The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2801 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I left Amanda talking to David, she was ironing and he was doing lunch to which I’d invited her. They seemed to be getting on quite well so I could get on myself, in looking through a short paper I’d done on polyandry in dormeece. Polyandry is multiple husbands, the opposite of polygamy as practiced by some weird religions still, though largely now forbidden in most modern democracies.

Dormice aren’t democratic as far as I know but it’s quite well known that the females tend to put themselves about when they’re in season resulting in litters which may have more than one father. In a low density population, such as most dormice have, the extra genetic mix may have some advantages. However it might also bring some risks as dormice tend to be territorial to some extent. Whether they actually come to blows is another matter, mind you I can’t see them settling disputes over a glass of acorn wine down the pub. Then again, neither do humans, we’d rather bomb each other into oblivion.

I gave up on my paper, and had a quick flit round the internet. The Murrays had just won a doubles game in the Davis cup final in Belgium. Tom and Simon will be pleased and the final match is tomorrow with Andy Murray, the world No 2, up against the top Begian seed who’s No 16 in the world. Apparently, GB haven’t won the Davis cup since Queen Victoria was a boy or some such thing—oh, it was 1936, so not far off then. Crikey, it was before Tom was born, that is a long time ago—he’ll kill me if he hears me.

I’d wasted an hour chasing facts round a computer screen. I had it drafted, I’d even got the bibliography done—is that tedious or what? But I wasn’t happy with the overall structure, so will rewrite it as time allows. I haven’t published anything on my own for ages, but this will go in the Journal of Mammalian Ecology when I finish it and it’s been peer reviewed—that can take months. I hope there aren’t any glaring errors in it. I spotted one in an Elly Griffiths’ story the other day, she was talking about a skull that had been smoothed inside to turn it into something you could drink from—pretty grisly I know, but the heroine is an osteo-archaeologist called Dr Ruth Dalloway, except she noticed she couldn’t see the iliac crest on the skull. She wouldn’t, it’s in the pelvis—the sticky out bit on the top of your hip at the front.

I went to see how my latest slave was progressing. She appeared to be doing very well and the mountain of ironing now resembled a mere hillock. She also had the girls taking things to hang up in their wardrobes—that’s more than I achieve. I wonder if she could get first year undergrads working—nah, that would require a miracle, for each one.

The problem is, lots of them have never been away from home for more than a summer holiday, where they partied all night and slept off their hangovers all day. I don’t have a problem with that unless I’m sharing a hotel and get woken up at two in the morning by, ‘We are the champions,’ sung off key and in falsetto by drunken revellers.

“When I was younger, I was in France with my parents when we had a group of English drunks pause under our window in the hotel and hold a singing competition. They were abusive when my father told them to clear off, though they went when he threw some water over them. The next night it was worse as we had twice as many so it was louder. They got fed up after that, especially when one fell in the pool and another joined him trying to pull him out. My dad and I went and hauled them out. They were only students by their age, I would guess. It pissed off my dad when they thanked him and his lovely daughter for saving their lives.

Dad was furious and told me I’d get my hair cut the next day or else. I went for the or else and ended up sitting for an hour by the pool in a bikini he made me buy and wear. The biggest problem was tucking my bits away between my legs. That no one said anything should have told him something, oh and I didn’t get my hair cut either, not for another month when I got the ends trimmed.

Lunch was a pleasant affair. Simon phoned to say he was at the rugby club watching the tennis. I thought it was over, obviously not. When I checked they’d only won the first game or set or something—trust me to get it wrong.

Amanda seemed to settle in with those of us who were there. Daddy danced attendance on her, I think I mentioned she was quite pretty. At least it meant he didn’t nag me about my dormouse paper.

When it was mentioned as dormouse paper, Amanda asked if it was for wrapping presents? Duh. Maybe I should design some and make a fortune—nah, I’m married to one already and it doesn’t make him happy, he just complains about the taxes he pays as being more than Amazon does worldwide. Doesn’t stop him buying books from there.

Unfortunately Daddy heard her and thought that the way it was going I would be able to use it for wrapping presents. In retaliation I told him he could wash his own socks and perhaps I’d have time to finish it. He looked at Amanda and said, “Och ye’re fu’ o’ blether, ye’ll wash ma socks f’ me won’t ye hen? Then mebbe, Charles Dickens there can get her paper finished.”

“He was born in Portsmouth, I’ve been to his house,” replied Amanda.

“Yeah, so’ve we, boring old fart.” Sammi declared which had the younger girls giggling. “Oh I’ve done those charts you wanted, Mummy.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Unfortunately, that meant I couldn’t use it as an excuse that I was waiting for some charts.

She looked at her watch and excused herself saying she had to go out for a couple of hours.

“I love the way they all respect you and Professor Agnew,” said Amanda as we were clearing the table.

“Who?” I knew it wasn’t my students that she was referring to.

