The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1882 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Where the last few days had gone was a mystery to me–although they say time passes more quickly when you get older. I was officially a year older but hadn’t even had time to open my cards, my morning had been so frantic.

Here I was, sitting outside the interview room trying to stop the butterflies–make that atlas moths–from crashing in my tummy and causing more rumbles to happen. I’d only had time for a cuppa, so my tummy was full of wind–I think the up draught there was causing the moths problems–and it gurgled more than ever. I’d already been to the loo three times, what with the cold weather and my–let’s face it–anxiety, was playing hell with my digestive system, especially the waste disposal unit.

I’d signed the forms for Danny to visit the battlefields of France and Belgium, and I suggested that they also visit at least one war cemetery and see the thousands of crosses. I also hope the teachers remind the kids that under each cross is a man or woman who died through the folly of politicians and generals, both of which sort usually survive and prosper whatever the outcome on the battlefield: unlike the poor grunts who do the fighting.

According to archaeologist Neil Oliver, Homo sapiens have been in Europe for 40,000 years so why the hell are we still fighting wars? They’ve been in Africa for 200,000 and they fight even more wars there than the Europeans. Perhaps Homo belligerensis might have been a better name than ‘Wise man?’ Or even Homo nincompoopis, I should have done anthropology, then I wouldn’t have been sat waiting for the firing squad who would determine if I got to call myself doctor. They were running late–not a good sign–pooh, I’ve got to go to the toilet again. I ran off to the ladies and had only just returned when I was called into the interview room.

I walked to face my destiny and sat as directed facing the three elders/wise monkeys who were seated the other side of a table. Each had notes and a copy of my dissertation in front of them. They also had a name plate in front of each of them, so at least I’d know who my executioners were. They all had poker faces and my tummy grumbled loudly in the rarified atmosphere of the interview. The chair of the panel, the Professor of Biochemistry, looked up at me and smiled indicating to me that he was either a sadist or had been through the experience himself. I hoped it was the latter.

After a polite but cursory welcome the questions were thick and fast, easy ones to start with but then they became more penetrating. Fortunately I managed to answer them.

Then the killer from Professor Foster the biochemist. “Miss Watts, the area of study was the effects of climate change on mammal populations, is that not correct?”

I agreed it was.

“However, the evidence from previous studies is inconclusive as are the data for populations compared to the most recent analysis with which you have been closely linked. You state that further data and analysis is required because the climate change hasn’t remained constant but seems to have been accelerating in the past twenty years. So is your analysis complete or is this a partial study?”

Oh shit, he would comment on its weakest point which I actually stated several times during the introduction, the body of the work and the conclusions. “I did suggest that it was indicative rather than conclusive, and that the intensity of the survey needed to be continued for several more years or repeated every five or ten years to get a fuller picture. We know that certain species like red squirrels are declining for several reasons, one of which is considered to be climate change along with competition from the American grey, loss of habitat and disease, at the same time most species of deer are increasing, perhaps because the winters have generally been milder and food sources easier found.”

“So this is an indicator rather than a conclusive analysis?”

“Yes, Professor.”

He nodded.

The only woman on the panel, a reader in Marine Biology, Dr Waters, then made me feel quite ill. “What would you do if we turned down your application?”

Gulp. “I hope once I’d dealt with the disappointment, ask each of you for your reasons for the rejection and ask permission to make amendments/corrections and resubmit after an agreed period.”

“So you wouldn’t give up?”

“Tempting though it would be by virtue of the disappointment I’d feel, no, I’d try again assuming my work was considered good enough to form the basis of the resubmission.” My heart was pounding and I felt sick and depressed. The bastards were going to fail me.

They exchanged a few nods and words and I was asked to wait outside again. I took the opportunity to say if I wasn’t directly outside, I’d be in the loo. I got a weak smile in return and a nod.

I went to the corridor and once again ran to the ladies, this time throwing up as well having the squits. I took another loperamide tablet and after washing my hands, wiped my face with a damp paper towel. I looked as ill as I felt. So far it had been a perfectly awful morning.

Catherine had grabbed at the teapot on the table and only Trish’s alertness prevented a nasty accident. Instead she burnt her hand a little and I stood with her holding it under the cold tap. Fortunately, it seemed to recover after that. Of course Catherine was squealing her head off, and I had to ask Jacquie to deal with her.

We’d all overslept after watching some stupid DVD which went on for half an hour longer than we thought, and with my torment from the examining panel in my mind, I slept very badly. I was sure it was nerves, which really annoyed me, but this was a very important matter to me; yet part of me thought, why don’t I just retire and spend Simon’s money for him for the rest of my life? Probably because the boredom would be worse than this stress and I just don’t see myself sitting with a group of equally bored female chinless wonders describing our latest fling with the game-keeper.

I wasn’t a natural aristocrat–in fact, I wasn’t a natural anything, except perhaps worry-knickers. I vomited again and finally managed to stagger back to the chair outside the Star Chamber–a medieval court with draconian powers and little supervision–a sort of kangaroo court run by the knights and barons.

I was wondering whether I’d need to dash to the loo again when the door opened and I was invited to return to hear the verdict of the court–I mean panel. I just hoped they’d pass sentence quickly so I could go home and rest.

“Miss Watts,” said the chairman, “please don’t look so worried. There are one or two weak areas of which you’ve shown recognition and insight and also indicated how further data should show more conclusive trends. I have certainly seen much worse efforts which have been rewarded with a degree.”

I wasn’t sure which way they were going to pronounce, but if they didn’t do it soon I’d likely be sick or mess myself or pass out, I felt so ill. I felt myself swaying and asked to sit down. Suddenly, the three of them were fussing round me and offering me glasses of water. I suspect I might have actually fainted because when I really worked out where I was, Tom was standing over me shaking his head. “Ye scunner, scarin’ me haf tae deeth.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy, I just felt so ill. I’m sorry if I disappointed you.” I leant against his ample tummy and bawled.

“Whit’s a’ this fa’?”

“I failed you,” I sniffed.

“Failed me? Hoo did ye do that?”

“They rejected my paper.”

“Whit?”

“My dissertation, it wasn’t good enough.”

“Och ye muckle heid, ye’ve passed it, ye’re Dr Watts noo. Not only that but they were impressed wi’ yer thoroughness and honesty. They want thae university tae seek funding tae dae a continuing study.”

“What?” I gasped my head reeling.

“Ye’ve passed, yer big dunder-heid, happy birthday, Dr Dormouse.”