Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 754 by Angharad

I drove home feeling that I was incurable – whatever this thing that resided in me, or my mind, was – I began to think I’d never know. It seemed like I had some sort of switch which kicked in whenever happiness threatened to raise its lovely head. I didn’t need it to rain on my parade, I seemed to have a built-in black cloud which followed me around.

I was therefore quite gloomy when I returned and even the effusive welcomes from three mini terrorists, failed to lift my spirits. I was beginning to feel like a heroine from a nineteenth century gothic novel. The difference was I got Mr Darcy in the first part of the book, and it had gone wrong ever since – damn, if Charlotte Bronte wasn’t long dead, I could have asked her to do me a script where it all ends happily ever after. It didn’t for her, so maybe I wouldn’t bother her.

I got us some lunch, still preoccupied with my conundrum – Jan Morris had one of those and turned it into a book – ha, who’s going to write about my life, pathetic little worm I am? I’ve never been halfway up Everest with a beard like a yeti’s pubes, I can’t grow one, never could, so that’s where JM and I take different paths.

“Mummy, can we burn the house down and have an orgy?” asked Trish.

“If you like dear,” I said without really listening to the question.

“Do you have any cabanis?”

“Do I have any what?”

“Cabanis?”

“Do you mean, cannabis?”

“Pot? Is that the same?”

“How do you know about these things, and more importantly, why do you want it?”

“I was going to tell you to take some, it’s supposed to make you happy, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never tried it – nor do I have any intention of doing so, and young woman, if ever I find you have, regardless of your age, I shall tan-fiddle your backside so hard, you won’t sit down for a fortnight. Do you hear me?”

“I was only joking, Mummy.” Trish screwed up her eyes, she hugged me tightly and sobbing said, “You looked so sad, I was only trying to cheer you up.”

“I know, sweetheart, I’m a bit of a wet blanket today. I’ll try and cheer up, okay?” She hugged me again by way of an answer.

“Mummy, wossan orjeum?”

“I have no idea, Meems, where did you hear that?”

“Twish asked if she could have an orjeum, I wann one too.”

“I said an orgy, Meems,” Trish corrected her from her hug with me.

“Awight, an orgy, I wanna orgy.”

Of course, this was when Stella arrived. “Nice children you have, Cathy, I don’t think social services would agree, but I’ve always been partial to orgies, as long as they were by invitation only.” She laughed to herself and was gone before I could think of a suitably acerbic response.

“Where did you hear of orgies?” I asked Trish, who was trying to hide inside my clothes, except my body took up most of the room available.

“In school, the Romans had them.”

“Okay, Meems, an orgy is a party for people who do everything by excess.”

“Does that mean they’d all be sick from too much ice cream, Mummy?” Trish asked.

“I don’t think the Romans had ice cream, sweetheart.”

“No but they’ve made up selling it ever since,” said Stella breezing past carrying a bottle for Puddin’.

“That was racist,” I yelled after her.

“Just one cornetto …” she sang, mimicking the ice cream advert.

“Canni’ve some ice cream, Mummy?” Livvie asked coming into this semi-surreal conversation.

I gave up on my explanations of excess in the Roman empire in case one of them played the violin while the other two set fire to the house. Instead, I gave them a small dish of ice cream each, and cleaned up the kitchen. I noticed the rain had stopped and the sun was shining, the drive looked almost dry, so I got their bikes out for them, attached Meems trailer bike to my MTB and changed into some jeans and a sweatshirt, and we all went off for a short ride.

The two older girls raced along the pavements as Meems and I tootled along the road with them. Despite Meems urging me to go ever faster, we didn’t. The girls enjoyed their longer than usual ride – it must get boring riding up and down the drive.

We were out for an hour and by the time we came back all three of them had rosy cheeks. “That was good fun, Mummy,” said Livvie.

“Yes, it was brill, Mummy,” agreed Trish. Meems seemed lost for words and just hugged me. I’d done something right at last.

By dinner time I felt a bit happier. I hadn’t worked out anything, but I was at least able to interact normally with the children. After dinner, which was a cottage pie, which I made from scratch – even growing the reeds for the thatch, Tom amused the girls while I cleaned things up and then they asked me to tell them a story.

“You want me to make one up rather than read you one?” They all agreed that they did. “Okay, what sort of story would you like?”

“Can you tell us one about Spike, Mummy.”

“Spike, my dormouse?”

“Yes,” they all said.

“Okay. Once upon a time Spike was helping me in the university laboratory, we were counting up my statistics from my fieldwork and she was sitting on my desk eating a Brazil nut. I was so involved with my paper that I didn’t see a large cat walk in to the laboratory.”

“Wike Bonzi, the wady’s cat on the puta?” Meems asked.

“Yes, a bit like Bonzi, except he’d never harm a dormouse because Angharad who looks after him would tell him it was against the law, and I expect Bonzi is very law-abiding. However, the cat who walked in looked lean, mean and hungry and he miaowed with an American, no a Milwaukee accent…”

“How was your session with the shrink?” Stella asked, as we relaxed with a glass of wine after I had put the girls’ light out.

“She gave me something to think about, I suppose.”

“Isn’t that the point of Cognitive whatever therapy? Isn’t that what they all do?”

“I dunno, I’m a biologist not a psychologist, but it didn’t strike me as being CBT that she was doing.”

“Oh, oh well, I suppose she knows what she’s doing even if we don’t.”

“Whit did she dae with ye?” asked Tom, reaching over for the bottle of Rioja.

“She seems to think I have some block about accepting myself.”

“Acceptin’ yersel’? Aye, mebbe she’s richt. It’s a sair fecht.”

“Well I don’t think that I have.” I pouted at the other two.

“Cathy, we are always telling you why men make passes at you –because you’re beautiful and charming – and you never believe us, do you?”

“No, because half the time you’re taking the piss.”

“Who me?” squeaked Stella with a look of astonishment.