The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2895 by Angharad Copyright© 2016 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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The VW was home long before I got there and I was pleased to see the girls had let James alone though Amanda seemed to be dancing attendance on him a little too overtly. I’d let him tell her he didn’t do girls. Danielle had noticed—she was noticing lots of things recently, not sure if a boy would or if they did wouldn’t say anything.

“James is quite good looking, isn’t he, Mummy?”

“Yes he is, darling, but he’s too old for you.”

“I know that, but it’s nice to see a good looking man.”

“It is, but Daddy is good looking too.” I thought he looked a bit like Colin Firth before the latter went grey.

“D’you fancy him?”

“Who James?”

“Yeah—well do you?”

“I’m happily married, sweetheart, so I don’t do anything beyond window shopping.”

“But if you didn’t have Daddy, you’d fancy him?”

“Perhaps.” I felt myself blushing. “I’m off to change, where is James?”

“Right behind you,” he suddenly said and I felt myself get very hot, Danielle smirked and disappeared—little toad set me up.

“So only perhaps—I’m desolate.”

“I’ve got to change—eavesdroppers rarely hear good of themselves.”

“You learn to live with it after a while.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Any news on the thugs who wrecked my car?”

“I have some names. Need to check them out.”

“Remember one of them has a mark on his face from Danielle’s foot.”

“Should I go round with one of her shoes, sort of Cinderella in reverse, trying to find the ugly sister?”

“The caterpillar that turns into a slug, eh?”

“I thought they were different genera?”

“They are, different orders—slugs are gastropods and caterpillars are arthropods.”

“Jointed feet—are they?”

“The adult insects are—don’t you start, it was bad enough in work today.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Adolescents—that’s what happened.”

“I thought you were a veteran in dealing with large children?”

“I am, but I don’t find it getting any easier.”

“Do I hear the voice of middle age?”

“No you bloody well don’t.” I stomped up the stairs followed by his laughter—bastard.

He’d gone by the time I came down. Said he’d be back tomorrow, according to David. “Nice chap,” was David’s assessment. I suppose he was really, but just now I’d like to scratch his eyes o...No I wouldn’t, he is a nice chap, even if he’s still a bastard. ‘All men are bastards, it’s just some are nicer bastards than others’. I saw it on the wall of one of our loos on campus. Yeah women do graffiti too. Funnily enough, I never did or should say, have, mainly because I think it’s vulgar and secondly, some poor bugger has to clean it off or paint over it. Glad it’s not my job. I settled down to do some survey work—boring but necessary.

I opened the door thinking I heard someone knocking on it. To my horror, a large man wearing a balaclava stood there. He stared at me and laughed evilly, then this hand darted and I saw the flash of metal and fell back into the hallway bleeding. I could feel it warm and wet...

“Mummy, dinner’s ready—oh, you’ve knocked your tea over...” On shaky legs I ascended the stairs to change again. It was a dream but so vivid it felt real. I hope it’s not an omen.

Simon arrived as dinner was being served, so he waited until after he’d eaten before changing. I dealt with my little accident, soaking the clothes to get the tea stains out. I could only suggest that I’d fallen asleep with the cup in my hand and as I relaxed the cup tipped or something like that. But the content of the dream showed I was still worried about the attack. I don’t think I’d ever felt so vulnerable, though I’d switched to a wheel brace instead of the torque wrench as a weapon of self defence.

Despite my anxieties, we all slept through the night and I woke aware that Simon had left for work already and I hadn’t felt him go. I must have been more tired than I thought. However, the conversation on the radio was all about Brexit—what a stupid word that will doubtless find its way into the Oxford dictionary long after the matter has been resolved one way or another.

James arrived at eight and cadged a cup of coffee and some toast, he drove the girls again and I was going to take the Mondeo, instead I ran upstairs and changed into my cycling kit—the Team GB kit and after packing some clean clothing and my laptop, rode into work humping a large rucksack. I felt quite good wheeling the bike down the corridor with my shoes clomping on the tiles. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d ridden in.

I changed in the loo by which time Diane had some tea made. It tasted quite good and I felt the day was a vast improvement until I realised I hadn’t packed any shoes. I wasn’t doing anything much until half past ten when I had a meeting and then a lecture on ecology—habitats, what lives where and the vulnerabilities inherent.

I slipped on my cycling shoes taped up my trousers at the ankles with sellotape and rode down to the nearest shop that sold shoes. Actually, I passed a charity shop and called in on spec and they had something in my size that fitted the bill quite handsomely, a two inch heeled red Mary Jane with Velcro strap. Twelve pounds—a real bargain, so I gave her fifteen and decided I’d leave them in the office after that. In fact, I wondered if I should leave an outfit in there anyway—just in case I nod off again with a cup in my hand.

Back to the office and I changed into the shoes which got immediate approval from Diane. They were nearly brand new, just a few scuff marks on the sole gave away that they were second hand. I wore them with black trousers and a red polo necked jumper.

My meeting with Dr Freeman, he who’s been off sick since Christmas, lasted less than ten minutes. He’s in his fifties and is after early retirement. He claims stress and a duodenal ulcer mean he’s too unwell to work. I don’t believe a word of it. I scanned his gut and there is no ulcer there of any description and the only stress he has is laziness. I told him I wasn’t prepared to recommend early retirement because I didn’t believe him. He stormed out of my office catching his jacket on the door handle and it ripped the pocket off. He scowled at me as if were my fault. I was still sitting in my chair, he did it all by himself—stupid man.

He would now appeal against me to the dean, who could decide to refer him to the occupational health department or to an external medical practitioner we sometimes use. I doubted he’d be taken in by Freeman. I’d like to sack him and get in someone who wants to work not whinge.