The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1919 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Simon was discharged later that day–they did all sorts of tests on him–which tended to show the original ones were wrong. I went to get him, the cardiologist asked me to see him in the ward office. I went somewhat reluctantly, I knew what was coming.

“Mrs Cameron, please explain to my simple mind how a man, your husband I believe was admitted last night with absolutely typical signs and symptoms of a myocardial infarct and today, he seems as fit and healthy as I am.”

“He’s healthier than you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He doesn’t have a neoplasm in his colon.”

“I wouldn’t know if he did or not, it’s not my area of interest.” He paused while he obviously thought about what I said. “Just a moment, are you implying I have one–a neoplasm–I mean.”

“Yes.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“You have a grey area here, if it was black you’d be dying, if was red it would be infected.” I pointed to an area of his abdomen.

“You just made that up, didn’t you?”

“Did I? To what purpose? All I can say is that you have less than a year to sort it before it becomes malignant and it will metastasise very quickly.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“I’ve told you, I’m obliged to do nothing else. If you act soon, you’ll make a full recovery.”

“This is like witch-doctory.”

“If you say so, please don’t tell anyone I informed you, will you or it will become worse much more quickly.”

“Now you’re threatening me.”

“Doctor Hart, please listen because I will say this once. I don’t know where the information comes from, all I know is it is never wrong and it does save lives, providing people heed it. You are obviously intended to carry on your good work but you won’t if you ignore the warning. I ask you not to tell anyone about it because it will not be messed with.”

“Who are you?”

“A messenger.” He turned to look for the nurse and I sneaked out behind him. I took Simon home a short time later without meeting the good doctor again. A cardiologist called Dr Hart–I ask you? Am I dreaming all this? I half expect to wake up lying in a ditch in a thunderstorm back in 2007, or having recovered from a coma arising from the collision with Stella’s car.

“Well you could look pleased to have me home?” Simon challenged me as we arrived back in the drive. I hadn’t said anything since we’d got in the car, I was lost in my own thoughts.

“Yeah,” I said without really hearing what he’d said.

“Cathy?”

“Yeah?”

“You are glad to have me home?”

“Of course I am, how could you think any other?”

“You seem rather preoccupied?”

“Yeah well I have to go and collect the girls, can you let yourself in?” I handed him his overnight bag and got back in the car. He stood there in bewilderment as I reversed and drove off to the convent to collect my three charges.

I was few minutes early and bumped into the headmistress. “Lady Cameron, you are well I take it?”

“I’m okay. Sister Maria, how do we know this isn’t all a big dream–life I mean?”

“Oh start me with an easy one, why don’t you?”

“Sorry, just something with which I’ve been wrestling for the past hour.”

“I won’t ask what brought this about–I don’t think I want to know. As for your question–I don’t know–but I’ve seen the Matrix as well and you are the chosen one.”

I looked at her, “I’m what?”

“Well the main character, Nero, or whatever his name is, that’s what they say to him, he’s the chosen one. I thought it appropriate to say the same to you.”

“Daddy is always going on about it too–I have no idea what he’s on about. I’m just an ordinary housewife...”

“...Superstar?” she added and chuckled.

“Hey, that’s Dame Edna, I hope I’m not being compared with a drag act?”

“Of course it is, isn’t it? I’d forgotten that, he seems so natural in the act.”

“I don’t think so, but then I avoid any contact with the character at all costs–sorry, but drag acts however well done, upset me.”

“Why ever does that happen?”

“I find them offensive to women–most seek to demean us by often unsubtle caricature.”

“Goodness–d’you think so?”

“Yes.”

“Are you being perhaps a trifle oversensitive?”

“I might well be, but that’s what I feel.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, Lady Cameron, but I wonder if you should relax a little more, you sound like one of my elderly colleagues, here.”

I found myself blushing. I’d read a dreadful article in The Observer about how one polemicist–a female with definite transphobic ideas–had described transsexual women as dicks in chick’s clothes and other provocative phrases–all because her pal, another woman journalist had used a poor analogy in an article earlier and got into a slanging match on Twitter with some militant transsexuals.

In reality, I suppose it was a storm in a teacup which the second writer had elevated to a kitchen sink drama and the comments online were upgrading it to a full kitchen drama. I was just horrified at the depths of the bile which were plumbed by the second writer in what was just a tirade or rant. As one commenter added, if the word Jew or Black had been used instead of transsexual, the author would have been facing a prison sentence.

Maybe I just felt thin skinned and tired. I had full female status, was a married woman with adopted children and even a title, beyond Mrs. I learned that might also mean I couldn’t claim special protection as a minority, because I was now a female–in other words, a member of the largest minority of them all. It was all mind-boggling.

I wasn’t quite sure about the protection thing, not that it worried me–I’d done the legal thing with the Gender panel and had no regrets about it–all I’d ever wanted to be–as long as I could remember was to be a female. I’d achieved that, so quite what the argument was, passed me by. I wasn’t an activist, but I was a feminist despite Julie Burchill telling me otherwise. I couldn’t read it again, it was in the kitten’s litter tray–which was probably where it belonged.

The three girls came rushing up to us. “Mummeee,” yelled Trish and the others took up the cry. With that sort of endorsement, why should I worry about Dame Edna or Julie Burchill?–they aren’t real people anyway–and my children are.