The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1690 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

After consuming my pre-breakfast beverage, I got out of bed and went to the loo. The rain lashing against the windows meant that the bike ride I’d thought of doing today went west. The rain was absolutely tipping down and the wind was blowing a hooley. Damn, I’d never get fit at this rate–blessed weather. However, I dressed in cycling kit and after supervising breakfast in the monkey house, including a slice of toast and cup of tea, I put on my cycling shoes.

“You’re not going out in this, are you?” Si called at me.

My response was to pick up the key from the rack and then dash out across the courtyard to my cycle store cum workshop. In about ten minutes I’d set up the turbo and after some quick stretches I sat on the bike and did a last few minutes increasing the intensity every minute or two.

After an hour my legs had had enough and I warmed down for ten minutes before wiping the bike down, taking it off the turbo and securing everything again before locking the door. The rain chose that moment to chuck it down and a gust of wind drove the rain into me, so by the time I got back to the kitchen, I was soaked to the skin.

“What were you doing, Mummy?” asked Livvie.

“I’ll bet she was on the turbo, weren’t you, Mummy?” interrupted Trish.

“Yes I was, excuse me, I need a shower.” I was beginning to feel cold as my damp clothes stuck to me. Half an hour later, I felt a new woman, the shower had refreshed me and I had even put on a small amount of makeup to remind myself I felt better for the exercise.

“Where are you going?” asked Si.

“Nowhere, why?”

“You’re wearing a skirt and makeup.”

“So?”

“Well the average trannie wears one more often than you do.”

“Ha ha, not.”

In truth, I’d decided I’d wear a skirt to work tomorrow and shaved my legs, so I was sort of acclimatising to having them on display again. They’re probably my best feature if you ignore the scars from falling off bikes on my knees and elbows.

“Excuse me, I have a leg of pork to cook.”

“Can we have quacklin’, Mummy?”

“Sounds like a duck, Meems.”

“No it doesn’t, siwwy Daddy.”

I busied myself in the kitchen, putting the meat into roast and making a fruit pie for dessert. I had some apple and blackberry in the freezer, so I defrosted it and made some pastry, boiled up the fruit added sugar–brown of course–and spooned it into the pastry in the pie dish. Stuck on the top, glazed it with milk and popped it in the oven as well. Then it was a case of sorting the veg, par cooking the roasties in the microwave, then sticking them into the baking tray with oil and popping them in the oven as well.

Then I made up a batter and greased a tin for the Yorkshire puds. I know they should only be eaten with roast beef, but these days we tend to suspend large amounts of etiquette that our ancestors would have gone ape over. Years ago, you could be blackballed at your club if you had red wine with fish–here we drink very little white, so we have red with anything, except breakfast.

I had invited a guest when I went over to the bike shed and they had accepted. I called Trish to lay the table and to lay an extra place.

“What for?”

“Because I said so.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“I’d have thought that was blindingly obvious.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Okay, then little genius, why would you lay a place at a dinner table?”

“So someone could sit and eat dinner.”

“Correct.”

“So who’s gonna sit and eat dinner with us?”

“That’s a more appropriate question,” I congratulated her.

“Yeah, well, like who is it?”

“You’ll see.”

“Awwww, Mummy–you are sooo bad.”

“For a genius in training, you seem to have taken a rather long time to work that out.”

“Hmmff,” she sighed as she went off to do my bidding.

I basted the meat and made the apple sauce, not at the same time, but you know what I mean. Then I basted the roasties and put the carrots on to heat, on the Aga. The next hour or so was filled with putting into or taking out of the oven, draining veg, warming plates and finally removing the crackling off the meat, which I then cut into slices, tasting one as went along–just right.

Trish came out and pestered me again, then helped herself to a small piece of crackling and went off before I scolded her. Meems was in a moment later as was Livve and then Danny. By the time the locusts finished, all the crackling was gone. Oh well, the adults, except Simon, probably wouldn’t eat it anyway–it’s just hard fatty skin. So hardly an item for healthy eating.

I actually carved the joint after it had rested, mainly because I wanted to make sure I had enough slices for everyone. The doorbell went as I dished up the meat on the warmed plates and Livvie came running into the kitchen, “It’s Gareth.”

“Oh good, tell everyone to wash their hands and go to the table. Simon and Tom helped me carry dishes of vegetables to the table. I carried the plates of meat while Simon came to get the gravy boat–yep, the one from Salisbury that survived the crash in the Cayenne.

Stella was astonished to see Gareth there but as she had the two little ones with her she couldn’t really make a scene. By the end of dinner, Gareth was sitting at the table holding Fiona who seemed content to sleep in her dad’s arms. He had a look of pure bliss on his face, and I reckon he’d been missing his daughter rather a lot.

They eventually went up to Stella’s suite and his car was still in the drive when I went to bed that night. In between, I cleared up and refereed a boxing match on the Wii–if I’d known that was there, I’d have confiscated it, I don’t believe in violence unless I’m dishing it–not true. I don’t believe in it but sometimes have to use it to protect me and mine.

Then after a very simple tea–they were all still stuffed–I did some survey work, then put the girls to bed, read to them and checked on Danny. He went off to read his Harry Potter book. Sometimes I wished I could write, it must be very gratifying to be paid for putting your imagination on paper.

I went back to my study and looked at the files I had there, full of the interim results of the survey, all I had to do was collate them all and write it up. Easy, after which they hand over a PhD. Yeah, sure they do. I looked at the pile of paper in the files. It would take me at least a year to collate and then offer an analysis. I began to wonder if it was all such a good idea–the survey was–but me doing it all?

I glanced at the time, nearly midnight, I yawned, I’d been up half the night, and switching off the computer, called Simon to tell him I was off to bed. He stood up, turned off the telly and followed me up. Another day in paradise was nearly over.