Easy Queasy Done A Weesie.
by Angharad
part:300-3

I lay in bed listening to Simon's regular breathing, just being with him was a delight, or it was to me. Occasionally he would jump a little or snort, then he'd roll onto his back and start to snore. I'd push him back over on his side or allow to turn over and cuddle into my back, when he'd usually put his arm protectively around me, even though he was fast asleep.

I didn't think I'd ever want to be single again, the loss some freedom was worth it, so far at any rate. At the same time our work would normally mean we were apart much of the day, sometimes longer. I could cope with that, providing the work was enough of a distraction. At the moment and for the foreseeable future, it was fortunately going to remain that way.

I needed to get back to work and once I'd done all that was needed here, I would go back to my projects, one of which was that blessed film which meant meeting with Des. I wasn't sure how much that appealed to me, which probably meant not very much at all, the meeting not the film.

Somehow I must have drifted off while thinking about the film and Des, it wasn't the most pleasant of dreams, although maybe the term nightmare doesn't do it justice. The fleeting bits I recall were Simon and he fighting not over me but about a litter of cats. They ignored me anyway, and the cat I wanted wore boots, I know shades of Dick Whittington. But it was a dream, I hope.

The next morning, Simon was still with me when I awoke at seven. I nudged him to go and make the tea, which brought an unexpectedly vehement protest that it was my turn. I suppose it was, but that wasn't the point, that was that he should worship me by bringing me a cuppa in the mornings. I mean it's not that much to expect, is it!

Okay, tongue in cheek bit over, I reluctantly got out of bed and drew back the curtains, it was pretty well daylight. Simon groaned and turned over, mumbling something about coffee.

I pulled on my dressing gown and went downstairs to fill the kettle. I made some toast for both of us and took it and the tea and coffee back to bed.

Do not eat toast in bed, it makes the sheets all scratchy and macho men like Simon, whinge about it ever after. It's not my fault he forgot his jammies and he refused to wear some of my father's ones, even though they were brand new and had never been worn. I discovered he had some superstitions about dead people and things. Maybe he wasn't as much a sceptic and secularist as he liked to have me believe.

Simon is very deep and multi-layered and I have hardly scratched the surface. I don't pretend to understand him any more than I do any other man or many women for that matter. I think I understand dormouse behaviour better than humans.

We cuddled and played before finally committing to getting up, in my case it happened after Simon pulled the duvet completely off the bed and threw it down the stairs. If he hadn't been so heavy, I'd have done the same to him. The pig also beat me to the shower, so I had to kick my heels waiting to get clean.

While I waited, I read my emails, including one from Tom regarding Stella. She was now back home again and although a little frail, she seemed to be snapping back on the comments.

I was delighted to hear that Stella was bouncing back to her normal self, it was good to have her home, or it would be once we got home to Portsmouth.

I spent much of the morning ironing things which had been creased by the pressure of my wardrobes, or that I had recently washed. It struck me as absurd that my mother had a wardrobe at least twice the size of mine which was nearly bare, whereas mine was still fairly full?.

Maybe I needed to keep some of my stuff in her 'robe. I hung it all up after ironing and was ready to curl up and sleep for years. I couldn't understand why I felt so tired all the time. There was also some of Simon's stuff, but doing that was a pleasure more than a chore.

We were more than half way through February, traditionally February filldyke and it hadn't rained that much. Typical, get me back on my bike and it'll start.

That was my day, boring choring. the undertaker bloke rang, addressed me as Mrs Cameron and chortled. I called him, "Mr Death!" which he didn't seem to find funny. I told him I'd give an undertaking not to use that again. This time he laughed.

We did go for a walk and explored one or two childhood haunts of mine and the air was certainly fresh, but it was good fun and I just enjoyed walking on Simon's arm, especially past the Soames' house.

The enjoyment of the walk was somewhat lost when we discovered that the car had been vandalised while we were out. Some nice person had scratched 'queer' into it several times. We called the police, who were busy and eventually arrived, took some pictures and dusted for prints. It was going to cost some money to sort out.

I totally despise people like that, the vandals that is. I wanted to bang their heads together until they saw the light, not a very useful idea but it kept me calm.