The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2843 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 got home that evening telling the girls to go and do homework but to be ready to change into something tidy for dinner.

“We having visitors?” came the rejoinder.

“No, I just wanted you to look nice for once.”

Danielle disappeared. It was barely four o’clock, she might just make it by seven if she hurries and the British cosmetics industry will double their profits by the end of the week. She has lovely skin—well okay, the odd spot, but she’s adolescent it happens—but her beautiful, velvet skin will emerge under a thick layer of makeup which will take hours to apply and some time to remove and cleanse and moisturise and tone. I thought to offer her a paint scraper but I’m not sure she’d see the irony.

“Can we wear makeup?” asked Hannah.

“Just some eyeshadow and mascara and some lip gloss. Anymore than that and I’ll make you take the lot off—agreed?”

They all nodded but accepted it. “How come Danielle can use more?” asked Livvie.

“She’s twice as ugly,” quipped clever gob and, they all ran off up the stairs. I doubted much homework would be done but so what.

I decided to try and read my book for a short time to calm myself down. I was half way through Bart D Ehrman’s ‘Jesus Interrupted,’ which is about the history of Christianity and how much of the New Testament is contradictory if not nonsensical at times. It takes a bit of concentration to read but I was enjoying it. I laughed out loud at one point when he said some of his undergraduate students thought Jesus’ name was Jesus Christ, son of Joseph and Mary Christ.

I wasn’t sure why I was reading it, I don’t believe and probably never will but was I searching for something? If so what? I paused to think about that. Could it be I wanted to justify my agnosticism or rid myself of the conditioning I received as a child? I wasn’t sure, but was prepared to accept there was a man called Yeshu or Jesus as the Greeks wrote it, the New Testament was written in Greek by people who never met Jesus, many years later. There are twenty seven books in the canon, but only eight are believed to be written by the people who are given as authors, including Paul, seven of which are his, Revelation was written by someone called John but which John is not known, nor ever will be. It’s riddled with errors, contradictions and forgery and if written by God, he had a definite off-day in the office.

The Jesus of the Bible and that of reality were very different. The real man was an apocalyptic preacher who believed the world would end within very few years with the coming of the Son of Man. Paul expected the event to happen in his lifetime—it didn’t, hasn’t nor will happen. Jesus was wrong—it happens. Like many of the Jewish prophets, he paid a heavy price for his mistake or beliefs and his followers ever after have changed meaning or interpretations of his supposed sayings, even his life. In the end I felt quite sorry for him, just another deluded, religious fanatic whose followers created much of the misery in this world and still do—especially to each other.

It struck me as ironic that the Anglican church was in meeting to try and prevent schism over such things as same sex marriage and women bishops. I presumed all of those who were meeting were aware of the historicity of their religion, yet acted as if they didn’t following the party line instead of the truth—I felt little but scorn for them.

At six I went to see what the girls were doing. As expected, Danielle was waiting for the paint to dry before slapping on another layer, the younger ones were giggling but behaving themselves, helping each other with their hair or makeup. I went off to shower and change. With David cooking us up a veritable feast, I felt like we were celebrating the return of the prodigal son, in which case would I be the prodigal daughter because I felt were actually celebrating an outbreak of peace between Simon and me. I hoped we could move on after we talked, later on.

David was doing a leg of lamb—a whole one. Well, there is about ninety five of us and I like a decent slice or two of meat with my vegetables. I decided to wear a dress and because it was quite thin material, was glad we weren’t going anywhere outside. Stella had been reluctant when I mentioned it to her but eventually agreed to change into something better than jeans and an old sweater. Puddin’ and Fiona were very happy to dress up.

Julie and Phoebe rushed in and up to their rooms to change but Tom refused point blank. He had his suit on from work and that would ‘haf tae dae.’ I decided not to send him to sit on the naughty step as tonight was supposed to be a celebration of reconciliation, not a squabble.

“Whit f’ are ye a’ dressed up like ye’re gang aft somewhere?”

“Because it’s Thursday.”

“Aye, I ken’t that.”

“Well then?”

“Weel whit?”

“Celebrate.”

“Celebrate whit? It’s freezin’ cauld, dark and mid January, whit’s tae celebrate?”

“We’re all alive. Is that not grounds enough?”

“Weel, if ye wisnae, celebratin’ micht prove a wee bit difficult.”

“Suit yersel’,” I offered in broad Glaswegian and he grinned—then went and changed. And he has the nerve to suggest women are fickle—or was that Verdi?

Simon arrived with Sammi, who entered and stood shivering, skirt up round her bum and thin tights. “Go and change, darling,” I instructed her.

“How long have a got?”

“I hope many years, but to change, twenty minutes.”

She groaned and her heels clattered up the stairs despite the expensive stair carpet.

“Me as well?” said Simon looking tired.

“Yep, I laid your dress out on the bed,” I teased.

He embraced me and said quietly, “If I looked as good in one as you do in that, I’d happily wear one.”

“If you did, I’m not sure I’d be quite so pleased to see you,” I replied and we both laughed before he went up to wash and change.

I told David twenty minutes and he nodded. The kitchen was smelling delicious and as it over six hours since I’d last eaten, I was hungry.

Finally, everyone was ready and we sat at the table and ate an exquisite meal with a glass of Prosecco. After we’d finished the main course, I stood and proposed a toast. “I may not always see eye to eye with him, but I’d like everyone to toast the best husband in the world, mine and I love him as much now as I ever have. To Simon.”

From the deep shade of red he went, I think he was either very warm or embarrassed. However, it soon passed and he stood and said, “I have to respond to the toast my dear wife just made. Compared to her side of the relationship, I’m grossly inadequate as a husband and other parent. All I can say in response is, I shall try to do better—sounds like one of my school reports—like I said, I’ll try to do better but I love her even more than I did an hour ago. To my own personal angel.” He raised his glass and they all repeated his dedication. Boy, is it warm in here or what?