The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2328 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

The weather prior to Easter Sunday was amazing and the girls, with the exception of Trish, because she’d been ill, were starting to go brown from being out in the sunshine. Me, I go pink and peel—my ancestors were probably Vikings who didn’t see daylight for six months of the year, so had fair skin with freckles. Yeah, those brown spots which look cute on a six year old but not so much on someone of thirty.

Simon says he likes them, but he’d say that anyway to cheer me up, he knows I still have very little confidence at times which I know is silly, but that’s me.

I suggested going to a car boot sale to get some plants for the garden on the Sunday morning. What an idea that was—duh. It absolutely precipitated all over us. Simon stayed home with Trish, Meems and Cate; Jacquie was looking after Lizzie so the remaining yoofs, viz. Danni and Livvie escorted Tom and I around the car boot.

It wasn’t raining when we got there, but within five minutes and we were about as far from the car as we could get, the skies emptied. I had my Barbour with a hood, the girls had hoods on their coats too, but poor old Tom had his fleece and a cap on. He got a wee bit drookit. However, we also got some lavender and a ceanothus, a blue flowered shrub which apparently hails from America where they call it the corn thistle or something similar, although it’s actually a buckthorn not a thistle of any sort. We had one before but it died for some reason unbeknown to us.

I suppose plants do tend to have life spans and we all realise than annuals flower seed and die, whereas some trees can live for hundreds of years, possibly longer. In our garden at home in Bristol we had a broom plant which was called bacon and eggs because the flowers were yellow and a pinkish brown. I bought it for my mum one mothering Sunday and planted it for her. For the next four or five years it grew huge and flowered with abandon, then suddenly died. It was only when I looked it up in a gardening book I realised they only last about five or six years. I felt quite let down by it but decided not to replace it with another.

We were all a bit damp when we returned from our car booting, although the way the deluge came, car boating might have been more apposite, it was awash before we left and those cars which had parked on grass might have had some difficulty getting away. We all went in the Mondeo and Tom elected to park on the road and walk, which we did.

On the way back we collected the Sunday papers, the Sun for Simon—he likes his seamy news—the Observer for me and the Sunday Times for everyone to leaf through at some point. If my brain allows me, after doing the Observer, Everyman crossword I sometimes try the Sunday Times cryptic one. As David was doing the lunch, I did the two crosswords one before eating and t’other afterwards. The girls played nicely and Simon tittered at his smutty news.

“Someone here wearing a corset thing who wants a sex change,” he called over the top of his paper. “Looks a right mess.”

“That doesn’t mean they don’t feel the same way I did.”

“No, but at least you looked the part—sorry, I think they’re making a mistake.”

“You were quite dismissive of Maureen at one point.”

“She doesn’t look ninety three and wasn’t posing in silly underwear.”

“Isn’t that secondary to what she wants to do? If she feels female why shouldn’t she have the opportunity to live in congruence with her sense of self?”

“Well, I think it’s a mistake.”

“We’re all entitled to our opinions, Si, it’s supposed to be a free country, after all.”

“Oh oh, Pistorius is accused of taking acting lessons for the court.” Where does he find these stories?

“Here ya go, Daddy, a place in Park Lane, only thirty two million,” quipped Julie.

“I didn’t think they had that much money in a Monopoly set,” he fired back.

In between musing on crossword clues, I did so on the price of property—it’s like Monopoly money these days. How young people find enough for a mortgage, I hate to think. Maggie Thatcher gave away the council houses to sitting tenants and they wonder why there’s not enough social housing.

I know we’re all right because if everything else failed here we have enough to buy something else. But many people aren’t in that sort of position and it worries and annoys me. At least the properties I own are let, so they’re being used and I don’t think the rents are exorbitant compared to some places. I don’t think I’ll bother to lease Steven Spielberg’s place at Malibu, it might be nice but the rental is thousands.

Mind you what would this place be to rent—quite a lot, so I should count my blessings. Talking of money what’s a Naira got to do with rhinos? I checked and rhino is a slang term for money, naira being currency in Nigeria. Somehow I had the peace to complete both puzzles before my single functioning brain cell went on strike.

I was half way into a good snooze, eyes shut—mouth open, you know the sort when Trish tapped my leg and asked what was for tea and why didn’t she have any Easter eggs.

“You know we don’t do Easter eggs because they’re such a waste of money.”

“Cheap skate,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon, young lady.”

“Sorry,” she blushed and because she was still recovering from her illness I let her get away with that. However, I didn’t tell her there was a bar of chocolate in the fridge with her name on it. “So what’s for tea, Mummy?”

“Ask David.”

“He said you were doing it.”

“Am I?” Huh, since they stopped allowing us aristos to have serfs, standards have been falling. Now I had to kick start my only neuron and find something for tea. Easter, I suppose something with eggs would be appropriate and there should be a couple of doz in the fridge. I got up and went to check.

“How come you got a Lindt bunny?” Trish accused me seeing it on the kitchen table.

I checked it, “It’s from Daddy.”

“I didn’t get one.”

No so you don’t have to do certain things to earn it. “He buys me one every year.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I am his wife.”

“So, I’m his daughter.” I can’t fault her logic.

“He got you a box of little Lindt eggs.”

“But I ate those after breakfast.”

“Well, Miss Greedy guts, that’s just too bad because there are no more.”

“Can I’ve a bit of your bunny then?”

“No, you’ve already eaten your share of chocolate, go and lay the table for omelettes, knives and forks please.”

“No, do it yourself, meanie Mummy.” With that she stormed out of the kitchen and when I looked my bunny was gone too.