The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1611 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

As the days passed the memories of the attack by the Argentines faded except with regard to the razor wire and machine gun nests patrolled by soldiers. Actually, all we did was to put up new gates which were electrically controlled, including a back up for power failure. There was a call thingy on the wall which one could use on hands free or with a telephone type of handset.

Hidden motion activated cameras surrounded the property, which were hidden from a cursory view, and probably a more detailed one as well. Some of these had an infra red type of ability which meant they picked up heat generated images, so would work in almost complete darkness. We’d also supplemented the number of motion generated safety lights–yes those horrid things which come on like a floodlight when you walk past them.

The work had cost thousands of pounds and taken a couple of weeks and watching them paint the gates was probably more fun than listening to the media frenzy over who would be the next England football manager, but at last my team in the six nations rugby tournament, Wales had squeaked in against Ireland with practically the last kick of the match. Mind you if Wales had kicked all their penalties and conversions, they’d have won by a bigger margin, or if the try scored by Ryan Jones had been allowed. They meet Scotland next, so will have to endure Simon and Tom’s insults if they beat the Caledonians, and it is in Cardiff–so Wales have the advantage of a home game.

It’s an old Welsh joke that the shortest book in the world is the English book of rugby skills. As long as it doesn’t get translated into Welsh, I don’t mind.

Mima suffered no lasting damage from being flushed with success and her shoes dried out quite well too. I think we can also assume she won’t be standing on toilet seats for a while either.

Whilst talking of things sanitary, Julie poked herself a mite too hard and made herself very sore after her daily meditation with the magic bullet. I advised she sit in a bath of warm salt water and then rinse off and apply some antiseptic–I had some somewhere supposedly for ‘women’s intimate places’. Probably developed from sheep dip and they add perfume to it. Oh well, she won’t be cycling this weekend.

She was walking better and seemed to cope with the tiredness a lot better as well, so I suggested she might start thinking about going back to work fairly soon.

“Do I have too, Mummy, I mean it was major surgery and what if I’ve done some damage with you know...?”

“You’d have to shove it pretty hard to do that, as long as it was lubed and came out cleanly, you’ll be okay. The danger is in the removal+, not the insertion, it’s what would cause a prolapse. All you’ve done is probably tear some skin slightly, which if left alone will probably heal by itself, if not go and see Dr Smith.”

“I’d be far too embarrassed to do that.”

“Do what? See the doctor you mean?”

“Yes,” she blushed.

“Why?”

“Well he’s a man.”

“I know, the receding hairline, facial hair and deep voice gives it away.”

“No, Mummy, I couldn’t let a man see me–down there.”

“It was a man who built it for you–so what’s the problem?”

“I was asleep then, I didn’t see it, did I?”

“He’s a doctor, he’s seen loads of them.”

“I couldn’t, Mummy, I’d just die.”

“But you showed it to me?”

“Yes, but you’re my mother–an’ you’ve got one too.”

She was quick on the uptake this girl, seriously though, I can remember being very shy about myself to myself. I’d been shoving a lump of plastic up it for a week or two before I stopped and had a good look at it. It was still comparatively swollen but during the ensuing weeks it calmed down and looked better and better and I was more and more pleased I’d had it done by such a skillful craftsman. Seeing Julie’s I didn’t even stop to think about the privacy issue. She’d called me and asked if I could take a look because it was hurting. I examined it like I would a painful place anywhere, I suppose in much the same way the doctor would, objectively. It was only afterwards I was able to consider how clever the surgeon was and how real it looked. I could also see she was an almost natural blonde compared to my redder thatch.

In some regards I’d seen three recycled bits of plumbing–my own, Trish and now, Julie. All by the same artist, and all very neat jobs. Quite how they’d deal with the re-bore for Trish as she got older, I wasn’t at all sure. Still that would be more relevant in ten years than it is now and she’s just pleased to be indistinguishable from the natural girls.

If anything the low dosage of hormones she was taking were possibly starting to shape her a little already. She was skinny anyway, but I was sure she was either narrowing a little in the waist or her hips were broadening, possibly both. I’d need to speak to Stephanie once she had recovered from her caesarean. She did have a little girl–Emily. Sadly, the only girl I’ve been involved with naming was me. Oh well, it’s a minor point.

I was down sorting the dinner when Julie came down after treating her intimate injury. She was walking like a duck with piles and I couldn’t help but smile as I sliced carrots.

“Go on, have a good snigger,” she said more in fun than irritation–unless the antiseptic was irritating.

“You’re walking like John Wayne after a long day in the saddle.”

“Cyclist is he?” she asked innocently–or it seemed innocent.

“John Wayne was a movie star, made all sorts of cowboy and action films–Gerr off ya horse an’ drink ya milllk,” I said trying to drawl like the Duke, except my voice is several registers higher and so it sounded silly.

She laughed and shook her head. “What’s he been in?”

“Um, Stagecoach, The Man who shot Liberty Vallance, True Grit is my favourite.”

“But that’s a recent film, with Jeff Bridges, isn’t it?”

“That’s a remake, I liked the original with Wayne and Glen Campbell.”

She looked blank and shook her head.

“Go and look on Youtube, bound to be plenty of his clips on there–oh, his real name was Marion.”

“What?” gasped Julie, “He um–didn’t go the other way–did he?”

I laughed, I don’t think so, sweetheart, Marion is originally a boy’s name like Hilary and Jocelyn which have been mainly used by girls these days. It’s also spelt with an O rather than the female version of Marian, with an A.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen the name with the O used by girls.”

“You probably have, people call their children what they like these days, I mean even Bill Clinton called his daughter after his favourite football team.”

“Why is her name Manchester United Clinton, then?” joked Julie.

“No, Oxford United–that’s where he went to uni over here.”

“To study football?”

“No, stupid, to learn English.”

“Couldn’t he speak it before then?”

I shrugged my shoulders, either she’d poked her brain too hard with the plastic bullet or was taking the proverbial.

“Wossfadinna, Mummy?” asked Trish coming in to cadge a biscuit.

“Fish in a mornay sauce with new potatoes, carrots and peas.”

“Yummy–um–woss–mornee sauce?”

“Mornay, it’s a cheese sauce.”

“Oh yum, I like cheese.”

“Go and look up John Wayne on youtube and show your sister.”

She went off and returned a moment later to see how his name was spelt, by the time I had the vegetables cooked Julie was back, “Yeah, he was in some old film the other day, a war film I think–didn’t watch it, don’t like war films.”

“I prefer ones with a story over those with just loads of action–sort of Arnie films.” I offered.

“Oh I like some Arnie films, you just sit there with your brain in freefall.” She seemed to be in that state now.

“Would you like to lay the table for me, darling?” I asked her as I checked the fish which were in the slow oven.

“Yeah, okay–how many?”

“Everyone’s here except, Daddy,” I left her to count that up while I brought Catherine’s high chair out of the corner and next to my place–we tend to sit in the same chairs each time we dine–makes it easier for Stella and me to feed the wains.

When it came to dishing up, she hadn’t laid a place for Tom and we had to quickly move things round to accommodate him in his own kitchen–okay, I modernised it, but it was still his house.

Later on as I was clearing up, Julie came and said she was still very sore. I told her to go and rest, it would probably clear up overnight. It didn’t, she got me up in the night and she looked awful and had a temperature...