The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1878 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

In the afternoon it rained again. I phoned the highways agency to ask about the passability of the motorways but only managed either an engaged tone or a recorded message telling me my call was important to them, but sadly not important enough for them to answer it. I tried the police but they were unable to advise me, presumably because of liability if we got stuck.

Phoebe’s college seemed okay with the fact that she was missing time and asked that she do some reading, when asked what, they suggested either good literature or something scientific. I suggested we went into town and I managed to find her a journal on hairdressing which she thought was quite good. I also bought a copy of New Scientist for me to read, and presumably Trish afterwards.

The rain continued and the sky looked full of more of it, but instead of rushing back home, I invited Phoebe to have a meal out.

“What in Morrison’s again?”

“No, in a restaurant.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“If we wear our smart togs from the talk I did at the school, we’ll be okay.”

“Um–won’t they be a bit smelly?”

“If we go back now, we could wash them and pop them in the tumble dryer and they’d be ready for tonight.” Which is what we did. While they were ‘cooking’ I called a rather nice Italian restaurant and booked a table for half past seven.

I had enough makeup and smellies to make myself presentable again and I suspect Phoebe had more than enough in her huge bag–it was very similar to Julie’s–there’s a surprise. She came out made up to the nines and I nearly said something but then let her work it out for herself, her clubbing type makeup and my sedate, understated form. Okay so I’m twelve years older than her, soon to be thirteen, but we’re both still relatively young women.

I parked the Jaguar outside the restaurant in its private car park, and we trotted on our heels–she talked me into buying her some while we were out earlier–into the rear entrance of ‘Antonio’s’. Normally two women would be given the worst table in an eatery but in booking with my title, we got a very nice one and the service and food were equally good.

I had garlic mushrooms to start while Phoebe had tomato soup. My main course was cannelloni though I was tempted to go for the lasagne, which I love but eat more regularly. We also had a glass each of Prosecco, a sparkling dry Italian wine, which is relatively low in alcohol–it’s a bit like fizzy cat’s pee, but Phoebe seemed impressed. I passed on the pudding but she managed some Italian ice cream.

Two coffees finished the meal which was quite expensive but it was my treat to Phoebe, which I think she appreciated. I included a good tip and we were offered a grappa with the bill, but I declined for both of us–me, well I was driving and Pheebs, because she’s under age although it would be difficult to tell under all her makeup.

Talking of which, earlier on, we popped into Asda and bought some more milk and bread for the morning and we saw a young woman pushing a buggy with a little one in it. She looked about sixteen, Phoebe’s age and apart from her peroxide hair and blusher, she was wearing a pair of false eyelashes, which looked about as natural as a plastic nose would. Even Phoebe commented on her contemporary.

“Is that her kiddie?” she whispered to me.

“Probably, why?”

“She looks about my age.”

“She probably is, your point being?”

“Hasn’t she wrecked her life–possibly two?”

“That’s her business, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I mean, what sorta life is the baby gonna get?”

“No idea, but she might be a very good mother despite the Lolita appearance.”

“She should still be in school.”

“Why, you’re not?”

“But I’m still in education, aren’t I?”

“True.”

“So I’m still trying to make something of my life.”

“I expect she feels the same.”

“What getting up the duff?”

“We’re making judgements based upon all sorts of things we don’t know and could be far off target.”

“But she looks like a tart, all fake eyelashes and bleached hair.”

“Phoebe, that is so judgemental–we don’t know anything about her.” The words had no sooner left my mouth and Phoebe was off, disappearing down the toilet rolls aisle. I found her five minutes later talking to the girl, there were lots of grins and laughter so I presumed Phoebe had targeted the baby. A few minutes later she returned.

“Her name’s Adele, she’s nearly seventeen and her baby is called Taylor.”

“Is that boy or a girl?”

“A girl, silly.”

“I think it started off as a boy’s name.”

“Did it?”

“It’s a surname originally presumably linked to the craft of tailoring.”

“Oh yeah, suits and things.”

“Quite.”

I mused on her attitude to the young mum we’d seen earlier and then the irony of her own appearance when we went out to dinner. She looked like she was on the prowl, perhaps she was, and perhaps the other girl was on the game–who knows.

Still, Phoebe is a good girl at heart and once she’d spoken to the young mother she seemed less deprecatory in her opinion, having been raised back to human being after her conversation. Teenagers tend to see things in black and white and are critical and opinionated, often cruelly so as I discovered during my schooldays. But they can also change those opinions just as quickly.

Back at home and in bed, I found myself unable to sleep because of my drinking coffee–I ordered café and got espresso type–too strong a caffeine shot for me after tea time. Instead of sleeping I twitched and tossed and turned until after two in the morning, which meant I awoke late because I didn’t set the alarm the night before.

At half past eight I did manage to rouse myself and then Phoebe, who was reading Rebecca. An hour later, we were breakfasted and the beds had been stripped and the bedding like us was heading at long last down the M4 in an easterly direction on roads which were still damp and sparkled with a glare in the sunshine. Finally we were going home and the positive news was that Phoebe and I knew each other much better after our little meteorologically enforced interlude.