Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 654 by Angharad

I was fuming. Why should I have to hide like a fugitive? I should be able to walk out of the drive and ignore them or talk to them–the press I mean. Except I know they’d twist every word I said to fit into the context of their story–and usually they don’t let the facts get in the way of the pitch of their story.

Tabloid newspapers are usually aimed at people’s emotions and they are light on facts but not the way they describe them. So that someone they don’t want you to like, they encourage you to see as a monster. By the end of the article, you’re usually ready to condemn them to whatever punishment the writer wants you to. They’re frequently aimed at an audience whose reading age is under ten years, and who are therefore likely to have less developed cognitive skills, especially analysis and testing. Sadly, they also tend to reinforce prejudices–of which the owners are frequently blind.

I mused about the recent picture in the Guardian of the lemur like creature that the palaeontologists reckoned was forty seven million years old, whose fossil was named ‘Ida’, and who was considered to be part of the common ancestry that humans had with other primates.

As a born again Darwinian, and fervent believer in evolution, I remembered an argument that I’d had with an old man who, I discovered later was a Jehovah’s Witness, who claimed that man was no more than a few thousand years old and that the earth was only ten thousand years old.

That fossils were as old as the rocks they were found in, seemed irrelevant to his creationist views. Man was created by a god and placed ready formed, like a living Ken doll and soon after Barbie arrived from one of his ribs. It said so in the Bible.

I tried to explain that even in theory it was wrong, Barbie would have arisen first and given birth to Ken, as in the older goddess myths which predated the takeover by the sky gods.

He didn’t want to listen, I mentioned carbon dating and he just said that was all invalid after the first atom bomb. The fact that it wouldn’t affect things except those very close to the blast zone and fall out area, he wouldn’t accept. Strontium 90 doesn’t affect Carbon 14.

This all flashed through my mind as Simon said, “Do you want me to fetch the girls later?”

“Oh that would be brilliant, Si, if you could.”

“What about little Nectarine?”

“Who?”

“The girl who stayed here last night.”

“Peaches, you mean?”

“Well I was close.” Tom, in the background, snorted and then roared with laughter. “So what am I supposed to do if she needs to come home with us?” Simon added.

“Bring her I suppose.”

“What through this circus?” he pointed at the gate.

“Oh yeah,” I sighed.

“What would I tell her? Oh by the way, Auntie Cathy, used to be Uncle Charlie?”

“That is so cruel, Simon.” I felt it strike me in the heart.

“I’m sorry, babes, but you know what I mean?”

“Do you honestly think I shall ever forget my origins? And even if I do, don’t you think there will be hordes of clamouring bigots to remind me?” I felt angry, hurt and sad; all at the same time.

“Hey, the scunners loved it,” cried Tom from the table behind us.

“What, Daddy?” I said turning around to see what he meant.

“The television critic in the Guardian, he liked your fil-um very much.”

“How do you know?” I asked moving towards him.

“See fer yersel’,” he pushed the paper towards me. I looked at the page at which he was pointing.

’… in complete contrast was Cathy Watts’ film about dormice, you know the cuddly little rodent the Mad Hatter dumped in the teapot to wake it up. They do apparently spend half their lives in hibernation, which isn’t a sleep it’s like a deep trance state, where metabolism reduces and fat can last all winter.

‘Never mind Sir David, he never quite grabbed me like the nubile biologist from Portsmouth, and yes, her small furry things were as delightful as their foster mum. More please, Auntie.’

“It’s a bit sexist,” I commented after reading it twice, then noticed there was a picture of me in shorts and tee shirt, clambering up a ladder to get at a nesting box. “God, my bum looks huge.”

“Not from where I’m standing,” said Simon. “Let’s have a quick flit round the newspaper websites and see what they thought.”

“I think I can live with the uncertainty, and besides, I need a cuppa.” I switched the kettle on, “Anyone else for tea?”

“I’ll hae coffee,” said Tom shuffling off to his study, while Simon yelled from the dining room, “Tea please.”

Moments later he shouted, “The Telegraph heads it with, Move over Sir David, Lady Cathy is here … they seemed to like it too. The Mail, thought you were as sweet as your subjects, the Express, ‘a walk on the wildside with you would be lovely.’ Yeah, it’s all favourable. Maybe they’re not baying for your blood, just your charms.”

“What the pack of hyenas outside? I don’t care what they want, I’m not giving it to them.”

“Where’s the interview with Erin?” asked Simon.

“Bristol, I suppose.”

“Is it a good idea?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh yes,” said Simon loudly, “this is the best yet.” He paused, “The Independent, ’Dr Watts has an infectious enthusiasm for her subject, the delightful urchin of the hedgerows and woodland edges, the increasingly rare, common dormouse, although far from common these days. Still, our attractive expert managed to find her elusive prey and scrambling up ladders in shorts, showed us her shapely legs while she poked about in nest boxes to weigh and record her victims state of health.

‘Outstanding photography by the late Des Lane and Alan White, made the complex themes Cathy explained come to life, as we saw the intimacies of a dormouse fittingly called, Spike, giving birth to her twelfth litter of babies, in Dr Watts’ laboratory. Spike is apparently the dormouse thousands of Youtube viewers have seen disappear down Cathy’s blouse in that notorious clip of the press conference in Portsmouth last year …

“Weel, The Times, ’thinks you’re the Bettany Hughes of the animal world, and could add that sexy zest to nature programmes that the glamorous don has done to history, offered Tom.

“I am not riding a bloody horse to explore harvest mice,” I said noisily and Simon nearly choked on his tea.

“How aboot fer yon press conference, I reckon you’d look guid in jodhpurs,” cracked Tom from his study.

“I’ll poison your porridge, you old bugger,” I shouted back.

“Ach well, I’ll die happy,” he called in reply.

“Mummy, there’s a man standing at the door,” said Meems, and as I picked her up there was the flash of a camera.