The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2128 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get his autograph,” Julie was beside herself with disappointment. “You get to do a radio show with Brian May, and you don’t know who he is! And you talk about badgers. Geez, Mummy, are you crazy?”

“I didn’t catch his name because I was trying to sort Lizzie.”

“But he’s, like famous.”

“So I gather.”

“But, he’s like Queen.”

“No, darling, Elizabeth the second is still queen.”

“The rock group, surely you’ve heard of them?”

“Yes, darling, I have their greatest hits album somewhere, but the only name I knew was Freddie Mercury, who sadly died.”

“Doh,” she said loudly smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand.

“Don’t do that, dear, you’ll give yourself a headache.”

“I can’t believe you, you meet one of the greatest rock stars on the planet, talk to him for an hour and not know who he is.”

“That’s about the gist of it.”

“God, I bet even Dad would know who he is.”

“I think I might have recognised Paul McCartney.” Well, I think I might but he’s not something to do with the RSPCA. I’ll bet if they’d been turning badgers into sausages or crisps, he’d have been protesting.

“Paul McCartney! He’s so old.”
I suppose he is come to think of it, but he’s the only famous rock star I can think of, except for Mick Jagger or Elton John, and they’re just as old, I think.

“You’ll be saying you only know Cliff Richard, next.”

I blushed, “Nah, I was going to say Elvis.”

“If you saw him I’d be a bit worried, Mummy?”

“Why, darling,” I answered trying to read a text as I spoke to her.

“Well, cause he’s been like dead for about a hundred years.”

“I think that’s an exaggeration, Julie.”

Trish walked in and Julie grabbed her, “When did Elvis die, brainbox?”

“Who?”

“Nah, that was Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey.” I knew some things.

“Elvis, you know–‘Don’t step on my blue suede shoes,’ sang Julie waggling her crotch.

“Who?”

“We’ve done that bit,” I offered confusing things even more.

“What?” said the confused eight year old.

“Can’t think of a pop group called that, can you, Julie?”

Julie rolled her eyes, “This dipstick only sat on a radio show with Brian May and didn’t recognise him.”

“Who’s he?” asked Trish.

“What–you’re not serious?” squeaked an incredulous Julie.

“Now you sound like John McEnroe, dear,” I suggested to the elder of the two girls.

“What?”

“The tennis player–you know used to argue with umpires.”

“How come you know all these old men, Mummy?”

I blushed, “They commentate on Wimbledon.”

“That’s where the Wombles come from, beamed Trish.”

“It’s also where the All England Club is,” I beamed hoping to provoke an opportunity to deliver the whole name.

“What is?”

“Wimbledon, the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet club.”

“Aren’t those something to do with potatoes?”

“What, darling?” I replied to Julie’s question.

“Croquettes.”

“Very funny, croquet is a game played...”

“With mallets,” said Trish, “we’ve played it here, remember?”

Once she said it I did remember, sadly the lawn hasn’t been short enough to play this year and it’s so dry at the moment, it wouldn’t be good to cut it just now.

“It’s a very dirty game,” suggested Julie, “you can hit people in the balls and things.” Trish blushed and giggled and Julie having got her laugh qualified it, “I mean you can hit their balls all over the lawn.” Trish was laughing even louder which drew in Livvie.

“What’s the matter with her?” Trish was still convulsed with exercising her laughing gear and was unable to tell her, and Julie sounded like an amused hyena. “Mummy?” she demanded.

“Julie said something rude about croquet and Trish is having a laughing fit, I think.”

“Oh, is that all.”

“No,” said Julie, her mascara running down her face, “she,” was added pointing at me, “sat with Brian May on a radio show and didn’t know who he was.

“Who is he?” asked another very bright eight year old.

“Jeez, the lead guitarist from Queen.”

“Who are they?”

The same joke twice wouldn’t really e very funny so I decided to make my getaway while the others were otherwise engaged. It was too late, Simon walked in, he’d taken a half day.

“Did you get his autograph?” he started and I felt a distinct sense of déjá  vu.

“No, she didn’t,” complained Julie.

“Typical,” he said and asked me to make him some tea while he went up and changed.

“Where’s Sammi?” I asked.

“Still working, she’s seeing some girlfriend after work so I said she could use the flat.”

“Oh, thanks for telling me.”

“I just did, didn’t I?” he went off before I could respond except to fill the electrical device and switch it on. When it boiled I made a pot of tea and then poured two cups, the girls had gone, presumably to torment someone else.

“I want to ride my bicycle, I want tae ride ma bike,” sang Tom entering the kitchen. This was turning into something like an episode of Friends or that other American thing about the psychiatrist, Frazier? Or was that about a boxer? Never having sat down and watched either because I didn’t have time or find them as amusing as paint drying, all that was needed was the canned laughter.

“Don’t you start,” I said to Tom who sniggered.

“Fat bottomed girls...” came Simon’s voice returning down the stairs. I took my tea and retreated to my study. I switched on the computer and up came an email from Brian May–I nearly deleted it as a spoof, but it appeared genuine.

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I was in such esteemed company, Lady Cameron. Apologies for being so remiss. Brian May.’

Oh hell, what do I do now? Respond in kind? Oh well here goes.

‘Dear Dr May, I hadn’t realised who you were until after the reference to your friend and colleague, Freddie Mercury. I’m so sorry, but I’ve never been much into rock music. Apologies, Cathy Cameron nee Watts.’

After nearly having second thoughts I pressed send, I’d committed my stupidity to written form. A few minutes later my computer beeped.

‘Dear Cathy, next time you’re in town give me a shout and we’ll have lunch, Brian.’

Oh my goodness, now what do I do? Perhaps just ignore it and he’ll forget about it quite soon, I’m sure he has better things to do than pretend to entertain non-entities like myself.

My computer beeped again, another one from the lead guitarist. ‘Dear Cathy, excuse my cheek, any chance you could address a meeting at Southampton about the folly of the badger cull, I’m tied up otherwise I’d go myself. There’ll be other speakers but someone from an ecological background would help to give it extra credibility. It’s on Friday evening at eight at the student’s union. Please say you will, Brian.’

Before I did I had to clear it with Tom. I asked him and he looked at me, “Is thae government wrang?”

“I believe so.”

“Then ye’d better awa’ an’ tell ’em.” He smiled and I left before he could sing another chorus of Bicycle.