The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1701 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“Do we need some sort of documentation to get in?”

“Here,” he replied brandishing an envelope.

“Mind if I,” I asked taking it from his hand. I’d never had any communication with EIIR so was quite interested, and then I noticed the date. “This was sent to you in January,” I accused.

“Um, was it?”

“So why did you pretend it was a short notice thing?”

“I didn’t know if you’d come?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You tend to avoid these things.”

“Did Stella know?”

“I had to ask her to make sure she helped you find something suitable to wear.”

“Are you implying that I’m not capable of finding something myself?” I felt myself getting very hot and seconds away from stopping the cab and getting out.

“Ye–no, of course not. I’m sorry, I should have told you immediately.”

“Give me one good reason why I don’t stop this cab and go home.”

“Because you love me?”

“You pull another stunt like this and that will be in the past tense.” I felt a cold anger, “This is going to cost you.”

“Okay, okay–whatever you want, just please make it look like you’re happy to be there with me. Please?”

“Would you prefer I stopped the cab and left?”

“No, I said you can have whatever you want, just humour me, please.”

I spent the rest of the journey looking out the side window as the cab made its way down the Mall and entered the palace by a side entrance, Simon showing the passes to the security man on the gate.

He paid the cabby and we walked towards the reception where once again our passes were checked against a list and we were given name badges, presumably so any of the royals who were attending could identify us.

After this official bit, we were free to roam in the gardens and one or two marquees which contained food and drink. Flunkies with trays of canapés and drinks permeated the throng of the great and the good. Simon was more relaxed than I was, I don’t like crowds and I don’t like crowds. I don’t do small talk, so talking politely to total strangers strikes me as a waste of breath. Okay, at a bus stop I can discuss the weather with anyone, but after that it gets boring. Usually I end up with some old biddy and get her life story with all the gory details of her operations to repair her prolapse and how she was torn during the delivery of her eighth child who was ten pounds and so on ad nauseum.

Simon discovered someone he knew at UCL and dragged me along with him, just as I was about to grab a sausage on a stick–I was starving. “Mick, this is my wife, Cathy; Cathy, this is an old mate of mine from uni, Mick Salisbury.” We shook hands and nodded at each other. His girlfriend’s name was Nicola, a pretty young thing of about nineteen, who looked young enough to be his daughter. She was doing PPE at Oxford.

“What d’you do, Cathy?”

“A few things.”

“Oh, sounds interesting...” she managed to say without looking too bored.

“Tell her, Cathy,” urged Simon.

“Ooh ya, please do,” she agreed.

Instead I left it to Simon, “She’s a wife and mother to me and six kids, she runs a large house, she teaches at Portsmouth university, makes nature documentary films, runs the UK mammal survey, is the country’s leading expert on dormice and sometimes finds time to race her bike. That about it, babes?”

I shrugged and nodded.

“Wow, you’re quite a busy lady?” said Mick while Nicola stood with her enhanced eyelashes widely apart as she goggled at me.

“You made that film on dormice?” gasped Nicola.

“She did,” beamed Simon. Wasn’t this all wrong, am I not supposed to be riding on his coat tails, not him on mine?

“And the youtube clip, that’s you, isn’t it?”

“It sure is,” Simon was beaming even more, if his mouth went any wider it would look like he was sucking a coat hanger.

“If I live to be a hundred the only thing they’ll remember is that fucking film.” I said quietly and wandered off where I bumped into Esmond Herbert.

“Lady Cameron, what a lovely surprise,” he said offering me his hand.

“Professor Herbert,” I said shaking his hand.

“You didn’t take the UN job then?”

“Good grief no, I’ve got enough to do in the real world.”

He looked hurt by this statement, “You could have done so much good.”

“I can do real good by getting this survey finished and raising my children.”

“What about the tropical rainforests, aren’t they more important than a few dormice?”

“They require a whole change of mindset to conserve.” I responded, “When people realise that money isn’t everything, they might stop selling their souls to get it, and that would require a more even distribution than we have at present.”

“Isn’t that a little hypocritical of you, Cathy. I mean you are married to one of the richest men in England.”

“Most of his money is tied up in the bank or the family estate, and he tries to work ethically–the bank has one of the greenest policies of any finance house.”

“I’m sure it does, and it has your beautiful self to sell it to the man on the Clapham omnibus. An excellent piece of PR, if I say so myself.”

“One person won’t stop the rape of the rainforests by loggers and mineral prospectors, or beef ranchers. If the Japanese didn’t buy so many hardwoods, the logging would slow down in a matter of months. It’s like the African elephant or rhino, if stupid Chinese quacks didn’t use it in their snake oil medicines and middle eastern men didn’t want dagger handles or believe rhino horn was an aphrodisiac, those species wouldn’t be endangered. We need to stop the demand for the products then the devastation would reduce accordingly.”

“I couldn’t agree more, you put it very elegantly–you’re a natural communicator, and you could save the planet from its own autophagia.”

For a moment I had to work out what he’d said, I think he meant eating itself, or consuming itself.

“I’m not a politician, Professor.”

“You should listen to yourself, sometime, Cathy, you are and you’re such a natural and so lovely with it, you could get doors to open where others would fail.”

“I think you overestimate me by a factor of ten.”

“I don’t think so, Cathy, and I’ve been around longer than you.”

“Ah, Professor Herbert, and who is this lovely lady?” We both turned round to be face to face with the Queen’s eldest grandson.

“Your Royal Highness, may I present, the Lady Cameron, our leading expert on dormice.”

“How lovely to meet you, Lady Cameron, I so enjoyed your film, and that is you with the youtube clip isn't it? It is just so funny, eh Kate?”

Shit, she was there with him, and she looks even nicer in the flesh wearing some drop dead gorgeous dress she didn’t find in Marks and Spencer.

“Sir,” I dropped a little curtsey shaking hands with the Prince and then nodded as I shook hands with the Duchess.

“I love your dress, is it DK?” she asked quietly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you making any more films?” asked HRH.

“Um, we’re trying to do one on the harvest mouse.”

“Are you going to present it?”

“Probably.”

“Oh great, you brought something new to nature documentaries.”

“I did?”

“Oh god, yes, for the first time ever, every man under the age of ninety wanted to watch–even Granddad watched it.”

“He did?” I stuttered.

“God yes, nature suddenly became sexy–you must do the harvest mouse, Lady Cameron, and put the outtakes on youtube.” He winked at me, the duchess blushed and Esmond Herbert nearly wet himself sniggering.

I reached out and grabbed a glass of wine from one of the flunkies and downed it in two gulps.