The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1974 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I got home and David was there, “Thanks for covering for me last night.”

“That’s okay, as far as I know they haven’t all gone down with food poisoning.”

“Come off it, Cathy, you’re a very capable cook.”

“In a limited menu, sort of way.” I shrugged and put the kettle on. Yeah I know the last time I turned it on nothing could come out of the spout until I applied a cold cloth.

“So, what you do you do well. It’s only about having the confidence to try different things and to be shown a few short cuts or the best way to do things. Why don’t you do some cookery courses?”

“I haven’t time and I’m not sure I really am that interested, especially when my lot would just as soon eat cottage pie six nights a week and pizza on the seventh.”

He laughed at me, “Ain’t that just the way it goes,” and chuckled some more.

“Tea?” I asked warming the pot.

“Is the pope a catholic?” he replied.

“How would I know–don’t do religion.”

For a moment he looked at me in disbelief, remembered my kids went to a convent school and then realised I was joking. Shook his head and snorted with laughter.

“Is that tea?” asked Stella. I’d made a full pot because she seems to have this sixth sense knowing when anyone else has made a pot. I poured out three mugs and sat at the table.

“Oh, that’s better,” said Stella, “That bloody woman at the play group, one of these days she’ll push me too far.”

“Not the precious one, is it?” I asked knowing full well it was almost certainly her. When she first told me about her I had visions of her looking like Gollom and eating raw fish while they were still wriggling, while saying, ‘My pwecious.’ Turned out that virtually every time she talked about hers or an one else’s children, she always said ‘how precious’ they were. I mean that’s a given isn’t it? Why else would you be taking them to playgroup?

“If Puddin’s at play group how come you’re not there?”

“I bribed Jacquie to go.”

“So why are you complaining then?”

“She started as I was dropping them off, I carried the changing box in for her.” In case anyone thinks this is what we use when we turn boys into girls, I’d better explain it’s a Mothercare box full of wet wipes, spare nappies and panties and such, not that Puddin’ uses nappies very often. I mean, Cate is practically dry all night these days–if that doesn’t sound too Irish.

“What d’you mean, she started on you?”

“Well she wants me to help her get up a petition about getting rid of a bail hostel up the road from the play group.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to relocate the play group?” offered David, which showed he was listening. Can’t say I was that interested, it’s the audio version of paint drying.

“No way, all the health and safety stuff and risk assessment, it would take months to find and certify somewhere else.”

“Yeah, but that would be easier than closing the hostel, surely?”

“Probably; I mean I don’t have a problem. We had someone from the probation service come and talk to us and they reassured us that no one with a history of offences of violence or anything to do with children is held there.”

“So what’s her problem?” pressed David.

At this point I either had to move or lose the will to live, I chose the former. Saying I had work to do, I sloped off to my study and left them to it. I opened my emails and the bloke who grumbles about the water voles had written again. I just deleted them, he was crazier than a deranged baboon–and you don’t want emails from one of them. That reminds me about the lunatic who wrote to me saying he was a chimp who was being held captive against his will at Monkey World. This is a place in Dorset where they rescue various primates (not the ex-pope, the monkey sort–the clue is in the title, Monkey World, oh, and there aren’t any monks there either–not as far as I know).

I kept ignoring the emails, after the first couple they got boring very quickly. I did actually contact Monkey World and they told me who he was–a total pain in the bum to them. I put his name on my spam alert and that was the last I heard, until I got letters every week through the post at the university. In the end we spoke to the police and they presumably got the Dorset people to speak to him because I haven’t had one for ages. Talk about monkey business...

Is it just me or do lots of us act as a beacon to these nutters? I think women tend to get more of them than men, because it seems that most of them are men who assume that women will be sympathetic to them–until you get one signed by Congo the Chimpanzee. Even I’m suspicious of those sort, it’s a bit like getting one from Ratty or Toad–gives you a wind in the willows.

After lunch, an omelette–I shouldn’t be so dismissive, David makes the most exquisite ones, so light and fluffy–I went in to the university to show Tom the work I’d done at the woodland, showing him where I’d been surveying and why I thought the centre would be better placed there.

“Cathy, we had a surveyor go all over thae woodland an’ he said there wis only one place tae pit it.”

“Well, I disagree.”

“Ye can disagree all ye want, but that’s where it’s goin’.”

I dropped my paperwork in his bin and told him he could find another director for his precious woodland and if they found great crested newts in the pond, I’d happily object to the centre being built. I then stormed out of his office slamming the door behind me. Two minutes later I’d collected my stuff and left and I wasn’t sure if I would go back which would screw up his conference in July somewhat–was I bovvered? In a word–no.

I collected the girls and they could see I was very angry as soon as they arrived at the car. “Wossamatta, Mummy?” asked Mima.

“Nothing, sweetheart, I had a bit of a difference of opinion with Gramps about something at the university.”

“Siwwy, Gwamps,” was her opinion and for once I wholeheartedly agreed.