The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1920 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I hugged my children and wondered why I kept having these existential crises–these loving children and their siblings were what life was about. It’s all very well to save the planet but what if we lose our humanity in doing it? I was tempted to say our souls, but Richard Dawkins wouldn’t like it. Mind you I’m not sure if he’d like humanity either–it tends to imply we’re something special compared to the other animals. We are–it has nothing to do with imaginary sky gods or earth goddesses–it has to do with our compassion, our kindness or ability to empathise: perhaps as well it’s to do with our foreknowledge of death, despite our mythologies to pretend it doesn’t happen; we know it will happen to us and our loved ones–it’s the only certainty in life.

We drove home and the girls were chattering in the back about all and nothing, though I wasn’t listening, I was living for a moment almost in the now–being so aware of being alive and being amongst those who loved me and whom I loved.

Life isn’t about money or power, or even academic achievement: it’s about love and relationships, being connected to friends and family. It’s also about honesty and integrity–oh boy, my soapbox was growing.

I went in and hugged everyone, even David and Ingrid who looked at me as if I was having some sort of manic episode–perhaps I was. I just felt full of love. I eventually calmed down and sat with Katie on my lap and read her a story. I also showed her pictures of her previously family and she pointed at them when I asked her about them. I wondered how I’d manage in years to come when it dawns on her that we’re not her family by blood, just by love. Each of the others had given a commitment and elected to join the family, to become siblings–she hadn’t and it would be a few years before she could, and then only in the most basic way. I wonder when she’s a teenager, will she throw me the line, “But you’re not my mother, are you?” when we have a falling out. It will happen, all teenagers and their parents have squabbles–it’s part of the growing process–if a rather difficult one.

I wondered if I should put my career on hold for a few years and just enjoy my time with the children? It would be nice, but in a year or two, this little baggage will be in nursery and then there’ll be just me and this big old place. No, I need to keep my career, especially as the university practically allows me to do my own thing about hours and courses. I’ll still teach something about ecology and will do the film on the harvest mouse if only to educate the masses and remind the university that I’m one of its prime assets. Prima donna?–absolutely, but look at the freedom it gives me.

Katie became restless and went off to play with Puddin’ who was pushing a pushchair full of dollies around the place. I went and phoned Alan.

“Hello, Cathy, good to hear from you.”

“How’s the set coming along for the harvest mouse?”

“It was doing alright until we had a mini tornado come through and wreck the greenhouse we were going to use.”

“Oh. What if I was to get one built here, in the garden?”

“Yeah, I’m listening.”

“How big does it need to be?”

“Big enough to grow some wheat–so twenty by twenty feet.”

“Was that the size of the previous one?”

“No, that was ten by fifteen.”

“I’ll have a word with Tom and our handyperson, Maureen. I wondered if we could build something which could be used as a greenhouse afterwards, and that would be industrial size. But then Danny seems to be quite interested in making things grow, so he might want to use it with Tom. I’ll need to get some costings and get back to you.”

“Fine. How’s the family?”

“Okay, we have our moments but then so do all families.”

“Quite. I’d better go and start looking through the stuff I’ve already got–I might try and get down to you in the next couple of weeks so we can review it.”

“Okay, give me a bit of notice and I’ll get David to make something nice for lunch or dinner.”

“Lunch and dinner–did you say?”

“If he does I’ll be asleep all afternoon.”

“Oh, see ya then.” He rang off and I pulled out my file of notes–I’d got loads of information, what we needed to do was build a narrative and try and get the film we needed to display it. Talk about courtship, nest building, breeding, and feeding the young. I envisage trays of corn which we can move around or isolate to get the sort of shots we need. Tiny cameras in the nest to show the birth and suckling of the babies interspersed with panoramic views of corn fields and combines showing how modern farming techniques is making the harvest mouse an endangered species, and how if we’re not careful, it will go the way of the corncrake, which really only hangs on on some Scottish islands or bits of the coast. The whole point of the film will be to remind the viewer that extinction is for keeps, and that we need to act now or be prepared to sacrifice those things we love about the natural world–because the need to act is getting very close.

I’ll need to liaise with our record keepers to see if the last few poor summers have had an effect and would captive breeding and release have an effect to maintain populations, even marginal ones. Henry will be pleased if we do finish the film, and I think, I will too, although I know it will invite requests for others. If they want one on killer whales–I’ll happily do the narration but I’m not freezing my bum off standing on a boat in the bloody Antarctic while they show them eating sea-lions.

David called me to dinner and Simon arrived back with Sammi whom he’d collected from the station. He was supposedly on sick leave until the end of the week, although we all knew he was well enough to go back–we didn’t speak to Henry, who just gave Si a few days off.

It looked as if Si and Sammi had had words in the car. She went up to change and he led me back to my study. “She’s only gone and got a portfolio done for that friggin’ modelling agency.”

“Oh–that’ll please Suzanne Moore.”

“Who’s she?”

“Some woman who writes in the Guardian–not always terribly well–and we’ll have to get Sammi to become Brazilian–that would really make her day.”

“What are you on about?”

“Nothing–well something that happened in the Guardian and on Twitter last week culminating in an article by Julie Burchill in the Observer.”

“Not the Julie Burchill I’m thinking of, is it?” he said.

“Probably.”

“The poor working class, I’m a lesbian feminist one?”

“With the squeaky voice.”

“What the hell are you reading her for?”

“The headline of the article had transsexuals in it.”

“But she hates you lot, doesn’t she?”

“Just a little–like with her whole heart.”

“Well that’s lots then isn’t it?”

“No, her heart is tiny–but still twice the size of her brain and about a tenth the size of her mouth.”

He started to laugh. “So where is this here article?”

“Um–in the cat’s litter tray.”

He looked at me, then doubled up with a huge roaring laugh.