“Your children, are they all girls?”

“Fraid so.”

“You almost have a football team, but no boys, were you trying for a boy?”

Nice thought. “No, they’re all adopted, I couldn’t have children of my own.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—I did think you were a bit young to have girls who were grown up.”

“They needed a home and parents and Simon and I took them in and eventually adopted them.”

“Gosh, it’s true what Maureen said isn’t it?”

“What did she say?”

“You’re really an angel.”

I blushed, “Don’t tell anyone will you or I’ll have to start wearing my wings again and it plays havoc with designer jackets.”

She roared with laughter, “Lady Cameron, you are so funny,” she doesn’t know the half of it.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2802 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I drew up a rudimentary contract and Amanda signed it and pointed out it was a temporary thing until I got a proper one drafted. I also told her that I would have to notify HM Revenue & Customs that I was employing her and also she would need to enrol in some sort of pension fund. It seemed that no one had done this for her before. I also explained she would need to pay income tax and National Insurance on any earnings. To sort all this out I’d speak to my accountant, who would do a monthly payslip and organise the rest of the official deductions.

She left after seeing the cottage which David delighted in showing her, and my giving her twenty pounds for her two hours ironing. She seemed nice enough and I hoped was going to be an asset rather than a liability. She was going to start on Monday and work from eight thirty in the morning to four thirty in the afternoon. That would cover Lizzie from the time I left with the girls for school until I got home. Lizzie seemed to be quite happy with her and she with Lizzie.

David would be around some of the time most days and as he knew his way around the house, would advise her on anything she needed to know most of the time. They could also text me at work and I’d try and deal with their query as soon as I could.

Maureen called in later as she came back with bits of wood to fix the shed. “What did I think of Amanda?” I explained that first impressions were favourable and that my mountain of ironing was now just a hillock. “That’s a word you don’t ’ear much of these days, ma’am.”

“What is?”

“’illock.”

“Probably not.”

“I love to listen to you talk,” she said making me blush.

“Why?” I asked as red as a Welsh rugby jersey.

“You sound educated but not too posh, like Lady Stella does on occasion.”

David was giggling in the background as he listened to our conversation. “You mean as opposed to our peasant catering staff?”

David nearly fell on the floor he was laughing so much and Maureen chuckled too. “I’ll bet Amanda thought you were really funny,” she said upon recovering and David lost it completely. He sat on the floor weeping helplessly. “What did I say, ma’am?”

“I think my cook just collapsed with an overdose of hysterics and understatement exposure.” Maureen sat there looking completely perplexed while David convulsed with laughter had to bang his hands on the floor.

We left him alone for a few minutes and he recovered slowly. I knew any mention of any of it would set him off again. Thankfully, none of the girls walked in while he was incommoded.

“Is he all right, ma’am?” Mauren seemed quite concerned, he’s not havin’ an epileptic is he?”

“No, Maureen, it’s just a fit of hysterics having seen oblique references to a sort of double entendre.”

“I see,” said Maureen but her expression tended to indicate she hadn’t. When we returned to the kitchen David was sorting the dinner and the place was full of the aroma of fresh baked bread. I made us all a cuppa and then Maureen went off to patch up the shed. I noticed she now drove one of those huge four by fours with the extra pick up boot stuck on the back of it. At least she used it for work, whereas most of the drivers I’d seen with them looked as if they were just symbols of machismo.

The vehicle looked quite new so Maureen must be doing rather better for herself than when I first met her. I felt really pleased for her. She’d come on a very long way in that time. That sounds patronising but it isn’t meant in that way but as a celebration of her achievements and that in making them she’d helped others as well not all of them transgendered or other minority but simply having difficulty finding work. The bank had continued to give her regular contracts for repairs especially in Hampshire, Sussex and Dorset and in doing so enabled her to have a regular income she could use to employ people. The bank had also loaned her a lump sum of money at very favourable rates when they discovered what she was doing in employing the unemployable.

I think I mentioned years ago her sending someone to erect a basketball ring and the person who arrived wearing a skirt looked anything but female, with the then two boys I had, making the comment that she hadn’t had surgery when she went up a ladder.

We’ve had disabled and ethnic minority people who all did good work and who were effusive in their praise for Maureen because until then, they’d been unemployed. It made me smile that she described me as an angel when she did far more good works on an everyday basis than I ever did yet remained as modest as a maiden aunt.

Simon returned in a taxi singing Scotland the Brave after the Murray brothers won the doubles. I tried to point out they were playing for Great Britain not Scotland and he mumbled something about them being the same. I suspect our namesake in number ten and Nicola Sturgeon might disagree with him.

I got Tom to run me down to the rugby club and drove the F-type home. I half expected him to ask how he’d driven it home yesterday because he couldn’t remember doing so. I’d tell him I got Stella to bring it back as I had to watch the kids. He’ll go crazy. I suspect he’d prefer that I got Trish to drive it home.

