or silicone enhanced—so that’s what I think of it, good luck to her.”

The look on Stella’s face meant she was unprepared for my sideswipe. I’m tired of the people on reality shows who are so unreal, they probably resemble beings from an adjacent galaxy more than human beings. I’d rather see real people solving real problems—however, I don’t envy the lifestyle the Kardashians have brought upon themselves—but as it’s all self inflicted, I don’t have any sympathy either.

I did take a squint at the thing Paris Lees did with the Guardian about being trans and happy. At least that was real people, though Paris is a very attractive woman and I’m happy for her to carry the torch for those who need it. She’s articulate with an edge, very attractive and knows what she’s talking about—didn’t go much on her ripped leggings though. Some of these fashion ideas seem pretty stupid to me and the sheep will follow even if it’s baaad for them.

I went and showered and while I was drying my hair Danni asked if Cindy could come over again. I felt so tired that I almost said no, instead I gave conditions. “She can come providing you’ve done all your homework. I’m not going to correct her sewing or teach anybody anything, nor am I taking her home. I’m going to have a quiet night with a book, so don’t count on me for anything—okay?”

“Yeah okay.” She went off too happy, she must have been scheming—oh well if someone is dumb enough to run her home, that’s up to them.

I’d just finished doing my hair when the phone rang and Trish called out, “Muuummmy, it’s for you-hoo.”

“Hello?”

“Hello, Cathy, it’s Veronica from the women’s refuge.”

“Sorry, I have sort out one of the kids…” I didn’t want to talk to her or anyone, I just wanted to eat my dinner and read my book, then go to bed. What is wrong with that?

“Cathy, please. Look, I know who you are…”

“I understood that by the fact you appear to have my phone number. How much do you want?”

“This isn’t about money, though we’re always struggling…”

“What is it about then?”

“Domestic violence.”

“How am I supposed to help with that, you have more skills and experience than I do.”

“We have a mother and daughter here, they’ve both been rather badly beaten, she’s asking for you—she said she used to work for you—the girl’s about twelve. The police are coming but she asked me to get you to come.”

“Why me?”

“She said you rescued her once before, she trusts you.”

“Why can’t she trust you or the police?”

“She says she can’t.”

“I’ll see if I can pop in a bit later.”

“It’s urgent, she needs to go to hospital but she won’t until you’ve seen her.”

“That’s ridiculous—tell her to go to hospital and I’ll see her afterwards.”

“That’s what I said but she’s adamant, she won’t go until she’s spoken with you. Please come and speak with her—please, it’s really important, she’s really been hurt.”

“How is Hannah?”

“She’s got several bruises but she managed to escape while they beat her mother.”

“They?”

“Look please come, we’ll tell you more then.”

I put the phone down and felt like screaming. Why is it that as soon as I’m going to do something for myself, the universe pisses all over me? I pulled on a jacket and slipped on some shoes, grabbed my bag and headed for the car.

“And where d’you think you’re going?” demanded David then saw my expression and apologized.

“I have to go out, I won’t be any longer than I need to but it might be best if you put me aside a dinner.”

“No problems, boss.”

I thanked him and walked out to my car on heavy legs. What were they expecting me to do? Offer her a home again? I haven’t got an elastic sided house, though Cate’s mother’s house could be available in a week or two. I suppose at a push I could foster Hannah for a week or so, but the logistics of school runs and so on make things rather difficult.

I got in the car and with a heart as heavy as my legs set off for the women’s refuge.

The traffic was fairly light and I made good time parked in their small car park hoping no one decided to scratch my car or any other vandalism. I rang the bell and it was answered almost immediately.

“I’m C…”

“I know who you are, now hurry she’s really sick.”