The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2511 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad

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I was too far from most of the stores to consider some retail therapy and the shoes I had on with two and a half or three inch heels, weren’t the best things for a longish walk. The sun was shining and I’d been spared the afternoon arguing with the VC, so things could be a lot worse, mind you, the breeze wafting round my nether region reminded me I hadn’t been out in a skirt for some little while.

Not far from the university is a little park, with a statue of some local worthy, a few flower beds, some lawns and a few seats. I spotted one out of the wind but in full sun so decided to sit and boost my vitamin D levels—apparently, twenty minutes exposure of face and hands is enough—the vitamin being manufactured in the skin by the action of sunlight. If I had some chlorophyll I could have boosted my energy levels as well—except I might have been as green as I was cabbage looking.

After checking the chosen bench for nasty things like chewing gum or syringes, I parked my derriere on the seat smoothing my skirt under me as I sat. Then I simply sat back, holding my bag firmly while I closed my eyes from the glare of the sunshine. It was coldish but lovely, all the same.

I was probably there for five or ten minutes when I felt a shadow fall across me. “D’you mind if share the bench?”

I opened my eyes and squinted at the person before me. “Uh no, please do.” As there were at least two other benches which were unoccupied, that puzzled me. In case she was attracted by the blue energy, I tried to close that down while I moved towards the end of the bench. The woman, I would guess was probably ten years older than me, and was wearing nice jeans and a warm ski type jacket.

“Lovely day, I hope I didn’t disturb your siesta.”

“No, I have to get back to my office soon, anyway.”

“The sun does tend to make one want to play truant though, doesn’t it?”

“Any day like this in December is a bonus,” I replied not wanting to agree or disagree with her even though I was playing truant—except I’m the teacher, not some spotty kid.

“Absolutely—God’s in his heaven etcetera.”

“Not quite sure about that,” I responded almost by reflex and wishing I hadn’t.

“I didn’t mean it literally, partly because I don’t actually believe it, but it’s a common expression which seemed apposite.”

“In which case, I do agree.” I was thinking more of escaping this woman than necessarily listening to my conscience reminding me of all the paperwork sitting on my desk.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she started back at me.

“Don’t think so,” I replied closing her down.

“I’m sure I do, you’re not an actress, are you? I have a feeling it was on the telly where I saw you.”

“Might have been.”

“Not Downton, was it?”

“Downton Abbey? I think not.” I was hoping I hadn’t missed any news stories relating to it which would leave me open to jibes in work—for not knowing about it.

“Sorry, I take it you don’t watch it?”

Upstairs downstairs with nobs on—oops, even my internal dialogues have unconscious jokes that I can’t share with others, because they would think me mad. “No,” I mean, I could hardly say my life was just like an episode of the fatuous fiction without the butlers and eccentric family members—well without the butler anyway. Still I expect the writer will get a knighthood one of these days because the PM’s kids like it or some such stupid reason. We seem to live in some sort of inverted meritocracy or a surreal version of it, where all you have to do is win the TdF or make loads of money by ripping off others, and you get a knighthood or a peerage. The dumber the achievement, like those who failed the Darwin awards because they survived, the higher the honour accorded—like self aggrandizing politicians.

“I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“I work round here, perhaps you’ve seen me out and about.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Downton or Newsnight?”

What a strange comparison? “Positive,” I mean I haven’t been on Newsnight for years, not done anything to warrant it—recently.

“I know that face, sorry, your face.”

“Don’t know why,” if she says, ‘Youtube’, I’ll kill her slowly.

“You don’t sing, do you?”

“Only in the shower.”

“Oh, you’re not a councillor or MP?”

“Good lord, no.”

“I give up, what do you do?” she suddenly uttered.

“Eh?”

“Well, you’re obviously well known but I can’t remember who you are.”

“I’m nobody famous, you must be confusing me with someone else.”

“I’m sure I’m not.”

“Well I think I’d know if I was, wouldn’t I?” I was tiring of this conversation rather quickly.

“I suppose so, so what do you do? Your outfit looks lovely, so you must have a good job.”

I suspected she’d read too many cheap detective novels, I mean such deductions were hardly in the class of Sherlock Holmes now, were they? “You’re deducing that I bought them myself, that needn’t necessarily be true, they might have been bought for me by someone else.” I thought my put down would kill the conversation.

“They have very good taste and must love you rather a lot, so hubby has a good job, then,” she decided the whistle hadn’t sounded.

“Actually, he does. I have to go and count his money for him.” I stood up and was about to leave when she stopped me in my tracks.

“You’re the dormouse woman, aren’t you—I’ve just remembered.”

“Am I? Perhaps we just look alike?”

“No, that’s who you are. They did a whole article on you in the Echo one weekend, you’re married to some Lord or other and have dozens of children and you’re a professor or something at the university.”

“I have to go, dormice to teach and children to launder—goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Lady Dormouse.”

I ignored her and walked away. The feel good factor of the sunshine was now a distant memory. What right do complete strangers have to ask personal questions and then demand answers? More importantly, what’s going to happen when they show the harvest mouse film, they’re smaller than dormice and almost as cute.

I’d walked out of my office to dissipate the energy that I’d built up to deal with an awkward customer, viz. the VC. I had just wound up another lot of the same frustration in talking to that stupid woman. I should have remained at my post or should that now be, at my emails, I’d have achieved much more than I did from my walk, Vitamin D notwithstanding or even withsitting.

“Have a nice walk, Professor?” Delia beamed at me.

“No I bloody well didn’t,” I snapped back before entering my office and slamming the door. The world seems full of fatuous females making inane inquiries. Don’t they know who I am?