Thankfully, any dreams I had were forgotten immediately, so I didn’t wake up thinking of giant dormice. The next morning, I chuckled as I recalled the midwife handing this large furry thing to me.

I felt quite tired, but now I was back at work, I had to keep going. I arranged to call Stella, each evening for five minutes. I decided that was long enough for her to tell me anything that had happened and wouldn’t have us simply chattering for the sake of it. If the truth be told, I was very short of time, when I was actually awake.

The sunshine we’d had yesterday turned to rain and it came down in sheets. When I saw it, I said something similar to that, as well. I’d just dried my hair and by the time I’d get to the car, I’d be drowned. Umbrella, hat or scarf? Umbrella wouldn’t flatten my hair, but I’d get wet putting it up and getting it down, then it needs to be shaken. Oh boy, what a challenging existence I lead.

Tom was finishing his bacon and eggs when I arrived in the kitchen. “I kept you a bit of bacon, make yersel’ a bacon sarnie for a change.”

I hadn’t even considered bacon for breakfast, but as it was on offer, I did as he suggested and made myself a bacon sandwich, with a bit of tomato ketchup, and thoroughly enjoyed it. “Thanks, Dad,” I called to him.

His smile practically lit up the kitchen, “Do you know how long it is since someone called me that?”

“I’m never sure what you feel about it, so I don’t push it.” I felt myself growing hot as I said this.

“Me likewise, I mean, it isn’t that long since you lost your natural father.”

“Well let’s sort it now for good. Out of a work environment, I shall henceforth call you, Dad or variations on it.”

“What do you mean, variations?”

“You know, Daddy if I’m feeling little girlish, Pa if that is my mood, or Pater, Papa if I’m feeling nineteenth century heroine like, and so forth.”

“So what do I call you in retaliation?”

“Whatever you like. You usually do anyway.”

“Aye, that’s kinda true, an’ I do sometimes call you Daughter or my girl.”

I blushed, because hearing him addressing me so, sent ripples up and down my spine. My own father had eventually shown me some love, but I was never sure if it related to his weakness through his hemiplegia , or even to the loss of my mother, which had shocked him. Tom, by comparison, had never shown anything but loving support, which I now realise was through having his own gender disturbed child. I suppose I loved him as a father, so what was wrong with according him that appellation?

“So, Daughter mine, do we have an agreement, or are ye having second thoughts?”

“No, I’m in agreement, Daddy mine.” I hugged him, “Is this a formal adoption?”

“I suspect you may be a little too old for that, and I can’t see you changing your name to Agnew.”

“True, I’m obviously a love child,” I said, pretending to show shame, whereas I was trying not to giggle.

“I never met your mother, let alone slept with her.”

“Pity, she might have improved for knowing you, and certainly would have held less fundamentalist views on life.”

“You can be equally dogmatic at times. I don’t think Professor Dawkins needs any help from you, Daughter.” When he called me that my spine tingled, it was a recognition of me as I am. I know my father also eventually recognised it, sort of, it didn’t have the authenticity that came from this ageing Scot.

“Dogmatic, me? I just don’t like people being deceived by a pack of lies.”

“Cathy, if they choose to be taken in by them, that’s their choice. You are possibly more fortunate in having a better education than some of them, but don’t use it to oppress or destroy those of lesser wit; for some their faith is all they have to keep them going. So what right have you to take that away from them?”

“I don’t do that, do I?” I felt embarrassed possibly ashamed.

“You have done, if you need to say anything, simply say you disagree and leave it at that. If you show them to be fools, you take away their crutch, and embarrass them, making them feel foolish.”

“But isn’t science about being right or wrong?”

“Is it?”

“About proof and evidence.”

“Proof, science always has proof, does it?”

“It has more than religion.”

“I wasn’t asking about religion, I was asking about science. What is the universe made up of?”

“Erm, light matter and energy and dark matter and energy.”

“Where’s your proof?”

“It’s been demonstrated mathematically.”

“Has it? As far as I’m aware only the hypothesis has been demonstrated, there is no proof as yet.”

“But it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like waiting for a second coming that isn’t going to happen.”

“See, you’re at it again. It may take decades to prove anything or another better idea may arise. How do you know there won’t be a second coming?”

“Oh come off it, Dad! It just isn’t gonna happen, every sentient being knows that.”

“Do they, now? I’m sure there are many well educated minds who would disagree with you. In probability terms, it’s unlikely from what we know, but then if there is a God, who knows what might happen.”

“I‘ll take my chances with the dark matter.”

“Some religious people might suggest you were full of it.” His eyes were sparkling, this was a wind up.

“Yeah, so what would they do? Stick me on a bonfire to disprove it?”

“I don’t know, but maybe we should look to get you some fire resistant knickers next time we go to town.” He smirked and I laughed heartily.

“You pig, that’s what all this was about, a wind up, wasn’t it?”

“A little word of advice, believe with passion, but argue with reason.”

“Thank you, Daddy, I shall try and remember that in future, especially when arguing with you.”

“I think we’d better get a move on if we aren’t going to be late.”

We took two cars. My worries about the rain had eased as the deluge eased. I had dressed for a less summery day, in a suit and my boots, yes the old red ones Stella had given me. I’d had them heeled, goodness knows, how many times but they were still looking okay and functioning well.

Once in work, I dealt with my inbox for the next hour, did some tutorials and then redid the bits of my protocol for the dormouse farm that Tom disliked.

I went to lunch with Pippa and we were sitting minding our own business when the girl from reception came up to me. “You lied to me, you said you had two fathers. Professor Agnew is not your father at all, is he?”

“Shouldn’t you ask him yourself, rather than cast aspersions in public? I believe he’s there this afternoon. Maybe we could get him to give you a call, Miss erm.” She fled at my challenge.

“What’s all that about?”

“Pippa, don’t go there. But I’d be grateful if you could get Tom to talk with her, she’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

“What’s he going to do but agree with her?”

“Not necessarily.”

“You know something I don’t. Come on spill the beans.”

“I can’t go into detail, because I can’t, but we have sort of adopted each other. So I call him Dad and he calls me his daughter.”

“Wow! When did this happen?”

“At breakfast.”

“What today?”

“Yep.”

“So if she’d confronted you yesterday, you’d have been up the creek.”

“If she had confronted me, I’d have talked her down much less gently.”

“Oh, remind me not to cast nasturtiums about you, I might not get off so lightly.”

I smiled wickedly as a response.