The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2461 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“Well I didn’t mean to, but dopey drawers ought to know by now she uses her maiden name.”

“Who is dopey drawers?” I asked knowing full well who it was.

“It’s um what they call the headmistress.”

“And who are they?”

Blushing furiously, Trish looked at her shoes and offered, “The um, older girls.”

“I’ve never heard it before,” declared Danni dropping her sister deeper into the mire.

“She just made it up,” added Livvie.

“No I didn’t,” Trish said before fleeing from the car into the house and presumably up to her bedroom.

So much for sororial loyalty; I’m no great expert being an only child, but I’d hoped someone would have supported her instead of circling like sharks waiting to attack. Fortunately, David was in the kitchen and he offered the girls a drink and a small snack whilst I went upstairs to see where Trish was. She wasn’t on her bed nor in my room.

I called her but there was no response. I checked all the bedrooms, she wasn’t in any unless she had borrowed Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility, because I couldn’t see her, I even checked my wardrobe—she just wasn’t there.

I started downstairs, the lounge nor dining room were absent of Trishes. She hadn’t appeared in the kitchen either, so after checking my study I looked in the conservatory. She was in there with Bramble on her lap and Kikki sitting at her feet. She hadn’t noticed my approach.

“It’snot fair, Brambs, they always pick on me because I’m cleverer than all of them put together,” she complained to her audience. I was mildly surprised at at the dog staying when there was more chance of dropped food in a bigger group of kids. As if reading my mind the dog upped and walked out of the conservatory towards the children. Trish hadn’t noticed or cared about her absence as she continued to stroke the cat and grumble to her.

Suddenly she pulled her hand back, sucked or licked her hand and was about to kick the cat when I made my presence felt. “Don’t you dare kick Bramble,” I said loudly enough for her to jump and swear at her instead, denying she was going to hurt her. She had a nasty scratch on her hand so I suspect might have done something first because Bramble is normally a very placid animal.

“She scrammed me,” complained Trish accusing the cat of having turned against her, as well as the rest of the known world.

“What did you do to her?”

“Nothin’, stupid cat.”

“Usually, she’s your best friend.”

“Yeah, well not anymore. You stupid cat.” The cat sat looking at her trying to work out how her favourite human had turned on her, perhaps. Who knows what goes on in a cat’s mind except possibly John Bradshaw who studies them at Bristol University. I must email him again for a list of prey species his farm cats have brought home. I had a copy of his book on cat behaviour, must get round to reading it. Recently, someone was on the radio suggesting dogs were domesticated while cats were still wild animals at heart. I assumed that was probably based upon intelligence, cats being brighter than dogs, though I’m not sure how you compare different species. As far as I know neither have written any great works of literature, nor composed a musical masterpiece nor painted anything as beautiful as Monet or Turner. Mind you, that might just be my ignorance showing, as I used to think if cats could work can openers, humans would be irrelevant.

While I was musing upon the intellectual achievements of felines, Trish had vacated the conservatory and I assumed gone to the kitchen. Bramble wrapped her tail round my legs and I leant down and stroked it. She purred then trotted off to the kitchen as well. I went upstairs and changed into my playing clothes and while David sorted the dinner, and the girls their homework, I slipped out to my workshop and fiddled with the wheels I started building months ago. It was bliss not to be at anyone’s beck and call for half an hour. Sometimes I wondered about being a parent and my suitability for the job.

I stopped my wheel building for a moment. I was always questioning myself as being suitable for this and that, or up to scratch or standard; or even about what I believed in, if anything apart from St Attenborough and the Blessed Brian (Cox), who were both atheists and probably had larger brains than I. But then is it right to believe something just because someone you regard as cleverer, does? I suspect Rowan Williams has a brain the size of a planet, yet he believes in some sort of god. Perhaps he isn’t that clever after all, or perhaps it’s me who isn’t too bright and missed something he’s seen.

Actually, I suspect that believing isn’t an intellectual thing, more an emotional one, and that Dr Williams, the ex archbishop, has had some sort of mystical experience he attributes to his god.

“Cathy, you in there?” Simon’s voice sounded outside my workshop.

“Yes, the door isn’t locked.”

“What’re you doing out here, it’s getting cold.”

With a couple of spokes in my hand and standing at a wheel jig, I’d have thought it was pretty obvious what I was doing. I had a fleece jacket on and only my hands were cold. “I didn’t hear you drive in.”

“Too busy playing with your wheels, I expect.”

“Don’t I get a kiss?” I asked.

“You might if you come out from behind that thing, I don’t want oil on my suit.”

The wheel wasn’t oily and had a sealed hub, so he was more at risk touching the bikes as they had oiled chains and the Scott was on the workshop stand. “Come away from the bikes then,” I suggested as he just avoided wiping his sleeve against the chain rings.

“What’re you doing out here, anyway?”

“De-stressing, nothing like building wheels to do that.”

“I don’t know, I suspect I’d get very stressed trying to remember how the spokes went in.”

We embraced and kissed and for a moment I forgot all about, dogs and cats and children, even bike wheels and was truly in the moment. “Forget dinner, let’s go to bed,” he suggested.

“I don’t want nine year olds criticising my technique.”

“Eh?” he said breaking off the hug.

“My sex—forget it, let’s get some dinner.”

“Why is it that men eat more but can overlook food for sex, whereas women can’t?”

Who says we can’t, we just choose not to, a bit like dogs and cats I suppose. I locked the workshop and linking my arm through his walked over to the house and back to motherhood.