The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2917 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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“Have you thought of taking a holiday?” asked my secretary.

“We’ve just had one.”

“And how much time did you have to chill out and refresh yourself?”

“A bit here and there, you know what it’s like with children and husbands. The tree coming down didn’t help, though it did enable Simon to play with a chainsaw.”

“So none, then?”

“Uh—probably.”

“Still I suppose they’ll put flowers on your grave occasionally.”

“Haven’t they got to wait until I’m dead—I think there are rules about burying people alive, unless you’re in Syria.”

Diane shuddered, “Oh don’t, those poor people no wonder they want out, I would too in their place.” She paused for a moment, “I suppose the Americans could always drop Donald Trump on them, maybe he can sort out the troubles.”

“I’m sure the Daesh would be delighted to meet him.”

“D’you think he’s going to be president?”

“Let’s face it, the system is bent even in democracies, so anything could happen but he seems to be running out of steam and the Republican hierarchy are starting to get a bit more organised though of course it’s about as organised as the European Union what with all the states doing their own thing. Mind you the other guy, Cruz is almost as bad so it could help Hillary into the White House, if we don’t burn it down for them again.”

“What? We burnt it down?”

“In their War of Independence, we burnt it down twice, by that I mean the Brits, that’s why it’s called the White House, they had to paint the walls to disguise the soot marks.”

“Gosh you are a fund of information, aren’t you, no wonder you’re a professor and I’m typing your letters.”

“I suspect you’re better at it than I am, my knowledge on a number of things is somewhat limited, especially computers and to some extent, word processing or tripewiping.”

She roared, “Tripe wiping?”

“Yeah my keyboard is dyslexic.”

“Is this a case of a bad workman blames his tools?”

“Her tools, please.”

“Yeah, her tools—well is it?”

“Look I’m a professor, you can’t expect me to know anything as well as carry this huge brain about.” I mimed walking about with a huge head.

“You walk like that all the time,” was her riposte.

“When does your contract expire?”

“Same time as yours.”

“So it does, oh well we’ll be unemployed together.”

“I hope not, I’ve just had a new kitchen—it’ll take me years to pay off.”

“Still it means you’ll look after it.”

“True—how new is your kitchen?”

“Hmm late seventeenth century I think, why?”

“Aren’t you going to get a new one some time?”

“Some time, some being the operative word, apart from the fact the kitchen was designed by Tom’s wife and if I mess it about too much...you know...”

“Oh she’s dead, is she?”

“Goodness years ago, she had MS and died soon after his daughter did.”

“So how come he adopted you?”

“We both had needs. My parents were dead and he had no family and now they’re coming out of his ears.”

“Coming out of his ears?” Diane looked askance at me.

“Yeah, little white hairs, haven’t you ever seen them?”

“No but I think I’ll pass on them if that’s okay with you.”

“I thought it was his white matter escaping at first.”

“Is that like dark matter only—whiter?”

I laughed and shook my head, “It’s part of the brain.”

“I thought that was grey matter.”

“Nah, that’s just part of it.”

“What’s white matter for then?”

“The grey stuff is on the outside, the white stuff is underneath it and acts like a sort of switchgear for the grey matter.”

“Oh,” she said obviously not understanding it one bit. Then looking at the clock she said, “Aren’t you supposed to go and collect the girls?”

“Look it up on the net, I’d better get ready and go.” I closed down my computer and shoved my memory sticks in the little plastic clip box I keep them in. As I left I could see her looking at white matter on wiki. “I’ll expect an essay on that by tomorrow morning.”

“Ha fat chance,” she yelled back.

I’d driven the VW because the kids have more room and they seem to prefer it to my Jaguar. They are a bit cramped in that and as the younger ones come up to school age, I think we’ll need a double-decker bus not a people carrier.

As I drove to collect them I was glad I’d asked Simon to extend the hire of it. He’d only driven it once and told me it felt like a campervan. He forgets that VW also own Bentley. Mind you, he told me about one Easter when he was still at Millfield he and friend borrowed an old VW camper and toured round Cornwall in it, said it was great fun until it broke down and they had to wait four hours for the RAC to come and tow it to a garage. Apparently, they slept in it on the forecourt of the garage that night. Glad it wasn’t me, mind you I was probably too timid to try anything like that though a friend and I did cycle to the Brecon Beacons and camp there for a couple of nights and then cycle back. I wonder what he’s doing now? Might see if I can find him on the internet—though what for, I don’t know. Nostalgia is wonderful but there’s no future in it.

I collected the gang and we set off home. Danielle reminded me that she had training that night so I said I’d take her. She usually travels in the front with me and when I told her I’d take her, she leant over and kissed me, “Thanks, Mummy, you’re a star.”

“Uh no, that’s your aunt.”

“What—Auntie Stella?”

“Yes, stellar means a star or to do with stars.”

“That’s got an R on it, Mummy,” complained the brain on the back seat.

“Not in Latin, it hasn’t.”

“So it’s stella in Latin, then?” she checked.

“Yes.”

“Funny, they must have copied it from us,” she said and Livvie nearly collapsed laughing.

“Wosso funny?” asked Trish.

“You are, dummy. The Romans were like two thousand years ago so we copied them.”

“Oh yeah,” I could feel the heat coming of Trish’s blush through the back of my seat, or it felt that way.

“Never mind, Trish, English has loads of words it could have taught the Romans.”

“Like what?” she sighed going rather quiet after Livvie trumped her.

“Like pyjamas.”

“Pyjamas—didn’t the Romans wear them?”

“If they did they didn’t call them that, pyjamas is an Indian word, so is bungalow.”

“So they like, wear pyjamas in their bungalows?” she asked rhetorically. Then they all burst out laughing, well on the back seat, they did.

Danielle looked at me and said, “They’re all bonkers.”

I just nodded my response.