Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 671 by Angharad

“Aw look, a pair of dormice,” in my semi-somnolent state I half recognised Stella’s voice. I also heard Mima and Trish giggling.

“Wake up, Mummy,” called Mima, planting a kiss on my cheek. I fluttered open my eyelids, I could easily have slept for another hour or two–I seem to be so tired all the time.

“Oh my goodness, a reception committee, so who played Prince Charming and woke Sleeping Beauty?”

“I did,” shouted Mima, and I felt glad that Spike wasn’t within earshot.

“Ah, so I’ve been awakened by Princess Charming?”

“Is the feminist version with sperm donors and in vitro pregnancies?” asked Stella who was, with difficulty, holding back her laughter.

“Absolutely,” I said, which woke up Livvie, who yawned and stretched. “Hello, sweetheart, have a nice snooze.”

“Mmm,” she said, yawned again as she nodded, curled up in my lap and fell asleep again.

“Oh,” said Stella, “that wasn’t supposed to happen, I’ll make you a cuppa so you can think of a solution.”

“Why can’t you think of one?” I asked.

“You’re the teacher, me? I’m just ritter glasshoppel.” She scurried off chortling while I tried to make some sense of what she said. If it was relating to the corny Kung fu show which was on telly before I was born, it almost made sense. I saw some repeats years ago, yeah sure, someone can move faster than a speeding bullet–he’s called Superman.

She returned ten minutes later with a cup of tea for me and a chocolate biscuit for the girls. “Who’d like a chocolate biscuit?” she asked loudly and a voice from my lap, replied, “me please.”

I drank the tea, while Stella went off to feed Puddin’. “May I help feed her?” called Trish who galloped off after my sister-in-law to be. I was left with two demons, both getting covered in chocolate and who would be ready to eat their tea very shortly.

“Who wants sausage and chips?” I asked and two little bodies did a quick jig. I put the oven on and with two bodyguards, I drove to the local fish and chip shop. I fancied egg and chips and they both decided they’d rather have that too. So we stopped en route and bought a dozen eggs, then we went on to the chippy and bought enough chips to repeat the miracle of feeding the five thousand.

Back home, I dumped the chips in the oven and began frying eggs and heating up some tins of baked beans. Simon arrived just after Tom, who approved of my semi-unhealthy eating. In fact both the men did, ‘real food’ I think I heard Tom referring to it. Death on a plate may be a better description, but it happened to be a favourite of mine.

Stella came back with Trish and baby Puddin’ as I fried the last egg. I apportioned the chips and the coagulated poultry protein–doesn’t sound so appetising, does it? Deep fried potato slices and heat coagulated poultry protein–nah egg ‘n chips, that’s better.

Which was what he had, well egg, beans and chips with bread and butter and salt and vinegar. Trish had ketchup on hers, so Mima and then Livvie followed suit. Simon tutted, Tom sniggered and Stella choked on a chip and I had to bang her on the back. She coughed for several minutes and came back to the table with red watery eyes. She glared at Tom, who’d been the one to make her laugh while she was swallowing. I’d have to explain to her that egg and chips is best swallowed not inhaled.

“So how was school?” Simon asked, before I could kick him under the table.

“Who? Me?” asked Trish, pointing to herself while wolfing down another chip.

“Yes you, madam,” Si replied, smiling.

“ ’Salright, I s’pose,” said Trish before snaffling another chip and swallowing without chewing properly.

“Chew things properly, Trish, if you don’t mind,” I said and she blushed and nodded.

“What about, Livvie, how was your day?” Simon continued despite my trying to catch his eye.

“I got bullied by Petunia Browne-Cow,” said Livvie and Trish and Mima snorted. I had to wipe Mima’s nose for the sake of decency and hygiene. Then the giggling started.

I know from my own experiences as an inveterate giggler, that the worst thing you can do is try to stop giggle-fits at the table. It’s like trying to stop a forest fire with a CO2 extinguisher–it’s pointless. However, there is always someone who tries. I’m just glad it wasn’t me.

“Come on now, girls, behave at the table.” Simon tried to play the authoritarian paternal figure–I could have told him he was wasting his time and breath. The giggles will only stop when the gigglers leave the table. Three of them were now rocking in their seats and Mima once again needed some nasal hygiene.

Simon was becoming exasperated, and I left the table and got him a glass of wine, one for him and one for Tom. I worked on the basis that he couldn’t sip and shout at the same time. He got hiccups, didn’t he, so now, two adult women were sniggering and tears were running down our cheeks. Stella looked at me and we were both off giggling, which of course set off the girls again. Mayhem–doesn’t really do it justice, but you get the idea.

I think I saw Tom chuckling at one point while Simon, eventually rose from the table and stomped off into the kitchen and poured himself some more wine. I dismissed the girls and they went off to play with their dolls. Trish remembered her make up set and she and Livvie practiced painting each other’s face, while Mima played with her dolls.

Simon and I talked over how we best stop the bullying. I said I’d speak with the head mistress, but ultimately bullies only stop when their victims turn and fight back, or they decide the return isn’t worth the outlay and go and find another victim who is.

I wasn’t going to condone violence, even though Simon thought it reasonable. I tried to explain about the conversation I had with the other mums and he zoned out and went to sleep. As far as he was concerned, ‘smack ‘em one and forget it–end of problem’.

I wasn’t sure that worked in a boy’s school, because the only time I stood up to a bully, I got flattened. I possibly would have been quite badly beaten if some older boys hadn’t stopped the massacre. I’d ended up on the floor in the legs up arms around head, defensive position, while the larger boy kicked and stamped on me, thankfully rather ineffectually.

After that my father tried to teach me to box, at which I was total rubbish. “You hit like a bloody girl,” he kept telling me, which was probably about right–I was a girl, only he didn’t know it then, and I wasn’t too sure of the idea myself. Actually, I was, but I was in denial big time, which was what got me into the fight in the first place.

‘Snotty Trotter’ was the bully involved who tried to part a little girly, viz. moi, from her dinner money. I had surrendered it before but I was sick of the girly jibes, and the way the whole class laughed at me.

“Come on, Nancy, hand over the dosh,” he said in a horrible Bristol accent. We’d been doing Dickens and the interaction between Sykes and Nancy, before he killed her. So the allusion to Nancy and my probable bloody demise, excited my pubescent school mates into a blood lust. At least that was possibly why they were chanting ‘fight’ instead of stopping it. And they wondered why I wanted to be a girl.