The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1915 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

For an hour I sat and fumed in my office–there top of my emails–an invitation to attend the committee and to discuss the popularity of some courses and lack in others. How could I have missed it, and why didn’t Tom remind me last night?

At twelve thirty I wandered back to his office where he was coming out of the door. “Ah, Cathy, ye can drive.” So I did. We went to his usual watering hole and we ordered the usual, a chicken curry and a pint of Guinness with my tuna salad and a glass of water. I have ice if I’m on the hard stuff. I remember declining an offer of ice in my water because it would dilute it. The waiter went off looking bemused and Tom nearly choked to death. I guess I’m just dangerous to be near.

“You could have reminded me about the meeting,” though in fact reminding would have been incorrect because I didn’t know anything about the invite.

“I did, ye had yer knickers in sich a twist, ye didnae hear me.”

“I suppose I was a bit distracted last night.”

“Aye, jest a wee bitty, mind ye, it wis a wonderful meal.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“I thocht David did it?”

“He did, but I asked him to.”

“Ye asked him tae dae a sucklin’ pig?”

“No, I asked him to do something memorable.”

“Aye, t’wis that alricht.”

“What about the meeting?”

“Whit aboot it?”

“Well, if Lanseer treats his students like he did me, no wonder he gets few takers.”

“Aye, he’s a bit o’ a dinosaur–but ye pit him in his place.”

“Well he asked for it.”

Tom smiled, “Palaentology department,” he sniggered as our food arrived.

“He was being a male chauvinist pig,” I complained as I squeezed the lemon slice over my salad.

“Aye, I widnae disagree, hen.”

“And as for being considered a bimbo just because I’m female and under ninety–that was sexist and perhaps I should have reported him.”

“Och, that only makes ye enemies. Ye pit him doon sae he’ll no try it again wi’ ye.”

“I mean, if he thinks it’s so bloody easy to make a documentary, why doesn’t he do it?”

“He tried and failed years ago.”

“Oh, when was that?”

“Och, it wis lang before ye came–he tried tae mak’ some training videos for biochemical techniques–it wis like Acorn Antiques.

I sniggered. The above mentioned was a spoof on soaps made by Victoria Wood with a brilliant cast including Julie Walters and Celia Imrie, which was so funny. Like every soap’s nightmare the sets shook, props didn’t work, actors forgot their lines or cues–you name it, it happened and it was just hilarious. So a training video with that sort of quality would be a disaster.

“Didn’t Fawlty Towers start off as a training film or was it the other way round?” I asked Tom. He shrugged, but he indicated he knew that John Cleese made training films, which were always comedic.

After dinner and I drove us back to the university, Tom was nearly asleep in the passenger seat. “We’re here, Daddy,” I announced and he sat up with a jolt.

“Och, ye culd hae telt me,” he gasped.

“I did, Daddy.”

“Aye, alricht, I’ll gi’ ye thae benefit.”

“Like you reminded me last night.”

“Reminded ye o’ whit?”

“Exactly,” I said exiting the Jaguar.

He went off to his office muttering under his breath something about women, and ‘dochters’ in particular. I sniggered all the way back to my broom-cupboard. Once there, I did an hour and half’s hard slog on my teaching plans and then left to collect the three mouseketeers.

It had been fine until this time and suddenly, or it seemed sudden to me, but then my office has no decent window so I tend not to see much out of it. I did have a pigeon fly into it one day when I was there–the bump made me jump and I dashed outside where the stupid bird was shaking its head before it flew off apparently unhurt.

Anyway, as I departed the department a heavy drizzle transformed itself into a downpour of seriously wet proportions and I ran to my car beeping the remote as I went. Still, I was quite damp by the time I got myself and my two bags into the vehicle–my handbag and my laptop.

Of course, Christmas now long past, the school traffic was appalling and it took me ages to get to the convent and my three girls. There were no other cars about so I was able to park close to the school and dashed from the car to the entrance to the school as fast as I’d ever done it.

I half expected my three to be sat just inside near the cloak rooms, grumbling as I arrived, but they weren’t. Slightly alarmed I walked down the corridor my soft rubber soled shoes making minimal noise. As I approached the Headmistress’ office I heard familiar voices and laughter.

“Ah, Lady Cameron, do come in, your daughters have been entertaining me with stories of their concert a couple of Christmases ago.”

“Oh, the nursery rhyme one?” I prompted.

“Yes, Mummy, do you remember it?” asked Trish.

“I think, Grampa Henry recorded it on his camcorder–though whether he’s still got it, is another matter.”

“I hope so, I’d love to see it,” declared the smitten Sister Maria, “Your children are something else, aren’t they?” she said to me and was immediately challenged by Trish.

“We’re not somethin’ else, we’re children, little girls,” and she pouted for emphasis.

“I don’t think, Sister Maria meant it as an insult, on the contrary, she meant it as a compliment.”

“Oh, that’s alright then.”

“What did you mean?” asked Mima who looked a little adrift of the conversation.

“I meant that you are something special, because most children of your age couldn’t produce and act in a concert as well as you did.”

“Auntie Stewwa hewped us.”

“I’m sure she did, Jemima, but you had to do the performing.”

“Danny and Billy helped too,” I said, remembering how happy we were at that time only for us all to have to deal with the pain and sadness of losing Billie, as she became, to the horror of the aneurysm.

Sister Maria must have seen my pained expression and on mention of Billie’s name smiled knowingly at me. I nodded my acknowledgement of her expression and she suggested I might want to get home for my dinner.

“We had ducklin’ pig, last night,” Trish informed her headmistress.

“That’s an interesting combination,” was the teacher’s response.

“Combination? No, it was just a piggy-wiggy,” replied the puzzled pupil.

“She means, suckling pig.”

“Ah,” nodded the teacher, “how on earth did you cook it in your kitchen?”

“We didn’t, David, our chef, took it over to the hotel in Southsea and did it in their kitchen.”

“Goodness, a celebration of some sort?”

“No, a business dinner for Simon, he had a client with him.”

“Yeah, a jerk named Geoff, according to Auntie Stella,” Trish suggested.

“Sounds like there might have been more than one poor little piggy present,” responded the headmistress.

“Aye, and all wi’ muckle lugs,” I added which made both of us adults chuckle. “C’mon girls, let’s awa’ hame,” I added and they laughed at my puir Scots rendition.