The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2470 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

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It’s a little off putting to glance down at the forty or so front row seats knowing that the occupants are all the prize winners. I only worked this out when I saw Phoebe sitting there, smirking at me.

I let the system take over, the students were named by the principal as was their prize. A staff member watched as they walked up onto the stage, shook hands with me, I said something like, “Well done for winning this,” and they wandered back down to their seat again, with applause each time a new name was called out.

Of course, one or two of them won more than one prize, Phoebe did she got best student of the year in beauty and hairdressing, but one girl won four prizes. At the fourth time of ascending the stage, I said to her, “Gosh, if I see you much more I’ll have to put you on my Christmas card list.” She laughed out loud and dropped her prize. Fortunately, it bounced without breaking.

At the end of the prize giving, Mrs Raddish, thanked me for awarding the prizes and for my amusing chat beforehand. I nodded and stood up which surprised her, I think she might have been hoping to close things down and I was frustrating that end. Served her right for inviting verbose academics to her party—remember I talk for a living. She called for quiet and I cleared my throat.

“Madam Principal, ladies and gentlemen, students...” as I started some bloke looked at his watch. “Don’t worry, sir, I won’t detain you long.” He blushed like a tail light and I smiled enjoying his discomfort. “I came here expecting just to watch my daughter receiving her award, and ended up presenting it to her. Normally, I’m more involved with more academic awards for all sorts of obscure studies, like counting the fleas on hedgehogs, today this has been about vocational awards, for an education or training to provide the graduate with the skills they need for employment.

“Sometimes I think we undervalue the skilled workers, the artisans, the plumbers and electricians, the hairdressers and tourist information personnel, because let’s face it you don’t want some dozy professor to come round and fix your leaking pipe or blown fuses. But it’s okay for one to come round and present the prizes—I’m pretty safe doing that.

“Education is a lifelong process, we constantly learn new things because we have to or just want to. I wish all the final year students, prize winners or not, the very best for their careers, may they be enjoyable and prosperous and may they enjoy learning for the rest of their lives. Thank you, this has been a most enjoyable experience.”

I sat down and shut up and Mrs Raddish was dumbstruck, I possibly pinched her best joke or something or stopped more abruptly than she anticipated, but teachers have to be able to think on their feet. Once the noise, mainly laughter, had ceased she made her closing remarks.

“Professor Watts, we thank you for stepping in at the last moment and saving the day. For this I’d like to present you with some flowers as a thank you.” A huge bouquet appeared and she shoved it in my hands to much applause. “Your ability to keep the audience amused by extemporising is legendary. I have a confession, my niece did part of her biology degree under you and she always enjoyed your lectures because she said they never knew what was going to happen, but she said there were always lots of laughs. I can see why. Thank you so much for helping out today...” She finished her address and closed the event, wishing everyone a safe journey home.

Before I could find out who her niece was, Simon and Phoebe arrived ready to go home. One of my problems is that I forget everything except the thing I’m doing at that moment. They interrupted that process and in my momentary hiatus escorted me avec flora out to my car. So ended my trip to Phoebe’s award ceremony.

This time Simon drove, damn, I’ll have to readjust the seat again—he’s six inches taller than me. “I thought you were incredible, Mummy.” Phoebe offered her assessment.

“What? Anyone can shake hands and offer envelopes or statuettes, even Trish could do it.”

“Even I could do what?” asked big ears.

“Shake hands and award the prize,” explained Phoebe.

“Yeah, ’course I could, I s’pect.”

“Go on then, do it,” urged Danni.

“Alright, alright, where’s the prize thingy.”

“No, in the other hand, stupid,” corrected Livvie. She’d handed Trish a large stone I use to keep the door open. Only she’d picked it up with two hands, Trish would have to hold it with one, which clearly she couldn’t and dropped it narrowly missing her foot.

“Okay, enough. They were setting you up, Trish, here’s the actual prize.” I handed her the small statuette that I’d given to Phoebe. “Hold in your left hand and hand it over as you shake hands with your right.” She did it perfectly.

“See, I can do it,” she said doing a little dance.

“I knew you could, in fact I said you could right at the beginning.”

“Oh, did you?” She thought for a moment, “Yeah, you said even I could do it. Hang on, I’m not stupi...where’ve they all gone?” We hadn’t been sucked into a different dimension like the people in Dr Who, we’d hastened to the kitchen while she was occupied with the statuette. Well, David had produced his version of duck l’orange and it smelt heavenly, though I’m not sure the duck would agree.

I didn’t even dash up to change first, I sat at the table in my suit and ate my share of the wonderful repast he’d produced. I did run upstairs while Julie made the tea because the waistband of my skirt was getting a bit tight after dinner, slipping on an old pair of jeans which went over my bulging tum with ease.

When I returned Phoebe was entertaining the family with her version of the ceremony finishing with, “And she said our success should be marked with something like a Porsche.”

“Hey, Mummy, I won the prize three years ago, can I have my Porsche now?” asked Julie and Simon roared with laughter.

“No, you can’t have one, too long ago, but I can, can’t I, Mummy?” smirked Phoebe.

“Trish are you going to help me arrange these flowers?” I called ignoring them.

“Do I get a Porsche?”

“You’re not old enough for a licence for another eight years.”

“You always say that, I’m never flippin’ old enough, ’s not fair.”

“Aye, an’ one day ye’ll suddenly discover ye’re tae old.”

“I doubt it, Gramps.”

“Aye, I used tae say thae same, look at me noo.”

“I don’t think you’re past it, Gramps,” she said hugging him tightly.

“I’m no past it, nothin’ is worn under ma kilt,” he said and Simon sprayed tea everywhere.