The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2174 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

We arrived at the New Forest only to be met by torrential rain and a strong gusting wind. “So what now, kimosabi?” asked Simon as he pulled into a car park. It looked pretty awful, the rain splashing on the picnic tables and the seemingly sodden ground was forming puddles.

“Who wants to go for a walk?” I asked cheerily. It was greeted by sighs and silence.

“Well I’m going,” I said and threw open the car door only for a gust of wind to cause the rain to fall off an overhanging tree all over me. It was cold and I squeaked a bit before pulling the door shut again. I was soaked, especially my jeans and I could feel something cold and wet spreading into my panties.

It was eleven o’clock, the children were getting restless and I’d made a bit of a cock up.

“If you’d brought flippers and a snorkel they could have gone bog snorkelling,” Simon offered sarcastically. In response I tried to use my mobile to check the forecast but couldn’t get a signal. The day was not improving.

“What now?” he asked after I ignored his previous suggestion.

“We could go to Bournemouth, it’s about half an hour away.”

“Bournemouth, kids?” he called to the brood and they all cheered. Needless to say, that’s what we did, by which time my panties were well damp and probably going blue as the moisture soaked through my jeans.

“We parked and coughed up a fortune to do so. I suspect they must be the only parking meters I’ve met where you could pay in gold bullion. By the time we’d scraped together sufficient coin to pay the meter, it was midday and thus lunchtime as the children spontaneously reminded us.

“Lunch?” I suggested having received several verbal prompts like, ‘I’m starving,’ or ‘when did we have breakfast?’ My question was met by squeals of enthusiasm and Meems saying, “I wanna wee, Mummy.”

By now the rain had stopped and the roads were drying, alas my panties weren’t and I was conscious of them chaffing as we set off for somewhere to eat. We stopped at the first eatery that had a loo and I took Meems in to relieve herself. When we got back, Si had ordered sausage egg and chips for everyone.

Healthy eating–hardly, but with a cuppa and some rounds of bread and butter, we were all too busy stuffing to grumble.

There were further showers of rain and I began to wonder if we’d have been better staying at home, but the girls managed to wind Simon round their fingers and my inexpensive walk in the countryside turned into a major budgetary event.

I bought Danni some more clothing when the others practically dragged Simon into a toyshop, and I also bought myself a dry pair of panties and trousers–that felt so much better, even if I didn’t really need to add to my wardrobe. Amazingly, my husband was the only one who didn’t notice I’d changed my trousers–well, Lizzie hadn’t either, but then we left her behind with Jacquie who was happy to look after her.

We returned home ready to eat our dinner only to discover that David had made us fish and chips for our meal which pleased the kids but not Simon or I although we ate them to keep the peace.

Saturday evening the girls spent showing their gramps what they’d wheedled out of their dad after we abandoned our soggy trek in the wild. He laughed when Trish described the water falling on me from the tree, and the way she told it, made me smile too until I stuck my finger with the needle I was using to sew name tags in her school clothes–she needed new gym kit.

The Sunday morning started off with a heavy shower then brightened up enough for us–that is Danni, Trish and I–to get a quick bike ride in before the heavens opened and the sky darkened sufficiently for me to have to put the light on to read the Observer and do the crossword.

“That’s interesting,” I said to no one in particular.

“What is?” asked Si.

“Oh this article about Neanderthals.”

“Yeah–well what about it?”

“They identified what they ate from plaque found on their teeth.”

“Right,” he said grimacing, “like what?”

“Meat and stuff but also green stuff like chamomile and yarrow.”

“So?”

“Well the argument is whether they ate the green stuff themselves or ate the animals’ stomach contents.”

“Gross,” muttered Stella, and just before lunch.

“Apparently it tastes like creamed cheese and is good for you.”

“Oh god,” yelled Stella and she dashed off to the cloakroom.

“Nice one, Cathy,” smirked Simon.

“I’m just saying what they say here, apparently the Innuit, Cree and Blackfeet do it, because it’s full of vitamins and trace elements.”

“I hope you’re not going to suggest that to David.”

“I could I suppose–after all you seem to like haggis, which is like an artificial form of it.”

“Hey, ye leave ma haggis oot o’ this,” protested Tom.

“I’d be happy to,” I smiled back, it’s not my favourite form of nourishment–sort of savoury porridge.

“Ye scunner,” he muttered back at me but with a twinkle in his eye.

“What is for lunch?” asked Danni, her appetite being probably the only part of her previous life which stayed with her.

“As it’s Sunday, probably a roast of some sort, it certainly smells as if it could be,” I replied smelling the aromas emanating from the kitchen.

“Aye, it cud,” agreed my adopted father. Just then, David banged the gong and we went into the kitchen and ate what was a beautiful joint of roast beef with all the trimmings including fresh horseradish sauce and Yorkshire pudding.

“Anything else of interest in there?” Simon nodded towards my recently discarded newspaper.

“Yeah, it explains what happens with séances, how we delude ourselves with them or get conned into thinking things have happened, suggestion is quite a powerful thing.”

“What? The message I got from Great Aunt Maude was wrong?” gasped my apparently outraged spouse.

“Was that via a medium?” asked David, who’d sat in on the meal he’d cooked for us.

“No, British Telecom,” sniggered Simon.

“We haven’t got a Great Aunt Maude,” challenged Stella.

“Not anymore we haven’t.”

“I don’t remember ever having one.”

“No she died way back.”

“So how could she phone you?”

“It was a joke,” muttered Simon not realising that Stella had got her revenge after he laughed at her rushing to the loo. She hadn’t been sick, she needed a wee and pretended to be ill just to wind him up.

“How could it be a joke if she really existed?” teased Stella.

“She’s hardly going to complain is she?”

Which was when something rapped twice on the kitchen table at which Stella wasn’t seated. It made me jump and Simon nearly wet himself before we discovered it was Trish banging it underneath with a spoon.

She’s read the article before me and wondered if people were as gullible as they claimed. It appears we are.