The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1113 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

The night passed without note. Simon grunted in his sleep when I woke to feed the wain, but otherwise he was a slightly distant normal. I wondered if Tom or Stella had said something to him, but there was no way I was going to ask.

I saw in Cycling Weekly that Cavendish had done well, winning some back to back stages of the Vuelta–so is first Brit since Robert Millar, to win stages on all three of the big tours. I was reading the CW when the girls came down for breakfast.

“Other girl’s mothers read newspapers at breakfast,” commented Trish.

“I can’t help that, sweetheart, they obviously don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Hmm,” she thought for a minute, “perhaps they don’t like bikes,” she suggested.

“Don’t like bikes?” I pretended to be horrified; “But everyone likes bikes–don’t they?”

Trish was in earnest mode and the fact I was teasing her went straight over her head. Livvie, however, noticed and smirked at me, hiding her expression behind her hand.

“Not everyone will like bicycles, Mummy–I mean not everyone likes chocolate or ice cream.”

“They don’t?” I gasped.

“No they don’t,” continued Trish, chattering like someone in their sixties.

“Why don’t they?”

“It comes down to a matter of taste,” she continued.

“Are you inferring I don’t have taste?” I challenged her.

“No, Mummy, ‘course not–you have exquisite taste.”

“We learned that in English before the holidays,” betrayed Livvie.

“What’s this about a major incident in Portsmouth at the weekend?” interrupted Simon.

“I have no idea–what sort of incident?”

“It was on the radio, an earthquake or something?”

“Oh that–it was...” I began.

“A stimulation,” Trish threw in before I could finish.

“A what?” asked Simon.

“A stimulation, really, Daddy, you should know that–it’s a pretend thing, so they know what to do in case it happens for real.”

“That’s a stimulation is it?” Simon asked.

“Yes, silly Daddy,” she said, walking away from the table.

“Did the FT arrive?” Si asked me?”

“Did you order one?”

“No, I asked Bev to do that for me.”

“Your long suffering secretary has plenty to do if I know you.”

“As secretaries go, she is well remunerated.”

“So she’s a well paid slave, then?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cathy, she gets weekends off, so how can she be a slave?”

“I don’t,” I sighed.

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t remember seeing the Financial Times on the door mat, this morning.”

“That’s not good enough,” he picked up his mobile and whilst I poured him coffee, he sent a snotty text to his secretary. His phone peeped a few moments later and he said, “I might have known, it’s the newsagents–they didn’t have one. We’ll have to get a new supplier.”

“No we won’t,” I told him, “They send my Guardian every day, they remember the children’s various comics and Tom’s Independent. If you put in a regular order, they’d get it for you.”

“Hmmph,” he seemed livid. “They send trashy things like your Cycling Weekly, but forget the best newspaper on the planet.”

“I get this direct from the publishers each week.”

“Well there you are then, finished looking at the pictures, have we?”

“Why, do you want to look at them?”

“No, I’ll have a quick squint at this rag.” He picked up my Guardian and began leafing through it.

“It might be a rag, but they were the only one to approve of your advising Gordon Brown.”

“Not the only one, the FT did as well.”

“Bloody pink papers–I thought that was a term relating to gay newspapers?” I attacked.

“No, that is the pink press, the FT was printed on pink paper long before such things existed.”

I decided, that given my own situation, I wasn’t going to throw stones whilst living in a greenhouse. “Well, if you put in a regular order with the newsagents, I’m sure they’ll get you one each time.”

“I’ll make do with this now,” he started leafing through my Guardian. I walked away before I hit him–patronising twit. Where was the man I married, why the change? Maybe I’d speak with Bev and see if there was a reason for it from the bank. If I talked to Henry, he’d give Simon a rollocking, which won’t achieve anything. I want to make things better, not worse.

I fed the others and even offered Simon something cooked, but he stuck with toast and marmalade plus some cereal and half a pot of coffee. If I drank that much I’d be twitchy and hyper. He wasn’t unless this recent outburst was an example of that. Something to think about, all the same.

A day of domestic chores and keeping out of Simon’s way. He went off to the bank about ten, he was chairing some high powered meeting with the council and spending cuts. They use his bank, which brings in income, so he has to sweet talk them–even though it’s not his usual area. If the Chairman’s son is involved–it’s got to be good for customer confidence.

I suppose he’s under a lot of pressure–they made four billion profit since April, not as much as the very big banks, but enough to be next in the ratings after the big four–and growing more rapidly, even in bad times–or are those yet to visit us?

I’m convinced the government are setting us, the public, up for an asset strip of public sector resources. They won’t go short that’s for sure–whingeing about expenses, after what went on before, haven’t MPs and the banks got the message yet?

I fed my wain again and played games with the kids while the washing did itself, then found a few moments to call Bev, Simon’s secretary.

“Hi, Bev, it’s Cathy Cameron, Simon’s wife.”

“Good morning, Lady Catherine, what can I do for you?”

“Simon’s been like a bear with a sore head, is there anything at work which might be helping to cause it?”

“I can’t give details of bank stuff, I’m sorry–he’d shoot me.”

“Only if he found out.”

“This is true–I don’t know, it hasn’t got in the press yet.”

“What hasn’t?”

“Okay, but you didn’t hear it from me–okay?”

“Guides honour,” I said back even though I’d never been one.

“Okay–he’s got to make several people in his division redundant.”

“Ah, that might explain his strange behaviour.”

“One of them is a very old friend.”

“Oh dear.” That could explain why he’s been a bit strange, if I had to sack anyone, I’d be a nervous wreck.

“Yes, the poor chap has no idea what’s coming.”

“I thought the bank had done quite well?” but who was I to know these things?

“We have, and being spare of staff has kept us in the hunt. However, Lord Simon doesn’t like doing it; he’s clever but not ruthless. He’s far too nice to be a banker.”

“Is he now? I suppose he is. Thanks Bev.” Well that explained some of it–maybe he’s on the male menopause or whatever they call it? Anyway, I’ll try and avoid any extra pressure on him for a few days and see if he talks to me. Food for thought–now–food for kids–lunch.