Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 375 by Angharad

After dinner, the girls helped me arrange the flowers from Tom, we needed a couple of vases. Seeing them again reminded me of my mother – she loved flowers. Dad used to buy them quite often. I felt myself choke up a bit and distracted myself by offering the girls a biscuit.

I heard my mobile peep to suggest a text message had arrived. Leaving the girls I went to answer it. Ok U win I srrnda, wl ordr sac clof n ashs. S xxx’

Won what? I mused. I wasn’t aware we were in some sort of competition unless he saw my distance as a punishment for his insensitivity. He was wrong as usual; nothing new there then – I’d left to avoid the intrusive reporters of the tabloid press. In some ways I was astonished they hadn’t traced me here. Anyway, the healing angel stuff was over, so hopefully they lose interest very quickly – they had the attention span of a dormouse, I know I’ve measured it – a little known paper which never got finished or submitted. I still have the data somewhere.

I called Tom and thanked him for the flooers, he was pleased they’d arrived. When I asked why he’d sent them to me as Lady C, he said he thought I was talking to the priest. That reminded me, I had promised myself I would if she were available.

“What has me talking to Marguerite got to do with calling me Lady Cameron?”

“Weel, I thoucht ye’d be talkin’ aboot yer big day, hen.”

After I translated, “I haven’t even thought about it. I might consider it in 2012 when the Olympics are on and thus distracting the press.”

“Och, ye’ll no want tae wait that lang.”

“Why not? I’m too busy to give it the time it needs to do properly.”

“Whit aboot yer lassies? They’d love tae be bridesmaids.”

“I’m not getting married for their sakes, when I do it, it’ll be for Simon and me. That we’ll have a better chance of adoption is secondary.”

“Sorry, but I dinna believe ye.”

That’s your problem, Daddy dearest, “I have to go, Daddy, talk to you soon, bye.” I was not going to be railroaded into marriage by anyone, especially someone who should know better.

I called Simon. “Hi, Babes, did you like my text?”

“Not particularly.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t understand it.”

“Geez, Cathy, I thought I was the dumb one.”

“You are, but what’s that got to do with my incomprehension of your text?”

“That bad, huh?”

“You’ve lost me, Simon.”

“Your understanding of my text.”

“I didn’t understand it. Since when have we been in competition?”

“We’re not.”

“So how could I win?”

“The argument, Babes, the argument.”

“Which one was this?”

“Cathy, have you lost your short-term memory? Remember, you flounced off from the hotel because I agreed with Tom that you could take the girls up to Stanebury.”

“I did not flounce anywhere, I have never flounced anywhere.”

“What about that time when we were with Tim?”

I couldn’t remember, so I agreed to give him one flounce, but that was all. “Okay, apart from that, when have I ever flounced?”

“Yeah, okay, so it was a one off.”

“Thank you. Now if you care to remember I said that I was going to come home and bring the girls with me. I had made up my mind before you two tried to make me change it.”

“Okay, so like I said, you won the argument.”

“Simon, there was no argument. I refused to discuss it, that isn’t an argument.”

“Are we leading up to the Monty Python argument sketch?”

“No we are not. I am trying to be serious, and you are talking about Monty Python, for goodness sake, Simon, grow up will you?”

“Back to the sack cloth and ashes then…”

“When you have something sensible to say, give me a call. You know where I am.” I switched off the phone. “Bloody men, arrgh!” I felt better after the squeal.

“Is you alwight, Mummy?”

“Yes, darling, why?”

“You squeamed.”

“It was more of a squeal, but I’m fine, just dealing with an idiot blockhead.”

“What’s a bwockhead, Mummy?”

“Someone whose head is as thick as a block – a stupid person.”

“Who was da stupid people?”

“Your daddy, my Simon.”

“Daddy, not a bwockhead, he’s a nice man.”

“I know sweetheart, that’s what makes it even more painful. He can be the sweetest man on the planet, and also the dumbest. That’s men for you, I certainly don’t understand them.”

“What did he do this time?” asked Stella as she came down from dealing with Puddin’.

I showed her the text. “I called him and told him I didn’t understand, and he accused me of flouncing off from Southsea.”

“I suppose flounce does mean to move off angrily, but I always associate it with petulance, in which case he does it more than you.”

“Oh, I thought I was the petulant one,” I sighed.

“We don’t have any pets, Mummy.”

“Pets, Mima?”

“You said you had a pet, Mummy.”

I looked at Stella and she turned away to avoid laughing.

“No, I used a word that sounded like pet, but it doesn’t mean a dog or cat.”

“Siwwy, Mummy,” she said and flounced off.

“Now that was flouncing,” Stella and I said together and laughed.