Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 776 by Angharad

That night after Simon had had his wicked way, and I’d had a little wash, we settled down for a cuddle and a sleep. For a change, I slept well and woke feeling shattered. Why is it that a good night’s sleep leaves you feeling more tired than a poor one? Life is full of paradoxes and I had bigger fish to fry, such as three kids. Talking of which, they materialised as the radio alarm came on, so I whisked them off to the bathroom and scrubbed them from head to foot.

After the usual morning processes of breakfast and packed lunches – why won’t my kids eat school food? – I took them off to school. I needed flour and yeast for the bread machine, so trundled into the supermarket on the way home, accompanied by Meems – well if she was with me, it may be harder to lose her, although I’d nearly managed it the other day.

When halfway down the baking supplies aisle we met a familiar face if not particularly welcome one. “Good morning,” I said as we passed, and she chose to ignore me. I shrugged and walked on.

We met again at the end of the toilet rolls and tissues. This time I ignored her, and she said loudly at me, “I don’t know how you can live with yourself.” I carried on. “My daughter has been asked to leave that wretched school, all because of you and your crazy children.”

I should have carried on walking and ignored her, but you know me, no one impugns my girls and gets away with it. “Mrs Browne-Coward, I think you’d better keep your stupid thoughts to yourself, unless you want to face my lawyers across a court room.”

“You can’t sue me for telling the truth.”

“Who said I would?” I was building up to becoming vindictive, not my usual modus operandi.

“Your child is attending a psychiatrist, so must have mental problems.”

“Your daughter is a bully and nasty piece of work, so must follow the family model.” Two can play at this game.

“My Petunia is a perfect young woman without a modicum of malice in her whole body. It’s your crazy daughter who is the problem.”

“Your Petunia is an obnoxious little weed with an obvious personality disorder. Trish is by no means perfect, but if she was the problem, they’d have asked me to remove her, not your precious Petunia.”

“Fat chance, money talks and you lot have loads of it, so my poor Petunia takes the blame for your family of vipers.”

“You stupid, obese, social-climbing, arse-kissing, moron. Take a look in the mirror if you want to see who’s to blame for your daughter’s behavioural problems.”

“How dare you?” she squared up to me as if she was preparing to fight.

“You started it with your insinuations.”

“Your daughter started it, by attacking my poor Petunia.”

“Trish is the victim, not the aggressor in all of this. Your precious Petunia is the villain of the piece.”

“That’s right, ignore the truth, all you upper classes are the same – blame the poor workers, instead of all you shirkers.”

“You appear to suffer from gross stereotyping, all of which is ill informed. This is the twenty-first century, for goodness sake. Grow up and keep your hideous offspring away from my children.”

“My Petunia isn’t hideous, she’s beautiful – you, you horrible aristocrat.” With that, she hit me in the kitchen rolls – or should I have said, into the kitchen rolls. Meems started to cry and two members of staff rushed to help me up and take Mrs Browne-Coward away from me.

“You alright, madam?” one of the shop staff asks me.

“I’m fine, but I’m afraid I’ve squashed some of your kitchen rolls.”

“That’s okay, madam, are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Perfectly sure, thank you.”

“Did she assault you?”

“It’s okay, her daughter has been suspended from school for intimidating and bullying several kids including one of mine. She obviously felt it was my fault.”

“Like mother like daughter,” said the shop-girl.

“I won’t pass judgement,” I said trying to be magnanimous.

“Well you can stuff your stupid supermarket then,” shouted a familiar voice and she rammed her trolley into the display of dog food, bringing it cascading down and rolling around the aisle. Then she stormed off as the security guard appeared on the scene.

I was led to the manager to explain what had happened and I tried to in as matter of fact a way as I could without any points scoring. I know if the position had been reversed, she may well have gone for the sympathy vote, I tried to stick to the facts as I knew them.

“Well, in view of the way she acted, we’ve banned her as well. Normally, I would ask you to take your custom elsewhere as well, to make sure we act fairly.”

“If that’s what you’d like me to do, I’ll comply, albeit with some degree of sadness because this is quite a good supermarket.”

“I did say, normally I’d ask you to go elsewhere, but this time I think the other woman was in the wrong. I will not, therefore ask you to stop visiting us.”

“Weren’t you the lady in the dormouse film?” asked one of the staff who’d witnessed the incident.

“Yes,” I acknowledged, blushing.

“My mummy wikes do’mices,” added Mima, having recovered from her shock at seeing me assaulted.

“Good gracious, I didn’t realise we had a celebrity shopping in our store,” said the manager in surprise, “that was a cracking film.”

“I don’t think one documentary constitutes celebrity,” I replied trying to play things down.

“Ah, but you wrote and produced it as well.”

“With some help from my friends.”

“I believe the BBC are bringing it out on DVD, and may be showing it again over Christmas.”

“How do you know? I made the film and they haven’t told me.” I was disgusted.

A short time later I managed to escape the supermarket, replete with my shopping and a bunch of flowers courtesy of the manager for my upset with the other customer. They have such a way with words–I don’t think.

“Waiting for the yeast to grow were you?” asked Simon as we got home.

“No, the flour to be milled, why?”

“I wondered why you were so late.”

“I encountered Mrs Brown-Cow in the supermarket.”

“And?”

“She started shooting her mouth off.”

“Oh and you just ignored her, I suppose?”

“Not when she insulted my children, no. I told her what I thought of her–all polite and above board.”

“I don’t believe that for one moment, Cathy Watts. I’ve heard you when you get going, and it’s not pretty, although the expressions are sometimes imaginative.”

“What are you implying, Simon?”

“Tell the truth, Cathy, what did you call her?”

“I don’t remember, but moron featured large in what I do remember.”

“No wonder she hit you.”

“I think I might have implied she was a brown noser, too.”

“Cathy, that is not said in polite company.”

“Polite company? She was the one doing all the swearing, and she hardly invokes the word – ‘polite’ – anyway.”

“Oh that’s different, then.”