’Still puking for team GB. Luv Stella.’

What a lovely way to start the morning, hearing of Stella’s pregnancy problems. I’m not very good with vomit, or people producing it. I tend to want to join them, or the contents of my stomach do.

I quickly cleaned out Spike’s palace, and left her some hazel nuts and other bits and pieces to eat. She was still asleep–probably been out clubbing all night–and her a grandmother! I had decided when we got the new breeding scheme up and running, I would take her back to the university and share the load of feeding and cleaning them.

That would take place soon, well, within weeks. I had agreed to go up to the Cheshire wildlife group and see their programme and compare it to what we’d had running. If I remembered correctly, we had more success, in terms of numbers and my data was more comprehensive, especially in recording releases and their progress subsequent to release. This was still being collected by my students, and I had a pile of it to analyse and process onto the data base. Maybe I should promote one of them to doing it, except this is my PhD stuff, so I don’t want too many cock ups in it.

It appeared, word had got out that I was back which pleased some and doubtless annoyed some others who thought they were shot of me. I only saw the positive messages, and had quite a few of those, mainly emails.

That morning, I was supervising the replacement of the cages in the laboratory area, when the phone rang. “Cathy, you’re wanted,” called Gloria, one of the technicians who had answered the phone, whilst Neal–her current romantic interest–and I discussed the pros and cons of the previous set up and my new ideas.

I excused myself, “Hello?”

“Is that Cathy Watts?”

“Yes, who’s that?”

“You don’t know me.”

“If you don’t tell me who you are, I’m putting this phone down in five seconds.”

“I think you’ll be interested in what I have to tell you.”

“Not unless you tell me who you are. I don’t speak to anonymous individuals.”

“I think it will be of real interest to you.”

“Bye,” I was about to put the phone down.

“I know about your transsexualism,” the male voice said.

“It’s old hat, and I don’t do blackmail.”

“It’s not…” I got bored and put the phone down. It rang again and I lifted it and then immediately replaced the receiver. I wasn’t going to listen to him, whatever it was, probably a crackpot.

Ten minutes later, Neal and I were back to rearranging the cages, I held them while he drilled and screwed. The phone rang again, Gloria went to answer it. “If that’s for me, and they won’t give a name, tell them I’m busy.”

“ ‘Kay,” she called back. Then a few moments later, “Agnew, Professor Thomas, will you talk to him or are you busy?”

“Glo, can you hold this cage? Then I can take the call.” I was busy taking the weight while Neal did up some screws.

“Hi, Tom, how can I help?”

“You sound like someone from the bank.”

“Okay, what d’ya want you furry old fart? Is that better?”

“I prefer the bank one.”

“Okay, so what do you want, I’m trying to get these cages up.”

“I have someone here who wants to meet you.”

“Tom, I’m engaged, so don’t start matchmaking.”

“You idiot, get your arse up here now.”

“Are you playing the alpha male?”

“Erm, yes, now.”

“Have you been sniffing something?”

“Cathy, stop fart-arsing about and get up here now, I hope you’re tidy.”

I looked down at myself. I wasn’t. I knew we were going to do the job today, so I was in jeans and tee shirt, both of which had some brick dust and assorted debris on. I suspect I had some on my face too, because I’d got it on my hands.

I nipped into the loo and washed my face and hands and combed my hair before putting back into the scrunchie. I renewed my lipstick and trotted up to see whoever this mysterious visitor was.

I planned on finding out from Pippa before I went in, but she wasn’t there, probably off photocopying somewhere. Damn! Now he did have the element of surprise.

I knocked on the door, and entered when instructed to. “Professor,” I nodded to the other person, a man in his late thirties, who I didn’t know.

“Ah, Don, this is Cathy Watts, dormouse juggler extraordinaire. Cathy this is Don Maskell.” We shook hands, and I was none the wiser.

“Excuse my ignorance but who are you and what do you want me for?” I went for the full frontal.

Tom went rather red, but the other bloke smiled. “You’re direct, I like that.”

“You haven’t answered my question, which I don’t.”

“Oh ho, spunky too.”

“I’m sorry, but I have loads to do.” I turned to leave.

“Cathy, sit down,” Tom barked. It so surprised me, that I did as I was told.

“Okay, I’m from DEFRA.”

“We all have our crosses to bear, screwing up the environment happens to be yours.”

“Believe it or not, I happen to spend much of my time trying to save it.”

“Not in that suit, Armani, isn’t it?”

“Yes, perceptive too.”

“Look, I really don’t care who or what you are, but I’m trying to save an endangered species, and the longer I spend chatting to you, the less time I have to save them.”

“Passion and prioritising, yes, excellent.”

“That’s it, I’m off.”

“Cathy, sit down, NOW.” Tom practically roared. I stopped in surprise. Then I sat down and looked as sullen as I could. This guy was a pen pusher, so how did he conserve things except his flat in Kensington and probably a big BMW.

“I have an offer to put to you.”

“I don’t do sex before marriage.” I lied but he was pissing me off. Tom nearly went apoplectic.

The man roared with laughter. “I like it,” he said, “this kid’s got balls.”

“Yeah, but I had them removed.” I said and he laughed even louder.

Drying his eyes, he said, “I need you to work for me.”

“I can’t, I can’t cope with what I have to do here.”

“We’ll cover you for that.”

“Oh so you have someone who can supervise my dormouse project or teach or do my tutorials, do you?”

“That can be done.” This short statement just destroyed my raison d’etre.

“If I’m so easily replaced, why don’t you use your cover to do what you want me to do, instead?”

“Do you realise who I am?”

“A pen pusher, on a top civil service salary, if you can afford Armani suits.”

“I’m the under secretary.”

“Yeah, like I said, a pen pusher.”

“You realise, one word from me and I could revoke your license and close down your project.”

“So if you can’t bribe me, it’s intimidation, is that your game?”

“It’s not a game, Cathy, I not here to save dormice, I’m here to make sure there’s a planet on which you can release your dormice. I’m involved in the bigger picture.”

“Yeah, so?” Okay, so it sounded impertinent, but that’s how I felt. I’d been there ten minutes and still was no wiser.

“I want you involved in it, too.”

“If you actually told me why and how, instead of making patronising remarks, I might.”

“Okay, let’s talk turkey.” He sat down alongside me. “You were making a film for Henry Cameron with Des Lane, who sadly is no longer with us?” I nodded and he continued. “You will finish that film, you have two weeks. It will be processed and shown before Christmas. You will do a series of adverts warning about climate change.”

“And that’s going to save the planet?” I asked cynically.

“No of course not, you’re going to present more documentaries and so on. I want you to front the ‘Save the Dormouse Campaign.’ “

“What campaign? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Of course not, it hasn’t started yet, but as one of the leading experts on it, who better to run it? Only it won’t only be about saving dormice, but loads of other things too. You are going to be the new David Attenborough.”

I sat there and laughed. “Tom, one of us is crazy, please tell me which one of us it is?”