The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2785 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

---

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.
*****

By the time I got to my office it was elevenses and Diane suitably obliged with a cuppa and plain chocolate digestive, realising I’d had nought but a cuppa for breakfast, I ate a second before she noticed. Then it was business as usual until lunchtime when Tom knocked on my door and affected a landlord’s visit, or so I thought he said. Then he insisted I go to lunch and bring him up to date on my meeting.

He was amused by my description, especially as Mrs Lomax put her much larger husband in his place after he’d got nowhere with his attempted intimidation. He actually chuckled at one point and shook his head. “I cud hae telt him he wis wastin’ his time tryin’ tae bully ye.”

“I wish you had, it would have saved half an hour of a somewhat tedious encounter.”

“I dinnae believe that, ye enjoyed ev’ry moment.”

It’s ridiculous, but since transitioning I’ve spoken to more bloody coppers than did in the previous twenty two years.”

“Aye but mind ye we’re a child f’ hef o’those.”

I suppose he had a point but I wasn’t going to concede it.

Back at my office, I spent an hour or so dictating letters for Diane to do while also dealing with some recalcitrant cucumber I’d had with my tuna jacket. I wasn’t sure if it was repeating or echoing, but it took two cups of tea and an extra strong mint to subdue it.

By the time I had to leave to collect the Cameron five-a-side team, the aftershocks of the recently deceased cucumber were few and far between and I was able to converse with the girls as we drove home. Of course they wanted to know how the meeting went but I refused to tell them until after I’d spoken to Hannah alone. They all grumbled and she, in all fairness said I could tell them all together, but I refused believing it was a good idea to speak with her first.

Consequently, they all waited outside my study while I explained to Hannah what had transpired. I also explained that she shouldn’t take advantage of Cecily because she lost, despite her having been bullied. She seemed to understand and I said she could tell the others but for them to come and see me when she’d finished. I then went and changed out of my suit and into some jeans and a polo shirt, one carrying the logo of the Tour of Britain which if I recall was ridiculously expensive. Mind you, my TdF one from Yorkshire was equally overpriced. Anyone would think I was a cycling enthusiast. I’ll bet the pope gets more cycling in than I do, zipping up and down the corridors of the Vatican on a battery powered Brompton, or Italian equivalent.

I was so glad it was Friday evening, I felt very tired and looked forward to a little longer in bed, although being a weekend, Simon should be back from Newcastle tonight and he’ll be wanting to demonstrate absence makes the heart grow fonder, or one part of his anatomy will be growing if he gets his way.

By coincidence he called to say he was flying back to Southampton at ten o’clock and could I or one of the girls collect him? As little uns should be abed by then I said I’d collect him. Just what I wanted, a drive to Southampton airport at nine o’clock at night.

Dinner was delicious and I nearly zonked in the chair while reading Nature but Trish and Livvie squabbling over another book woke me and I sent them all to bed without a story. I was like an Ursa with a migraine.

My grumpiness didn’t improve when bloke on a motorbike cut me up on a roundabout, then gave me the finger when I beeped at him. Next time I thought, I’ll just knock him off his stupid arse-rocket and reverse back over him to make sure he was dead. For some obscure reason that made me laugh, then I wondered if I was becoming demented as a change in what you find funny is apparently a sign of it up to ten years before other symptoms show—wunnerful. Peculiarly, I didn’t find that one bit amusing.

At the next roundabout I discovered someone in an Audi Q5 or whatever had had a similar experience only this time the motorcyclist was lying in the road doing a good impression of a still life model. I went to give assistance, glad I’d changed into jeans to be kneeling in the road. I started CPR even though someone told me he was dead, but then they didn’t have CPR plus, though I did ask the blue stuff to remain invisible—well if I couldn’t see it, why should anyone else?

He coughed and I realised his heart had started and he was now breathing. The person who’d declared him dead was shocked, as they were an off duty GP. “How did you do that?” he demanded.

“I had extra training in it at the university. Most people don’t push hard enough,” I declared, it was true but did it apply to doctors? Probably, unless they’re anaesthetists. The paramedic who trained me told me to shove good an’ hard, as no one who survives a cardiac arrest is likely to sue over some cracked ribs, I suppose they won’t laugh too often either.

The ambulance arrived and I was able to escape. It was a good job I’d left early because the half an hour I’d spent at the accident used up all my spare travel time and Simon was waiting when I arrived.

“You’re late,” he accused.

“And you’re crabby,” I retorted.

“So would you be spending three days in Newcastle when my beautiful wife is in Portsmouth.”

“I don’t have one, so it wouldn’t bother me.”

“Oh so I’m dismissed then?”

“No, you were missed,” I said and his frown became a smile. “I had to warm my own feet.” He frowned again and I smirked.

“That’s right, enjoy my suffering.”

“David made his own salmon fishcakes with some watercress sauce.”

“It’s not too late to eat then?”

“It would be, but we ate yours anyway, they were delicious. They just fell apart...”

“You heartless hussy,” he started and was still denouncing me as we got on the motorway. Thankfully, the traffic was lighter on the return journey and I switched on the car radio. I wish I hadn’t, it was reporting a terrorist attack in Paris with dozens believed dead and hundreds injured. It was too early to speculate who the perpetrators were but I think we all had a good idea.

Simon was speechless the said quietly, “Sean Martin was going to watch the football, his daughter was going with him to see some pop concert.”

“Do I know him?” I asked.

“You’ll have met him at board meetings, he’s taken over the estates division. His wife died with cancer about three years ago, his daughter is all he’s got left. I hope he’s okay.”

“Send him a text,” I suggested.

“Good idea,” he pulled out his BlackBerry and started his message.