The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1606 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

With the threat seemingly lifted life could begin to return to normal–our sort of normal–yeah, okay we live in a parallel universe compared to everyone else but were still governed by the same laws of physics and politeness.

I’d arranged appointments with yet another speech and language therapist and at fifty quid an hour, I tried to make sure anything she did with Mima was optimised. After three appointments the woman spoke to me out of Mima’s hearing.

“I’m not getting anywhere, this child seems to either have some sort of neurological problem relating to her forming certain consonants or her tongue seems to be unable to move appropriately to form them. I’ve tried exercises which don’t work and I see two of my colleagues have tried at different times as well. I hate to admit defeat but she is incurable.

I knew the feeling, I’d done the, ‘Round and round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran,’ until we were both tired and fed up. I began to wonder if the correct version was wound the wugged wock. The ENT bloke just shook his head and referred to speech therapy, they shook their heads and told me to get used to it. Meems didn’t seem too bothered but it would certainly make life harder as an adult. I even tried the blue energy–it wasn’t some sort of damage or illness so it wasn’t interested. All that happened when I really zapped her was the scratch she had on her nose healed up as we watched.

On the first weekend of February, when they were forecasting snow in different places, I took Meems with me to do some shopping, the other two were busy playing some new computer game Simon had brought home for them.

I was exhausted by the crowds of people buying as if they were going to be stuck in Alaska for the next three months. We barely managed to get enough milk for the week. I usually get three or four six-pintas, we managed to get three–the last three. I wanted some more bread, and the story was the same there, I got two thick sliced wholemeal loaves, the last two.

Okay, if push came to shove, I had a six pint bottle in the freezer and two loaves there as well, plus what I could make unless we had power cuts which don’t usually happen. Didn’t think the generator was up to running a bread machine. I got some more flour and yeast and sugar for the bread machine, in case I had to make our own bread. I do about half of it, but sandwiches or toast are usually commercial stuff, it fits in the toaster easier. Also the brand I buy with kibbled grain is quite palatable.

Meems and I were sitting it out in Morrison’s coffee shop watching the locusts stripping the shelves of all edible material, when I spotted Mrs Browne-Coward and the delightful Petunia. They had a large trolley piled high with all sorts of things, no wonder they made me feel thin.

My own trolley was pretty full, but then we did have significantly more people living in our house than I thought they did. I tried to look away, but she saw me and after depositing Petunia alongside me, blocking my exit, she went off to get their drinks or snacks.

“Hello, Petunia,” I said trying to act like an adult to a child I as good as despised.

“Hello,” she replied sulkily.

“Hewwo,” offered Meems and Petunia looked aghast at her.

“Don’t you talk funny?,” she observed of Meems.

“I don’t,” said Meems indignantly.

“You do, you sound like a twit.”

“I’m not a twit, you is a twit.”

“I said it first.” Petunia said sitting herself up to maximise intimidation.

“I don’t cawe, you’s stiww a twit, a big twit.”

The duchess of the garden centre came back with enough food to feed the foreign legion for a week, no wonder they both bulged in lots of places–all of them undesirable, except on elephant seals.

The two girls were still throwing the odd insult at each other so as soon as Brown-Cow arrived I excused us as we had other places to go. As we left I heard Petunia say of Mima, “That kid is a retard.”

“Wossa weetard, Mummy?” asked Meems as we recovered our shopping trolley.

“It’s an insult, Meems, just ignore it.” She did but only until we got home and then she asked our resident encyclopaedia, Trish. Trish then came bounding into me.

“Why did Petunia call Mima a retard?”

“I don’t know, why did she call her names?” I replied.

“She’s the retard, not Meems–silly cow, silly, brown cow,” she extemporised and went off laughing.

“I’s not a wetard, Mummy, them’s stupid.”

“No, people who are retarded have difficulty learning things compared to ordinary people, often because of brain damage or illness, like a stroke. You have no such difficulty, in fact you’re quite a clever little soul, so Petunia was mistaken.”

“Petunia’s a wetard.” She laughed to herself and went off to play.

I don’t think I have ever despised a child before in my life, except perhaps when I was a child myself–in which case Robert Bunthorpe who tied me to lamp post with my skipping rope after which he pulled down my trousers and threw them over Mrs Jenkin’s hedge followed quickly by my underpants. I was six and he was eight, he called me a sissy and told me only boys wore trousers. I hit him with a cricket bat the next day and my parents were called to the school.

Fortunately all I did was superficial damage although he left me alone afterwards, so I got a bollocking from my dad about not using excessive force at the same time his eyes were twinkling and he actually approved of me dealing with a bully.

When I hit Mary Samson with a cricket bat–yeah the same one–after she pushed me down in the playground, Dad read the riot act and I didn’t touch a cricket bat again until I went to high school.

So why did I despise Petunia? She was particularly objectionable–almost to the level of an art form. She was loud and aggressive, petty and mean minded–and she was a bully.

The only bully I couldn’t deal with myself was Malcolm Matthews, or Em-Em as he was called. He was a real psycho and also five years older than I was. He spotted me as wimp almost on the first day and made my life hell for a couple of terms. I felt powerless to deal with him. He took money off me, stole my packed lunches or any sweeties I had, and also took anything nice I had, like my first decent fountain pen.

Daddy had bought it for me when I went to the grammar school and within a month, Matthews had it. When asked why I was using the old cheap one I’d had in junior school, I told Dad I’d lost it. He was furious and I got a hiding. During it he noticed some bruising on my body, he stopped smacking me and asked what had happened.

Naturally, I told him I’d fallen and he didn’t believe me. In the end, on the threat of more punishment I told him that Matthews had taken it and beaten me up to get my pen. Dad played hell with the school and Matthews denied it all. There were no witnesses, he got off and I got beaten up several more times.

He terrorised several other younger boys and some of the older ones too. But in the summer term, he bullied someone too far and the next day they came armed with a kitchen knife and stuck it in his back–caught a kidney apparently and he died before the ambulance could get there. There was an awful stink after that, the boy who stabbed him got sent to a secure children’s unit and after lots of media exposure, the school finally sorted out some of the bullying–at least by the boys. Later on, much of mine came from the staff, the head master especially–but then I have gone on about him ad nauseam before.