The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3106 by Angharad Copyright© 2017 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 Sunday began as usual with me grumbling about having to feed children who should be old enough to get their own breakfasts—whenever I do, Trish immediately asks if she can eat chocolate biscuits for hers and Livvie asks for ice cream. It’s obviously a wind up but it wakes me enough to actually get upright and once out of bed It’s a case of a wee and go down to see what they’re up to.

This particular Sunday, I got down to discover that Trish was busy making me a cuppa and Livvie was buttering some toast for me. She put it on the table and Hannah produced a banana—I quite like ’nana on toast for brekkies. Trish poured me some tea and Meems provided the milk bottle from the fridge.

I thanked them for their efforts and they then got their own breakfasts, mostly sugar laden cereals and milk drinks, probably just as rich in sucrose. When I asked where Cate and Lizzie were, I was told they were cwtching with their dad to give me the space to have my breakfast in peace.

I did wonder what they were after but apparently it was a suggestion from school that they should show their mothers that they loved them by getting their breakfasts or helping round the house. Part of their homework, Livvie and Trish that is, was to show they had done one of these which I had to sign off. With a bit of suggestion, I managed to get them all to help me with the housework because Henry was coming later. Simon winked then accused me of child exploitation, which Livvie challenged him on—“We’re doing it voluntarily, so it’s not exploitation.”

“That’s telling you,” I said and poked out my tongue.

“I know when I’m beaten, I’ll just uh go and find the paper and see who won the rugby.”

He left us to our chores and I said quietly to the girls, “He’ll be lucky, Gramps took it off to his study twenty minutes ago.” They all laughed.

David came over a little after this and began preparing the lunch, a roast leg of pork. I invited him to stay and eat with us and he shrugged and said he would. I then said in a stage whisper to the girls, “See if he stays to eat we know it’s safe for us to,” they roared with laughter and David withdrew shaking his head declaiming his innocence as they’d never proved he murdered his last employer. They thought that was even funnier. We cleaned most of the morning while Simon snoozed in the lounge—he does work quite hard, but then so do I and Tom makes me look like a shirker, frequently working all day and half the night—but he seems to thrive on it. I just become exhausted.

When David dished up I asked him to do one for Danielle and also a spare for Henry as I wasn’t sure if he’d had a proper lunch or not. He probably had but just when you think you can predict what he would do, he does something entirely different and then calls women fickle or unpredictable. I personally prefer, spontaneous.

The pork was absolutely cracking, or should that be crackling, which was abundant and perfect. The rest of the meal was equally good and I ate too much and felt a bit too full after eating. Si and I did the crossword in the paper and by the time we’d finished, Danielle called to say she was on the way home with Henry.

I tried to ask if Henry had eaten or not but she’d rung off. Typical teenager. They arrived about an hour later, in his Aston Martin, she was thrilled to bits and even more so to realise I’d warmed her dinner for her. Henry had only had a snack, so I microwaved his and ten minutes later they both sat down to eat with Simon and I as company. Stella had gone off with her two to see a friend not knowing that her dad was visiting. He said he’d give her another hour before he had to leave. I sent her a text to say he was at the house. She said she was busy so to say hello for her.

That was unlike Stella so I wondered just what she was up to. As far as I could think, the only thing that would keep from coming to see her dad, was being with someone she liked or loved even more. Hmmm, this will require a detailed interrogation later, what is it they use for water boarding?

Once the meal was over, Henry asked if he could speak to me in private at which Simon frowned and declared, “She’s not gonna leave me, Dad, so you’re wasting your time.”

“Don’t bet on it, son, I might just up the offer—everyone has their price,” he fired back as we left my frowning spouse in the kitchen and hurried to the study.

“What have you got to say to me that can’t be said in front of Simon?” I asked him as he closed the door after us.

“Oh lots of things but I know you’d say no to most of them,” he winked, so his sense of humour hadn’t improved which might explain where Simon gets his from, could it be genetic as they seem to be finding everything else appears to be except homosexuality and gender identity. Apparently, there are over a hundred genes involved in hypertensive disease, oh and the latest research on dark humour tends to show it’s appreciated more by people with higher cognitive abilities and better education than those who don’t—there’s a surprise. The report I saw in the paper included a joke which I thought was very funny, see how you rate in the humour stakes.

A mortuary attendant lifts the sheet covering the body of her husband. She nods that it is him then says, “What did you wash it in to get it so white?” Well I found it funny.

I told the joke to Henry to see what he thought about it and he chuckled loudly, said, “That would be Monica,” and chuckled again.

“Does Monica actually know how to use the washing machine?” I asked feigning innocence.

“Oh yes, but Evans does a much better job of it.”

“I liked Mrs Evans, she’s a real sweetie.”

“She likes you too, Cathy, is always asking when you’re coming to stay again with the children.”

“I have no idea, Henry, much as I’d love to renew my acquaintance with Mrs Evans, life is just so busy at present especially with trying to knock my department into shape—get the odd whisper of mutiny—but so far I’ve managed to stamp it out.”

“I can’t believe you’d stamp on anything, far too ladylike for that, now Stella would, no hesitation.”

“Help me down off the pedestal, Henry, I’m just a poor working girl who does what’s necessary to protect what I love or believe in.”

“Yes, I saw that at Stanebury when we had that little contretemps.”

“Contretemps—hardly, Henry, it was the last attempted invasion of Scotland, or felt like it at the time.”

“You acquitted yourself very well, my dear and won a great deal of respect for it, not to mention saving my life and possibly Tom’s and the two girls’. An act of heroism if ever I saw one.”

I blushed as I thought about throwing myself at the Russian girl who was trying to kill us all. Broke my collar bone again and boy did that hurt. Changing the subject, “So what was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

“Ah yes, well it’s like this, Cathy...”