The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1750 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Saturday, I spent checking passports–I have to get one for the baby which will probably mean a trip to London–unless I can convince Si to do it.

I wrote lists of the clothing they’d take and it looked like an inventory of the total stock of Marks & Spencer, Jacquie and Julie I am trusting to sort their own. They have to be under twenty kilograms or they’ll have to pay the excess themselves–Henry sent me a note about it. He might be extremely rich but they’ll be travelling on a scheduled flight, albeit as club class, which is more than I’ve ever entered.

Had a call from James, he’s home and recovering well. He was on about the blue stuff again and how it saved his life, I pointed out it didn’t do the same for Stone and I actively tried with him. Anyway, I had more important things to think about than blue energy, like the TdF and our holiday and the torment Henry and Monica will undergo to give us a break. I’ll have to try and buy Henry some sort of memento from le Tour to thank him.

The rest of the day was spent chasing my tail organising things for the children’s holiday or mending things–Danny is an inveterate seam splitter on his clothing. He doesn’t necessarily hole the elbows or knees, things just fall apart when he wears them. So at three o’clock instead of watching the prologue, I was threading up my sewing machine and stitching jeans back together and a couple of dresses that Trish had managed to rip–thankfully down the seam.

I did patch some knees–well those in jeans–of Danny. He came off his bike the other week and as the jeans were fairly new, I refused to buy him new ones so I put a patch on the damaged ones.

I did see the last hour of the prologue, Cancellara is in a class of his own, though Wiggo showed Evans a clean pair of heels and a ten second lead, be interesting to see what happens when they do the longer individual time trials, I reckon Wiggo will show strongly then too. Poor Tony Martin had a puncture and he was going like the clappers too. Oh well that’s bike racing.

Simon ordered pizzas which they all tucked into while I quite happily had my tuna jacket. Stella didn’t notice quickly enough so she had to make do with pizza, even though I know she isn’t too fond of melted cheese on cardboard. When they refer to vomit lying in the street as pavement pizza, I must admit, that’s what I think of when someone suggests having pizza–it doesn’t inspire me to want to eat them.

Julie and Trish did the clean up after dinner and I went and did some work on the survey–and my doctorate. It didn’t last, Julie came to find me for something and I was fast asleep over a pile of records. I never did find out what she wanted.

Simon and Tom chased the hooligans up to bed and while they were busy, I slipped into mine. I reckon I slept for about ten hours. I woke the next morning feeling awful, I was hot one moment and freezing the next and my whole body ached.

Stella was the only one who threw caution to the wind and brought me hot drinks–I didn’t want anything to eat. Jacquie cooked the chicken I’d bought helped by Julie and Tom. I slept much of the day taking aspirin to ease the pain.

Trish did appear with my laptop to allow me to see the Tour, but I slept through it, missing the new whizz kid, Sagan, taking the first stage. To be quite honest, I felt so rough, I didn’t care if Lance Armstrong had won it on a skateboard. I think Simon did tell me who won the stage but I really didn’t care.

Monday, I still felt rough and couldn’t do much to help–my head was spinning as soon as I tried to get out of bed–so I fell back into it again and stayed there. Once more Stella brought me comfort with cups of tea, she also fed Catherine for me.

Around tea time I did get up but I couldn’t stay awake so Tom sent me back to bed. I did feel a little better but little was the operative word. On the pretext of not wishing to disturb me, Simon slept in the guest room for the nights I was ill, to be honest I hardly noticed.

Trish did come to try and help me with a blue light boost but she couldn’t generate anything at all, leading me to speculate that I needed to be ill to give my body a break.

On Tuesday, I felt well enough to eat a little toast with a cuppa and Stella duly obliged. I felt i could read something, so picked up the nearest book, The Jesus Papers by Michael Baigent. Riveting stuff, which shows that the whole of Christianity is founded on a myth, which is a polite way of saying it’s all a lie.

Okay so none of that was news to me, but it was interesting to see the timelines he draws and how the discrepancies in the gospels and a historical figure of Jesus, give rise to all sorts of speculation. Also the fact that the Iscari or zealots were much disliked after causing so much trouble with the Romans and the ruthless responses they gave.

The suggestion that the flight into Egypt–which when I was a kid, I thought Pontius was the pilot of the plane they flew in–wasn’t so much a flight as a deliberate detour for Jesus to be trained at a temple near Alexandria. This Egyptian city had the largest population of Jews outside Israel at the time, and apparently when the Temple in Jerusalem was sacked by the Romans the temple in Egypt was the only one surviving and keeping Judaism alive. This was fascinating stuff, when I could stay awake long enough to read it.

Trish came in when she returned from school, “Wotcha readin’, Mummy?”

“A book about the origins of Christianity.”

“Can I see it when you’ve finished?”

“We’ll see,” I thought I’d better hide it or there would be ructions when she took the nuns to task for all the wickedness carried out by the Church of Rome, especially by the Dominicans who ran the Inquisition, and then The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith–which was headed by our old friend Ratswinger. Nah, I think this book when I’ve finished it will end up on top of the bookcase where she won’t be able to see it, but I’ve quite enjoyed reinforcing my prejudices, and seeing I have some reason for holding them.

Trish was still talking about something but I wasn’t listening, I was following my own thoughts. “MUMM-MMEEE,” she barked at me.

“Sorry, darling, what were you saying?”

“I was asking if you were feeling better and would you like some fish and chips for tea? Auntie Stella is going to get them at six o’clock.”

The thought of fried fish and chips made my stomach want to heave. “I think I’d better leave it today, sweetheart, but thank you for asking and do thank Auntie Stella for me, won’t you?”

“Yeah, okay,” she said diffidently and left the bedroom.