The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2801 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 left Amanda talking to David, she was ironing and he was doing lunch to which I’d invited her. They seemed to be getting on quite well so I could get on myself, in looking through a short paper I’d done on polyandry in dormeece. Polyandry is multiple husbands, the opposite of polygamy as practiced by some weird religions still, though largely now forbidden in most modern democracies.

Dormice aren’t democratic as far as I know but it’s quite well known that the females tend to put themselves about when they’re in season resulting in litters which may have more than one father. In a low density population, such as most dormice have, the extra genetic mix may have some advantages. However it might also bring some risks as dormice tend to be territorial to some extent. Whether they actually come to blows is another matter, mind you I can’t see them settling disputes over a glass of acorn wine down the pub. Then again, neither do humans, we’d rather bomb each other into oblivion.

I gave up on my paper, and had a quick flit round the internet. The Murrays had just won a doubles game in the Davis cup final in Belgium. Tom and Simon will be pleased and the final match is tomorrow with Andy Murray, the world No 2, up against the top Begian seed who’s No 16 in the world. Apparently, GB haven’t won the Davis cup since Queen Victoria was a boy or some such thing—oh, it was 1936, so not far off then. Crikey, it was before Tom was born, that is a long time ago—he’ll kill me if he hears me.

I’d wasted an hour chasing facts round a computer screen. I had it drafted, I’d even got the bibliography done—is that tedious or what? But I wasn’t happy with the overall structure, so will rewrite it as time allows. I haven’t published anything on my own for ages, but this will go in the Journal of Mammalian Ecology when I finish it and it’s been peer reviewed—that can take months. I hope there aren’t any glaring errors in it. I spotted one in an Elly Griffiths’ story the other day, she was talking about a skull that had been smoothed inside to turn it into something you could drink from—pretty grisly I know, but the heroine is an osteo-archaeologist called Dr Ruth Dalloway, except she noticed she couldn’t see the iliac crest on the skull. She wouldn’t, it’s in the pelvis—the sticky out bit on the top of your hip at the front.

I went to see how my latest slave was progressing. She appeared to be doing very well and the mountain of ironing now resembled a mere hillock. She also had the girls taking things to hang up in their wardrobes—that’s more than I achieve. I wonder if she could get first year undergrads working—nah, that would require a miracle, for each one.

The problem is, lots of them have never been away from home for more than a summer holiday, where they partied all night and slept off their hangovers all day. I don’t have a problem with that unless I’m sharing a hotel and get woken up at two in the morning by, ‘We are the champions,’ sung off key and in falsetto by drunken revellers.

“When I was younger, I was in France with my parents when we had a group of English drunks pause under our window in the hotel and hold a singing competition. They were abusive when my father told them to clear off, though they went when he threw some water over them. The next night it was worse as we had twice as many so it was louder. They got fed up after that, especially when one fell in the pool and another joined him trying to pull him out. My dad and I went and hauled them out. They were only students by their age, I would guess. It pissed off my dad when they thanked him and his lovely daughter for saving their lives.

Dad was furious and told me I’d get my hair cut the next day or else. I went for the or else and ended up sitting for an hour by the pool in a bikini he made me buy and wear. The biggest problem was tucking my bits away between my legs. That no one said anything should have told him something, oh and I didn’t get my hair cut either, not for another month when I got the ends trimmed.

Lunch was a pleasant affair. Simon phoned to say he was at the rugby club watching the tennis. I thought it was over, obviously not. When I checked they’d only won the first game or set or something—trust me to get it wrong.

Amanda seemed to settle in with those of us who were there. Daddy danced attendance on her, I think I mentioned she was quite pretty. At least it meant he didn’t nag me about my dormouse paper.

When it was mentioned as dormouse paper, Amanda asked if it was for wrapping presents? Duh. Maybe I should design some and make a fortune—nah, I’m married to one already and it doesn’t make him happy, he just complains about the taxes he pays as being more than Amazon does worldwide. Doesn’t stop him buying books from there.

Unfortunately Daddy heard her and thought that the way it was going I would be able to use it for wrapping presents. In retaliation I told him he could wash his own socks and perhaps I’d have time to finish it. He looked at Amanda and said, “Och ye’re fu’ o’ blether, ye’ll wash ma socks f’ me won’t ye hen? Then mebbe, Charles Dickens there can get her paper finished.”

“He was born in Portsmouth, I’ve been to his house,” replied Amanda.

“Yeah, so’ve we, boring old fart.” Sammi declared which had the younger girls giggling. “Oh I’ve done those charts you wanted, Mummy.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Unfortunately, that meant I couldn’t use it as an excuse that I was waiting for some charts.

She looked at her watch and excused herself saying she had to go out for a couple of hours.

“I love the way they all respect you and Professor Agnew,” said Amanda as we were clearing the table.

“Who?” I knew it wasn’t my students that she was referring to.

“Your children, are they all girls?”

“Fraid so.”

“You almost have a football team, but no boys, were you trying for a boy?”

Nice thought. “No, they’re all adopted, I couldn’t have children of my own.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—I did think you were a bit young to have girls who were grown up.”

“They needed a home and parents and Simon and I took them in and eventually adopted them.”

“Gosh, it’s true what Maureen said isn’t it?”

“What did she say?”

“You’re really an angel.”

I blushed, “Don’t tell anyone will you or I’ll have to start wearing my wings again and it plays havoc with designer jackets.”

She roared with laughter, “Lady Cameron, you are so funny,” she doesn’t know the half of it.