The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2903 by Angharad Copyright© 2016 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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We set off to the supermarket and by the time we got there, I’d talked Trish into getting a tub of ice cream and sharing with everyone. She insisted that she pick the flavour and I agreed providing she didn’t get something outlandish like curried kippers flavour. We finally compromised on butterscotch with chocolate chips. It didn’t appeal to me but had to be better than cherry and coconut

Having got the ice cream and one or two bits and pieces I turned the car for home only to see a mini come screaming past with two police cars in pursuit. “That was Ingrid,” said Trish.

“Yes I know,” I answered and continued driving towards home.

“Aren’t you going to follow to see what happens?”

“Nope, what happens is up to them, I’m going home,” so saying we headed in the opposite direction.

“I thinks she must be ill,” suggested Trish, “She never does what the coppers say.”

“The ice cream would have gone all sludgy,” suggested Danielle who was now back from her travels with James. At this point I abandoned the girls discussion on me and went to help David do dinner.

“Is your lord and master going to be back for dinner?”

“Who’s that then?”

“The clue was in the word, ‘lord.’ Or weren’t you listening?”

“Don’t do religion, you should know that by now.

“I wasn’t thinking of religion, more the guy whose name you bear.”

“I’m not named after a man,” I said with all the indignation I could muster. I must get some more the next time I’m in Tesco, it’s usually near to disingenuousness.

“Your surname is.”

“What my father’s name, or grandfather come to think of it.”

“No, your husband’s name.”

“I’m not called Simon,” I said trying to act obtuse.

“Not Simon, but Cameron.”

“What about it?”

“Oh forget it,” he said throwing his hands up in despair, so I did and returned to my study until called for dinner.

I did about twenty minutes of dealing with emails concerning the survey most of which I’m sure Lizzie could have answered. Considering these came from people at universities, it didn’t say much about our level of education unless it referred to the lack of it. Still perhaps the bright ones are all like Richard Branson eschewing higher education to make themselves millionaire entrepreneurs and only the thickos come to university. Sometimes it seemed to sum me up.

Dinner was served and I went up to help but David had done it all and left Julie and Phoebe to pass it round the table presumably to avoid more verbal games with me. Can’t say I blame him, some days I think I try to avoid me too.

The next day was Saturday and Simon was planning on a day of Six Nations Rugby, when to his disgust England were chasing the grandslam and Scotland were trying to avoid the wooden spoon. It was more likely that Italy would receive that accolade unless they could beat Wales at Cardiff.

We, that is Simon and I, went to watch Trish and then Danielle play soccer for the school. Each scored a hat-trick, Danielle netting five goals. I suspect she found school football lacking in challenge, but on Sunday she’d be playing for Portsmouth ladies against Southampton, about as close to a local derby as you’ll get round here. Her biggest worry was picking up an injury but so far she had escaped any.

St Claire’s was top of the local school’s league at both age groups in which the Cameron sisters played and both were top scorers in their respective age groups. Danni having scored twice as many as the next in the list and Trish was six clear of her next challenger.

When we got home David had prepared a good lunch of salads with new potatoes and a choice of cooked meats or fish or quiches. Danni groaned but ate more than her share.

Then the sporting brigade went off to watch Wales beat Italy by a cricket score, Ireland beat Scotland and finally England take the grandslam. If they’d beaten all the other sides, they must be the best team but Simon argued that Wales were the best side if only they could get themselves started earlier and that they would have beaten England if they’d put things together more quickly.

As I’d been crunching numbers with Sammi’s program for the survey and writing a report on said figures, I missed all the action on the rugby pitches. Danielle was quite happy her team won while Daddy went off to drown his sorrows after Scotland, after showing promise, succumbed to the Irish. As for Si, he felt vindicated that Wales total demolition of Italy, showed what they were capable of when they got going.

During the England game, Sergeant Andy Bond called by to report that Ingrid had somehow eluded the pursuing squad cars when it all got embroiled in heavy rush hour traffic. Why that didn’t surprise me, I’m unable to say, however, Andy apologised on behalf of his colleagues and I accepted graciously as behoves an aristocrat’s wife, while thinking that next time I’ll go and get her rather than call the plod. The only consolation is that as far as we knew, Ingrid nor the police knew how we’d found her, so hopefully that meant we could try it again and as it was Sunday the next day, we could rise and strike early because we knew she didn’t get up very early.

I asked Trish to locate her via her mobile and that suggested she was still in Portsmouth. I got Sammi to confirm it, which she did. Now I could send in the police to get her or go and do it myself perhaps helped by James. I spoke to him and he agreed to come with me tomorrow morning.

When I got to bed, Simon decided he’d missed me rather a lot so I had to feign enthusiasm for something I was too busy to be bothered with, but it certainly helped him sleep but then it wasn’t him who had to go and wash themselves before they could attempt to follow suit. Thankfully, I followed suit shortly after my return to warmth of the bed.

“Where’re you going?” asked Simon sleepily as I dressed.

“Church,” I threw back at him though even in his semi-comatose state he should have seen I wasn’t wearing the clothing of a churchgoer unless she were attending a ninja church. Dark trousers and polo-neck top with a soft dark fleece jacket and training shoes. My hair was tied back in a ponytail and I wore no makeup.

James arrived at seven thirty and after a light breakfast we set off in his Porsche to apprehend Ingrid. If she made a run for it, at least we had some speed behind us for the chase and James was a trained driver—no not a train driver, a trained—look he’d been educated by the police in pursuit driving, that make it clearer?