Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 777 by Angharad

“Hang on, how did you know she’d hit me?” I asked him.

“Because I know you, and once provoked, you’d give as good as you got; however, you’d also be aware that if you provoked her back you’d win the argument, moral and actual.”

“Simon, that is very deep for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Normally, you don’t expound such thoughts.”

“I see, getting intellectualist are we?”

“Getting what? Simon, I’ve just had a run in with one obnoxious personage; I really don’t need to fight with you when I come home.”

“This isn’t a fight, it’s an exchange of information, views, opinions...”

“Bullshit?”

“Not on my part, my dear.” His eyes danced as he spoke, another wind up – the pig, he deserves to get swine flu or whatever they call it.

“Would you like some lunch?”

“Yes please, Babes.”

“Well stop the wind up or you’ll be wearing it.” I didn’t wait for a response I went out into the kitchen to start making a new loaf as we only had about half of one left. He came out as I was putting the ingredients into the machine.

“Pax?” he said waving a tissue.

“Are we doing the Latin bit?”

“Yes, I’ll say truce if you’d prefer a French influence.”

“As I’m feeling magnanimous, I’ll accept unconditional surrender.” I had my back turned to him as I finished sorting the machine.

“You’ll accept what?” he gasped verging I suspect on apoplexy.

“Your unconditional surrender.” I still kept my back to him.

He seemed to mull over this for a few moments, “Does this mean I get lunch?”

“Of course, I’m always generous in victory.”

“Victory?” He paused, then added, “What is for lunch?”

“Ham and cheese omelette.”

“Hmmm...Okay, I surrender, plenty of cheese in mine, please.”

“I always put loads of cheese in yours.”

“I know, I was just checking out on the generous bit.”

“Generous? What are you talking about?” Sometimes I’m sure we’re actually in different but parallel universes which coincide every now and again.

“Your earlier statement; you claimed you were generous in victory – I just wondered if your generosity ran to cheese?”

“Simon, you are completely barmy.”

“Does that mean I’ll get my cheese or not?”

I turned around and threw my arms around him and kissed him. “Does that answer your question?”

“Hmm, can you repeat your answer, I don’t think I quite caught it the first time?” I frowned at him, then kissed him again.

“Now, go and keep an eye on Houdini before she does another runner.”

“Houdini?”

“Mima, you twit.”

“She’s sat on the sofa listening to her music player.”

“That’s what she was doing yesterday before she vanished into thin air.”

“Okay, I’ll go and check she’s still there.” He went off to the lounge. I carried on getting the pan and the eggs ready to make the omelettes. He didn’t come back so i assumed he’d either disappeared as well as Meems or, she was there and he was having a crafty cuddle. I sneaked in to the hallway and peeped through the crack down the edge of the door, she was sitting on his lap and he was reading to her, I smiled because I felt a lovely sense of warmth from seeing them together. He loved the kids and they loved him in return.

About twenty minutes later I produced omelettes for everyone –Tom, Simon, Stella, Meems and myself. I also did a little one with just some cheese in it for Puddin’. They weren’t too bad–in fact I’ve had worse in a restaurant.

My mind drifted back to one day before we had the kids – Simon had met me for lunch and we’d gone to this pub with restaurant. I ordered a Spanish omelette and what they served was horrible. I sent it back and two minutes later the chef appeared asking what was wrong with it. So I told him. He asked me if I could do better and I accepted this as a challenge. He was so cross that he led me back to the kitchen, gave me a pinafore to put on and pointed to the range. I nodded and within about twelve minutes had produced an entirely better product than he had. He was gracious enough to concede defeat and furthermore we weren’t billed for either meal. He also offered me a job which I declined, the pay would be worse than the remuneration for corrupting the minds of young people. As we left he asked me where I’d learned to make omelettes – my reply was simple, my mother showed me how to do them when I was about fifteen, I’d been practicing ever since.

“A penny for them,” said Stella.

“Uh, what?” I was miles away.

“For your thoughts, they were obviously more interesting than the conversation around the table.

“How would you know that?” I wasn’t really sure what she was on about.

“Well they captivated you completely, you’ve not said anything for several minutes since you took a portion of omelette – which incidentally, is very good, but then yours always are.”

“I know what she was thinking,” said Si smirking.

“This I have to hear,” replied Stella, “seeing as you usually have about as much idea about what women are thinking as I do about the ruminations of the average camel.”

“Wasn’t Mel Gibson in some stupid film about what women want?” I added changing the subject.

“Coulda been,” said Stella, “he’s made a few duff films.”

“Och, he wis quite guid in Braveheart,” Tom had finished his meal and was picking bits of salad out of his teeth with a cocktail stick which he kept as an impromptu toothpick.

“Wasn’t he a Glasgow Rangers fan in that?” asked Simon.

“Whit’re ye on aboot?” Tom looked completely perplexed by Simon’s statement.

Just before Simon finished his set up for a pun, I got the joke. “Well he was covered in blue stuff, Tom, so I assumed that was Rangers.”

“That wis woad, ye stupid bugger.”

“I thought that only applied to the Welsh – I mean they’re the remnants of the Ancient Brits, aren’t they – along with the Cornish?” As far as I knew it was so.

“The Romano-British, included a tribe who held ground up near Edinburgh sae it’s quite feasible the Scots wuid hae carried on the custom.”

I didn’t feel like arguing, so I finished my lunch and left the field of battle to make some tea. I didn’t particularly like the film Braveheart, it broke one of my childhood dreams, Patrick McGoohan played Edward Longshanks and was a real pig, so different from his gentleman spy in Dangerman and The Prisoner. I suppose life is full of such realisations, though we don’t have to like them.

I made the tea.