The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 990 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

The weekend passed without much to mention, I did visit Maureen again but the sympathetic nurse wasn’t there, so I just sat and talked to her, whilst holding her hand–low key life saving.

On Monday she opened her eyes and the hospital was very pleased with her progress–I said nothing. Her bruising was coming down very quickly, obviously she heals fast. Julie wanted to come but not as much as she wanted to tongue wrestle with Leon.

On Sunday, Simon took the boys out for a ride–they came back miffed that he hadn’t taken them to the pub nor raced them. He grumbled at me when he came back.

I did manage a ride on Sunday by myself and did a quick ten miler while Simon looked after breakfast. I was sore before I got on the saddle–hence the ten miles only–so you can imagine what I had to trade for his breakfast supervision.

Monday evening Si went back to London and I went back to being a banking widow, and that is not a spoonerism, dirty minded lot.

Tuesday, the kids were back to school so the usual routine continued. After it, Julie mentioned she wanted to save for a moped. I told her that two wheels are supposed to be powered by the rider. She asked about motorbikes and I told her that they were death traps.

She told me that Simon had thought she might have one. I refuted it, and overruled it. If she wanted to be a biker chick, she could do it when she left my house. Here there would be no motorbikes, except the battery powered push bikes–which she described as naff. I was inclined to agree with her, but didn’t say so.

Wednesday, she tried for the moped again and I refused. “Even if I pay for it?”

“I think they’re dangerous.”

“You’re being an old fuddy-duddy, you’re like worse than Gramps.”

“The figures for serious injuries and fatalities on motorbikes are far worse than for cycling, and those are bad enough. We’ll get you driving lessons when you’re old enough, until then you’ll have to use public transport or a bicycle, or possibly walk–it could be why we evolved legs.”

“Huh, I thought you’d have told me we had two legs because that’s like, how many pedals there are on a bike.”

“I think it might be the other way round, bikes these days are far more advanced than humans.”

“Is that because God didn’t have a computer? Oh, sorry, you don’t believe in God do you?”

“It depends upon whether you consider binary and sexual duality are coincidental or deliberate.”

“What?”

“I take it you don’t have an opinion on the matter?”

“You’re smart-arsing me, aren’t you?”

“You started it. Now, what about lunch?”

The phone rang and I ambled over to answer it. It was Tom. “Cathy, can ye tak this somewhere private?”

“Hold on, Daddy, I’ll just look in the study.” I popped into his sanctum and shut the door. “What’s the matter, Daddy, has something happened?” my stomach was flipping over like a waterwheel.

“Are ye on yer ain?”

“Yes, what’s happened?” I asked again feeling very nervous.

“Ye’ve bin nominated fa anither job.”

“I can’t do anything else, I barely manage now.”

“I dinna think ye can turn this doon.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Ye’ve bin nominated as pert o’ thae UK team tae work wi’ thae United Nations on conserving ecosystems.”

“You’re joking aren’t you? I’m a greenhorn–there are loads of people better suited to it than I am. I’ve got five children in school, how am I supposed to cope with something new?”

“I dinna ken, Cathy, but I doo ken it’s a tremendous honour.”

“How do you know before they ask me?”

“Thae letter’s in thae post.”

“Did you nominate me?”

“Dinna be a numpty, I’d hae pit ma ain name doon first, widnae I?”

“So who did? I’ll kill them.”

“Dinna be sae hasty, this micht hae cam fro’ government.”

“I don’t know anyone in government.”

“Ye’ve met various government ministers.”

“I met one at this house, gosh that must be a couple of years ago.”

“Aye, an yer hubby hobnobs wi’ Prime Ministers an’ sae does yer faither in law.”

“I can’t do it, Daddy, I physically can’t do it.”

“It wid look guid on yer CV.”

“Is that before or after my funeral.”

“Och dinna be sae pessimistic, ye’ll cope.”

“Only because I’m not interested. No, is my final answer. I have to go, Daddy.” I replaced the phone.

“What’s the matter, Mummy.”

“That was Gramps, he called to tell me they want me to work with the UN on ecology.”

“Wow, does that mean you’ll have to go to New York?”

“What for?”

“Oh, I always wanted to go up the Empire State Building.”

“Don’t tell me assisted by a fifty foot gorilla?”

“Absolutely, like how did you know?”

“It was an inspired guess,” I shook my head. “What am I supposed to do about five school children who are my responsibility?”

“I’m sure they’d like to go to New York, as well.”

“Look, I hate to disappoint but it’s more likely to be based here than the US. It will be about running teams of pen pushers and writing policy statements. Sitting in boring meetings and trying to stay awake; that sort of thing.”

“Oh, I thought the UN was very glam.”

“Tell that to the people who died on Haiti.”

“Oh.”

“What about the fact that the country which destroyed proportionally more of its forests than anyone else between 2000 and 2005 was the US–how do we deal with that?”

“Oh, I’d have thought it was Brazil.”

“The deforestation there is still going on apace as well.” As we were talking the doorbell rang. It was the postman requiring a signature for a package. I signed and took it inside.

It was one of those with a plastic security bag surrounding what looked like a small box file. The return address was a PO box number. It told me nothing. I looked at the delivery address, it was to Lady Catherine Cameron and my home address.

There was nothing for it but to cut it open and see what was inside. I knew who it was from; Tom’s call had ensured that, so at least it wasn’t entirely a surprise.

I read the bumf letter attached to the front of the file. It explained that the government through Defra and Natural England had recommended me for this post of Ecology Team Leader. It listed the other members of my team, there were two professors, a number of well known scientists and a leading natural history writer/broadcaster. I was probably the least qualified to do this–so why had they picked on me?

The contact number was Gareth Sage. I was going to tear him into shreds–no–I was going to chop him up with a pound of onions and stuff him up a chicken’s bum. I put the documents safe and went to show Julie how to make chicken soup. She was filling the bread machine, so that meant I’d let her live at least until after lunch.

“Okay, kiddo, let’s see what veg we have…”