The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2793 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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“This woman tried to bribe you?” Julie asked and was shaking her head, “She obviously doesn’t know my mum.”

“Quite,” agreed Sammi, “I mean, who in their right mind would risk everything for a measly hundred grand?”

“I happen to think that’s a lot of money,” I was clearing the table as I spoke.

“But it’s small change to Dad.”

Simon swallowed audibly, “It isn’t, no matter how much you’ve got, a hundred K is a great deal of money.”

“C’mon, Dad, your F-type is worth nearly that much,” Sammi had her own opinions.

“It’s not is it?” I was astonished. Mind you, I’d never wondered how much such a car would cost because I’m unlikely to ever have one, lovely though it is. But then if it cost a hundred thousand pounds...how could anyone spend that on a car? It’s crazy verging on obscene.

Simon blushed a colour which was somewhere between crimson and scarlet. “It’s a lease car.”

“With an option to buy, I take it?”

“Not sure, see how things are when the time comes round.”

I was astonished then after the shock passed I realised I was still thinking like I used to, buying this in Asda or Tesco because it’s ten pence cheaper. Simon has lots of money which he works hard to earn. He can spend it as he sees fit, he doesn’t tell me how to spend mine. Providing we can pay our way, I have no complaints on money.

In bed I raised the matter of his phallic symbol again. “You’re going to buy that car, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you, Simon.”

“Well that’s your problem. What’s it to do with anyone but me in the first place?”

“I suppose it could be construed as conspicuous consumption.”

“Who cares? Look, wossisface who owns Chelsea football club, I don’t hear you complaining that he’s got two or three luxury yachts each worth millions, and you’re complaining about a single bloody car?”

“I’m not complaining, merely voicing a concern that you might be seen as opulent.”

“I am opulent. I can afford to be. Forget your past, at the moment money is in plentiful supply—enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Does that mean it isn’t?”

“Couldn’t tell you, why?”

“Because lots of people would like to know.”

“Including me,” he threw back.

“But you do have a cushion,” I said meaning his savings which are pretty phenomenal.”

He looked down at his tummy, “Yeah, but come the summer I’ll convert it to muscle again.” I nearly fell out of bed laughing.

“Did that woman really think you’d take the money?”

“I hope not.”

“Yeah, exactly. Why isn’t she concentrating on Oxford or Cambridge, that’s where most of it would happen.”

“Perhaps she has to train someone up for her post?”

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

Neither had I until just then.

I yawned and turned over on my side to sleep. As I drifted I vaguely recalled some programme on being trans, on BBC3. They had a variety of people including the very lovely Paris Lees. How does she stay so thin? I started to dream that I was taking part in a similar programme where they showed the sort of things you shouldn’t ask a transgender person. You know the sort, ‘Have you had the op?’ ‘Have you any photos of what you looked like before?’ ‘Which toilet do you use?’

One of the people taking part had huge objects stuck in their ear lobes like some African tribal custom, they looked really bizarre. I had the misfortune to be sitting next to her. “We’ve got you down to have your ears done like this after the show.”

“No way.”

“Yes, you can’t complain, everyone is having it done, except Paris.”

“I am not having that done to my ears, they look gross.”

“You’ve insulted me, you’re not allowed to do that.”

“Tough, if you want to go round looking like you got ears made of elastic bands, that’s up to you, just don’t include me.”

“But you’re not allowed to insult me.”

“You threatened me with assault.”

“I think we’ll get them put in your mouth as well.”

“I’d look like a duck.”

“Yes, people would think you were quackers.”

“I’m going.” I tried to stand up but something was holding my legs preventing me from escaping.

“You can’t leave—you can never leave...”

Someone tried to grab me and I fought them off then I fell, quite hard.

“What the hell are you doing?” called Simon from the bed above me.

“I was dreamin?”

“Yeah, you thumped me quite hard at one point.”

“It was horrible.”

“What was?”

“My dream.”

“Duh, I gathered that, what specifically was horrible?”

“I can’t remember now.”

“Are you going to lie there all night?”

“Uh no.” I struggled to free my feet and legs which had become tangled in the duvet, quite how I couldn’t say. I then went for a wee and then decided I’d go for a cuppa. I looked across at Si, he was doing his impersonation of a corpse—well okay, a snoring variety.

I shut the kitchen door as the kettle boiled, it was warmer and tonight they’d forecast a frost. I suppose we’re well into autumn so must expect such things, though I don’t have to like them. I hate the cold and the dark despite being a December baby—geez, I’ve got another birthday in a week or so. I can’t believe I’ll be thirty two.

It seems so unfair that the first two thirds of my life I had to live as a boy, so it feels as if I’m only a fraction of my age—however my body doesn’t agree and things like laughter lines are just starting and I found a grey hair the other morning. I sat and drank my tea. It felt so peaceful until the door burst open and a piece of flying fur landed in my lap, using what felt like grappling irons as brakes. Next moment she’s purring and rubbing her head against my boob.

I knew what she was after—milk—uh not from my boob, but the bottle on the side which I’d used in my tea. I pushed her off my lap and gave her some milk. She drank it, then back onto my lap to have a full strip wash—holding on with crampons. Finally when she’d run out of laundry to do, she plonked herself down, curled up and went to sleep on my lap. Sometimes I wondered if it was a cat’s world, eat and sleep, sex and fights with a bit of hunting thrown in as well if you get bored.

The problem is we only think of the overfed domestic moggies we share our homes with forgetting all the feral cats who live from hand to mouth or get awful diseases or are mal treated by humans. Then in places like China, they buy domestic cats to eat, killing them when they get home like chickens.

Perhaps it’s not a cat’s world but I’d certainly do all I could to keep this one fed and watered and looked after generally. She’s part of our family after all.