The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2343 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

The next morning I had a call from James. “What the hell were you two up to last night?”

“Trying to make sure we kept Stella safe.”

“By chasing Mitchell round southern England?”

“That was Simon.”

“I know it was Simon, what was he trying to do?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

“The only good thing is that while he was playing wild goose chases with Simon, I was able to have a shufti round his room.”

“I suppose if I’d had one, I could have planted a bug on his car.”

“What like a beetle or an aphid of some sort.”

“Are those the names of tracking devices, then?” I asked naively

“No, they’re common or garden bugs, as a biologist I’d have thought you’da known that.”

“Actually neither are true bugs, that refers to the hemiptera,” I retorted trying to recover the initiative.

“I stand corrected.”

It was irritating that he couldn’t see me smirking at the far end of the phone. “What happens next?” I asked.

“Providing he keeps the same car, we know where that is but if he doesn’t we can only act on the intel we have.”

“Just what are they up to, Jim?”

“I’m not entirely sure except they decided it was your bank they were going to hit and that Stella was their entry card.”

“That’s just brilliant, Jim. I pay you how much and I could have told you that.”

“See, great minds think alike.”

“I’m not sure your mind would be thinking what I am at this moment.”

“Ah, I think that might be a hint.”

“You’re getting warmer.”

“Yeah, sun’s come out again, byeee,” he rang off presumably to dislodge flea from auditory organ and then do some work.

Stella brought me in a cuppa a little later, “What are you after?” I enquired pausing to look up from the lap top.

“Oh, is it that obvious?”

“Don’t tell me, Mr Mitchell has invited you out again?”

“Goodness, Cathy, you must be psychic.”

“Stupid is more like it.”

“Why is that?” she smiled as innocently as any convent girl who’d just come back from committing every sin under the sun behind the bike shed.

“Because I probably will agree to babysit, or delegate it.”

“You are definitely psychic, Cathy, I was just going to ask you if you wanted a biscuit as well, but yes, I would like you to babysit, if you could.”

“Just this once,” I agreed trying to invent some excuse for saying what a creep her latest guy was. “I hope his intentions are honourable.”

“His are fine, it’s mine which might be just a tad dirty,” she gave a cackle and wandered off. It was nice to see her happy, even if it was all going to end in tears. I just hoped we could help to hold her together when it happened.

While David laboured in the kitchen I did some more survey work, some mad woman from Dorset sent in more records of tiggywinkles, with grid references. They were mostly of expired types, having met with a vehicle while crossing the road, but also of live ones in her garden in Dorchester. Why can’t the old bat just say hedgehog? Judging by her name, she’s Welsh—hang on, it sounds familiar, don’t I have some Gaby stories...? Must check later.

Tiggywinkle indeed, bloody Beatrix Potter has a lot to answer for, though she was a very good botanical illustrator.

Oh look, some Peter Rabbit records...grr.

This survey business was doing my head in.

David called us for lunch and over a sardine in batter over a rustic potato salad—one where the potato is not peeled, we chatted about everything and nothing. Jacquie, who’d been watching Cate and Lizzie asked what I thought of her training as a midwife. I looked at Stella who rolled her eyes.

It seemed that she missed not being able to have her own babies and I asked if she’d seen the reports of them creating and implanting wombs from stem cell cultures. She hadn’t, and went off to research them after I’d suggested that we might consider helping her find out if it was available in the UK. She left the table with a smile and a spring in her step that wasn’t there before.

I don’t know if such procedures would ever be offered to transgender women, or even considered appropriate, but for a natural woman who has been damaged by the abuse of trust and power, I think it should be and funded by that power—to wit, the Home Office. I must speak to Jason, see what he thinks or perhaps that would be the new Justice department, as it was a secure children’s unit.

David mentioned the girls being kidnapped in Nigeria and that now the Brits, French and Americans were giving support, they might find them. I stated, that as a feminist, I believed in education for all regardless of anything and that these morons who suggested that Western education was evil, showed how shallow and evil their interpretation of the Q’ran was. The problem with all fundamentalists is their existence, once that ceases so does the problem.

We sat talking so late I had to dash off to collect the girls and arrived a few minutes late. They asked why I was late and I told them about our discussion regarding the kidnapped school girls.

“Vat’s not gonna happen to us, is it, Mummy?”

“Don’t be such a dumbo, we’re not in Africa, are we? Those numpty kidnappers live in Africa, in Nigella or somewhere there,” berated Trish. I had to reassure Mima that it was most unlikely in England while trying not to think of Trish’s mincing the country’s name and supplying that of the TV cook. Every now and again she drops a really funny clanger.

When we got home Stella was upstairs tarting herself up for her evening out while I looked to see what was for dinner. I was delighted to see it was a beef risotto and not a Vesta pack in sight. This was real Italian food albeit made by a Brit.

While we were eating it I tried to point out ot them that this was real food not the rubbish they get from pizza palaces, some of which look as if they had been scraped off the pavement. As you may gather, pizza is not my favourite Italian meal, I much prefer pasta or rice dishes, though the kids do like pizza. Perhaps my attempts to cause them to loathe the pizza is having the opposite effect? If I was just to feed them pizza every meal, that might do it—but they’d have left home before that worked.

Oh well, back to the drawing board.