The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1789 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“Mum?”

“Yes, Danny?”

“Can I go and see my friends?”

“Be back in time for lunch then.”

“Okay.”

I watched him pick up his cycling helmet. “You be careful on that bike,” I called after him.

“Yes, Mum.”

I was trying to read the Guardian. The kids had more or less finished their breakfast and were playing. “That is abysmal,” I said to no one in particular.

“What is?” asked David and Si almost in sync.

“This Pussy Riot thing in Russia.”

“Oh that,” said Simon sighing.

“These girls have been in custody for months already and now they’re talking about a two year sentence in a work camp.”

“Pussy gulag,” said Simon quietly.

“That isn’t funny, darling. Those places are designed to destroy anyone who goes there and these young women have children.”

“Perhaps they should have thought what might happen if they were caught?”

“Si, this is Russia we’re talking about, where Tsar Vlad the gangster rules by common dissent.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ve been there if you remember–dreadful place–actually makes London look pleasant. You can buy anything there, including someone’s life or should that be death?”

“I imagine it’s like London was a hundred and fifty years ago, when mass poverty caused people to be desperate for money and the things it could buy. When places like Whitechapel were lawless.”

“Hackney still is,” quipped David.

“I’ve heard Russian law is a bit strange and the sentencing even worse than the US, at least that’s mostly done in full view of the public.”

“They put it on telly over there, Judge Judy and so on.”

“Mind you with this Wiki-leaks guy being hounded by Western governments, I wonder how open and fair the British system is.”

“The Yanks want him and they’ll eventually have him, for dishing the dirt on their covert stuff. I don’t know why were surprised, we all know it goes on.” Simon was quite laid back about it.

“So d’you think this Swedish thing is a frame-up just to get him out of the country?” asked David.

“I have no idea, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Quick extradition while he’s in custody and that’ll be the last they ever see of him.” Simon shrugged as he spoke.

“Like the soldier chappy who sent it to him?”

“He’s supposed to be quite ill, isn’t he–not surprising seeing as he’s been in custody for some time and probably under all sorts of bullying and pressure, but they won’t want him to die until he’s been in prison about two hundred years,” Si answered David.

“What about these young women–they didn’t do anything like that?” I refocused the topic on Pussy Riot.

“No they just played silly songs in a cathedral, didn’t they?” At last Simon had some idea about the case. “Dunno if they got arrested for wearing those lurid balaclavas or for what they did in the church?”

“Si, they were singing a prayer asking the Virgin Mary to rid the country of Putin.” I filled him in on the detail.

“Vlad the gangster as you called him earlier?”

“Well yes, he makes Vlad the impaler look quite benevolent by comparison.” I can’t say I like the Russian president very much or his abuse of power.

“You really don’t like him do you?”

“I think Russia is probably more dangerous now than it was before the revolution there.”

“Yeah, the corruption tends to make Italy look squeaky clean,” Simon mused, and David fell about laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he asked David.

“I was reading one of Cathy’s Italian detective stories and the descriptions of corruption, inefficiency and ineptitude are breath taking.”

“Yeah well, and a power of ten and you’re about half way to Russia’s situation.”

“Mum, I’ve got a flat tyre.” Danny had returned.

“Sounds like a fatherly service is required,” I said pointedly.

“Have we got puncture repair stuff handy?” asked Simon standing up from the table.

“Can’t you do it, Mum?”

“Gee thanks, son,” Simon’s face fell.

“I’m sure Dad could do it, but I want to get away before lunch.”

“Daddy can do it.” Okay I’d do it better but it’s about time he showed some parental skills–teaching his son to fix a puncture.

“I’ll do it, kiddo,” David stood up and went outside with Danny.

“Well–what d’you make of that, then?” Simon was looking rather fed up.

“I reckon he realises fixing punctures isn’t one of your fortes.”

“Bloody charming.”

I put my arm round him, “Don’t worry, darling, you did offer...”

“And was clearly rejected.”

“Never mind, I still love you.”

He hugged me after I reassured him. “Thanks, babes, good to know someone does.”

I was halfway though clearing the breakfast table when David came back his hands dirty with oil. “Cathy, d’you know how to get the back wheel off with those disc brake things?”

If you want a job done properly, give it to a woman. I didn’t say this out loud because it would have upset the two men in my kitchen, and I wanted one of them to stay there long enough to cook me a delicious lunch.

I asked him to finish the clear up and I slipped over to the workshop. Donning some PVC gloves, I sorted out a spare tube and twenty minutes later I was reconnecting everything and handing the bike back to Danny.

“Now you can see why I wanted you to come in the first place,” moaned Danny.

“You got there in the end, so don’t whine. I thought it might be nice for you and your dad to fix the puncture.”

“Yeah, but he don’t know as much about bikes as you, Mum.”

No, but he knows more about grammar than you do, young man, is what I thought, though I didn’t say it. What he’d said was true, Simon doesn’t know much about bikes, especially fixing them, but I’m sure he can sort a puncture.

“So what about David, he tried to help as well?”

“Yeah, but he hadn’t fixed a puncture for like, ten years, he’d never seen disc brakes before; he kept going on about losing the fluid.”

“Fluid? These are mechanical ones, not hydraulics.”

“Are they?” Danny looked embarrassed, he’d obviously not worked it out for himself.

“Next time, you can fix it and I’ll supervise.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Mum.” He planted a smacker on my cheek and rode off on his bike. I peeled off the gloves and dumped them in the bin. In some ways I was glad that my dad had taught me the rudiments of bike repair and I’d picked it up so easily. It meant I was less likely to get stranded or have to walk any distance pushing a bike–although on one occasion I was belting down a hill when the back tyre blew noisily. I thought I was dead until I managed to stop the bike–thankfully, there wasn’t much traffic about–so I could at least swerve a bit as the back wheel slipped back and fore under me. Had there been much traffic, I suspect something would have hit me as I careered all over the place. Ah those were the days.