The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1657 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Catherine was chuckling as Jacquie tickled her gently. I hoped she wouldn’t be sick, the baby, that is. If Jacquie is, I’ll make her clean it up.

“How about I make us a nice cuppa, before the others get back?”

“Did you let Auntie Stella drive your car?”

“I had to, in order for me to have time to talk to you immediately, I had to let her drive it–she drives a hard bargain as well as my car. However, if she has enough accidents on the way back, we should have time to eat a biscuit or two as well.

We sat at the kitchen table while Catherine nibbled on a ginger snap–she loves them–I loathe them, but she’s fairly safe with them, they are so hard that she only manages to scrape a little off at a time. When she gets bored she throws it on the floor and Kiki cleans up the mess. Okay, occasionally Puddin’ gets there first...I know, too much information–but it’s probably helping her develop an immune system.

Jacquie and I chatted as if nothing had happened, which was probably a bit of denial on both our parts. “How about we start again?” I suggested.

“Start what, again?”

“Our relationship. We’ve both made mistakes which hopefully we’ll learn from and grow.” I hoped that didn’t mean grow bitter and twisted.

“You can’t do that, can you?”

“You can, but it is slightly different to the first time because we know more about each other this time round.”

“I don’t know, Mummy.”

“Have a think about it.” As I paused, I heard a car pulling into the drive. “Here’s Stella and the girls, I’ll just go and check my car–can you watch, Catherine?” Before she could respond I was out the back door and greeting the girls, who each gave me a hug. Stella handed me the keys of my chariot.

I began to walk towards it. “There are no dents or scratches on it that weren’t there before I drove it.”

“There were none before, so there’d better not be any now.”

“It was just the slightest of scrapes,” Stella raised her eyebrows and the girls began to do what packs of young females do in such circumstances–they giggled. They were still giggling when we went back into the house and Stella was still goading them to further hysteria.

I eventually had to split them up before one of them was sick, which again is one of the consequences of too much of a good thing. Once they settled down and I asked Stella to stop winding them up–or I really would kill her this time–things became quieter. They had a drink and a biscuit and after changing went out to play for half an hour before they started their homework. I began organising the rest of the meal–the salmon was well cooked, as I knew it would be so I boiled some new potatoes which we’d have with a knob of butter and green salad. It was certainly the weather for it–almost unbroken sunshine.

Trish’s birthday was on Sunday and I needed to get her present–what–I had yet to decide. The problem is, they have all they need plus some. So unless it’s functional, like clothes, it’s pure trimmings or whimsy. I would get her some new clothing and probably a new computer program or game.

She already had a bicycle, I suppose I could get her one of those scooters the kids do tricks with. She had an adequate computer, and mobile phone. She had a MP3 player–she’d only be eight–at that age, I was still playing with tea sets and things, barely aware that computers even existed. Now look at things–not only have kids been technologised, they’ve also been sexualised, which is far worse. You can see six year olds wearing heels and makeup. By ten, they want implants, because they don’t think mother nature is being kind to them. How will they know, except to wait another fifteen years to find out.

But they won’t do that, so they rush into actions and repent them at leisure. I’m trying to prevent all that happening to my children because I realise it won’t enhance their lives, even though they can’t see it themselves and moan bitterly about my cruelty to them.

Simon and Tom came back so close together I almost wondered if they’d travelled in convoy. The meal was ready so while Si nipped up to change I began to dish up the fish, which I have to admit was absolutely delish. I also saved enough to make sandwiches the next day for several of us. Simon occasionally took them or got his secretary to run out and get him some. I thought I could produce a better effort than a sandwich bar and the next day, if Simon wanted sarnies, I’d make him some really nice ones.

In bed, I mentioned to him what had happened earlier. He listened intently. “You try too hard, that’s part of your problem. You also worry too much about the rest of the family–it might even come above being inadequate as a woman.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?” I knew he had me on that one, although I was trying to stop doing it–‘the I’m not a proper/real woman thing beloved of transsexuals. I’m not sure if the boys who went the other way feel something similar or not. Probably not if they’re really transsexual, because male egos worry about many other things but not about core things like that.

I asked him about sandwiches the next day and he told me that it would be lovely for him to have home produced sandwiches made by his lovely wife, whom he wanted to shag more than even having homemade sandwiches. How do you argue with such charm–yeah okay, more charm than a collection of goldfinches. We have a whole flock of them in the orchard and nearby woodland, you hear them twittering all day long if you’re out in the garden or drive. Don’t think any of them are on facebook yet though.

I wanted to ask Si how I should deal with Jacquie, but once he’d achieved ecstasy he fell asleep and was less aware of his environment than a hibernating dormouse. He doesn’t so much sleep as pass into a coma until the morning, whereas I can twitch and toss and turn all night long, worrying about the children, or Si or Daddy or the dormice, or the survey or my classes or–I think you get the picture. So, some of us are born worriers–neurotic even. Bugger, am I neurotic? I’ll be awake all night worrying about that now.

The next morning, I woke bleary eyed as I felt Simon get out of bed. It had to be time to rise for work. I struggled out and downstairs to make my lord and master’s repast. I buttered the bread I sliced and mashed the salmon with lemon juice and a little pepper before spreading it on the bread, adding thinly sliced cucumber and cutting the slices in half. I wrapped them in cling film and placed them in a sandwich box with some cherry tomatoes, watercress and trimmed spring onions. For his pudding, I copped out and shoved in a yoghurt plus a teaspoon. All he needed was a drink and his lunch was complete.

I wondered where he was. I left his sandwich box on the table and went to call him. Surely he hadn’t gone back to bed had he? He never does that. I crept back up the stairs was about to shout at him, “Simon, get up it’s stupid o’clock, when I realised he had gone back to bed–why not? It was barely three am. How hadn’t I noticed? There’s a bloody big clock in the kitchen, I simply didn’t look at it.

I went for a wee and slipped back into bed. Oh well, he’d have his lunch, but maybe not his wife awake to see him off–silly cow.