The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1763 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“You be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course we will.”

“Good bye, darling, you all behave for your grandparents.”

“We will, bye, Mummy.”

Trish ended the Skype call, and I took a sip of tea only to realise it had gone cold. I’d spoken to all of them. It appeared they were having a whale of a time and today they were going sailing. Henry had a friend who had a boat.

Boat–ha ha–it was an ocean going cabin cruiser thing with half a dozen bedrooms, yeah bedrooms not berths. It looked about one step down from the Queen Elizabeth and you didn’t so much sail it as drive it. I couldn’t see a helipad on it, but it wouldn’t have surprised me.

Henry said they were going to cruise over to Mallorca, the largest of the Balearics and where team Sky and several others go for winter training as it has a couple of mountains they can practice on.

I explained we were going to watch the end of the TdF and they all shouted, “Come on, Cav.” I explained it was Wiggo who was going to win it if he could do a reasonable time trial, but they weren’t really interested.

Suddenly, it was time to pack and I had to rush upstairs and make final adjustments to my suitcase–one of those wardrobes on wheels that Simon complains about. I had far too many clothes but I didn’t care, we were going by private jet. That sounds as if I was finally taking to the ostentatiously wealthy lifestyle of senior banker’s wives. I wasn’t.

Like Henry knowing someone with a large motor cruiser, Si knew someone who was flying to Paris for the weekend and coming back on Monday morning. It so happened he had a couple of spare seats and as we weren’t international criminals–well Si might be, or the bank, we were able to register as passengers and grab a lift.

The nicest thing was we drove to the airport an hour before the flight was due to go and the tiny customs post checked us through in no time. I did offer to open my case but the customs man joked he’d look on the way back as it was big enough for three illegal immigrants. If it was they’d have to be pygmies and stacked on top of each other.

Simon introduced me to Warwick Wimsloe and his girlfriend Vanessa Ventura, who was a glamour puss, footballer’s wife type. She was wearing a designer trouser suit and matching cleavage, strutting about the place in five inch stilettos. I felt quite drab by comparison, no makeup, hair in a ponytail and wearing jeans and trainers–okay, my trainers were Reeboks but hardly Karl Lagerfeld.

She batted an enhanced set of eyelashes at Simon offering him, ‘drinky-poos’, while I sat and fretted. I wondered if she was a glamour model or aspiring actress–she certainly wasn’t an academic.

“What did you think of the massacre at the Denver showing of Batman?” I asked her reading about it in the Guardian I’d brought with me.

“Oh, I suppose these Americans will kill to get tickets for these things,” she said dismissively and I felt I wanted to nail her up by her false eyelashes.

“No, some gunman went into the cinema and shot dead a dozen people and injured another twenty or thirty.”

“Oh, did they? Have you tried Jimmy Choos?”

I knew what she meant, she was referring to her designer ankle breakers but I played stupid. “No, I never eat between meals.”

“Ha ha,” she actually laughed at my insult. “No, my shoes, silly–they’re Jimmy Choos.”

“Oh those, I thought you were talking about some sort of sweetie. A Jimmy Chew.” I spelt it out for her and she then had to think about it before she could get the joke. Whatever she had laughed at before left me completely mystified.

To her credit she could walk on them, and she took one off and passed it over to me to see. Okay, it was elegant and so on, but pillar box red FM-pumps, not really my style.

“You’ll have to buy her some, Simie-poos, then she wouldn’t look so dowdy.”

“Vanessa, we’re going to watch a bike race, not strut a catwalk,” I said angrily.

“Oh,” she said putting a long red nail to her mouth, “is your son racing in it at school?”

“No–we’re going to watch the Tour de France.”

“Is that bike race, I thought it was a charabanc holiday?”

Warwick rolled his eyes, “Cathy is into bike racing.”

“Oh,” she replied. I was obviously now beneath her interest and she sat down and began flicking through a glossy magazine.

Simon winked at me, “If we bump into the Beckhams, we’ll say hello for you,” he said to Vanessa.

“You know the Beckhams?” she squeaked, “I’ve always wanted to meet them.”

“Well David’s involved with the Olympics but he said he’d try to catch Bradley in Paris,” Simon continued lying through his teeth.

“Who’s Bradley?” she asked, but then she thought the TdF was a coach trip.

“Bradley Wiggins, my dear,” said Warwick, adding, “he’s the cyclist leading the race.”

“Oh,” she said. I could only assume she was very good in bed or something because it wasn’t for conversation that I presumed Warwick kept her around.

“So are you riding a bike in this race?” she said to me just before the aircraft banked to land near Paris.

“No, I’m simply going to watch, like most of Paris will.”

“What for?” she looked genuinely bewildered.

“It’s the biggest bike race in the world, it’s the largest annual sporting event in the world and a British rider is going to win it, and possibly another is going to win the stage tomorrow in the sprint.”

At this her brain went into meltdown and she giggled and finished her drink. I was really glad when we got off the plane and found our taxi.

“So what did you think of Vanessa, then?” asked Simon smirking.

“All her brains were in her chest,” I said contemptuously.

“Ah, but she’s apparently very flexible and double jointed.”

“So?”

“Think Kama Sutra, babes, Kama Sutra.”

“Too much information–did Warwick tell you that?” I added after a pause.

“Yeah, we were at a meeting together last week and I mentioned you’d been ill and we’d had to cancel our trip to France. He told me he was flying over to play golf or something and he had some spare seats if you improved, which was what got me thinking about seeing the last stage.”

“Well except for Miss Silicone Boobs, I’m glad you did.”

“She won’t be flying back with us, she’ll be going on to his chateau in the Loire Valley.”

“What does he do then?”

“He owns an oil prospecting company, he’s one of our best clients.”

“Wow, someone richer than you,” I teased.

“Dunno, he just likes to spend it, I tend to save mine–except you keep spending it.”

“Typical Scot, short arms and deep sporran.”

“If I’ve a deep sporran, it’s to keep wee Simon warm,” he winked, “besides, there’s anither porridge eater, nae sae fa’ awa’.” He prodded me as he spoke and we both fell about laughing.