Fortunately, Stella didn’t materialise until after we got back and she and the girls dashed up to their rooms giggling. I began to wonder if there was something in the air that day.

She came back down with an air of mystery about her and refused to answer any of my probing questions. I suspected she’d been Christmas shopping; a subject I’d have to give some serious thought to in the next few days as December approached. I really had no idea what to buy anyone. In the early days, when the children had little or nothing, they were so grateful for anything they got. I still remember Trish’s face when we got her the doll and the pram as a belated Christmas present she nearly died with happiness, not only had we recognised and accepted her choice of gender role but we’d validated it by her presents.

I also remembered her when she got to choose some new clothes, all rather girly, which was the first time that had been allowed to happen, previously the home had acceded to her demand to wear girl’s clothing but had chosen them for her. I suspect she’ll have forgotten that now because it’s a freedom she’s had for five or more years, except school uniforms. None of them like those too much though they all wear them without protest because they have to, even Danielle.

Looking back they’ve all come on so well in the past five years or so despite all sorts of problems and attempts on theirs or my life. They’ve all gelled so well as a family despite the difference in age and background and except the very small ones, they all know they’re adopted and so far it hasn’t affected them, perhaps because it applies to all of them. There’s still time for it to crop up but I hope it won’t, several of them have enough issues to deal with as things stand without that sort of trauma occurring.

The Murray’s number one fan was still snoring on the sofa in the dining room as I went past to see what David had made us for dinner.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2803 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

After dinner I had to fend off questions about our new housekeeper. “She knows you two,” I said to Julie and Phoebe.

“How’s that?” Julie shot back.

“You cut her hair.”

“What’s her name?”

“Amanda.”

“Is she blonde?”

“Her hair is.”

She rolled her eyes, “Smart arse,” she muttered before adding, “Does she have long straight hair?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I know who you mean, damn, I’ll have to give her discount now.”

“So sorry,” I replied not meaning a word of it. I left the table and the clearing up to the others for a change returning to my dormouse paper. Possibly because I was more relaxed about things, the thing fell into place in an hour and a further thirty minutes and I’d inserted all the footnotes and references, stuck the bibliography on the end and emailed it to Diane’s address at the university, for her to proof it for me. I also printed off a copy for Tom to read. He was astonished I’d finished it, but sometimes things just fall into place and other days you struggle with no hope of getting it right or written. How professional writers can sit down and write everyday amazes me but then I doubt they have dozens of kids demanding their attention.

Having finished the paper and it being a Saturday evening, I agreed to run a sewing bee for the girls until nine, it was now half past seven. Five of them showed up including Danielle who wanted to see if she could alter a skirt which had got a bit tight—considering how much she eats, I wasn’t entirely surprised.

The skirt was no problem, we just moved the button and it became comfortable again. Her school skirts were okay as they had a bit of elastic in the waistband. Her hips were certainly spreading and despite the previous skirt being tight, her waist was quite trim as it should be at fourteen, especially in one who does so much sport.

All the girls were quite trim possibly because they were quite young and also because they didn’t have that much access to sweets or encouraged to drink fizzy cola or lemonade. Instead they had plenty of fruit and got loads of exercise. At times they grumbled but I tried to explain how if they stayed slim apart from being prettier they’d be healthier and that no one would want to be their friends if they ate themselves silly or were sick or both.

The sewing session was quite useful and I got some repairs done and discovered it isn’t only boys who have buttons and seams split on school uniforms. I also had the girls sewing name labels in some new school clothes—their own, naturally. They protested but when I pointed out what would happen if they didn’t identify their own clothing, then it could be mixed up with other girls’ stuff and at home it was no big deal, did they want that degree of familiarity with relative strangers? They of course replied that I should do it for them. I told them that I was no longer going to do it as they were all capable of doing it themselves and so they would or risk other people wearing their knickers.

It worked, at least as far as they all sewed the labels in their underwear while making retching noises—girls can be just as challenging as boys. Sammi came down with one of her suit jackets—she’d caught it on a cage thing at Waterloo station and it was torn on the body of the jacket. It posed quite a difficulty, it was lined and also had a stiffening material in places. I took an hour to repair the tear, mainly on a seam but the return of the other bits to how they were was more than challenging. That took another hour and handing it back to her she was told that I didn’t think I could do any more like that, hoping she didn’t tear them in future and didn’t try to retaliate by declining to do charts for lecture notes or papers, like the one I’d just finished. We included half a dozen charts, box type and pie ones plus three photographs.

Daddy had finished reading through my paper and said it was okay to his eyes and should be all right for peer review. As soon as Diane had checked it for typos it could go off to the journal. It was nice to quote four of my old papers, one of which had been pre changeover, the others were all more recent and used research I’d done while at Portsmouth or at least published while here.

I got the younger ones off to bed after Julie had actually got Lizzie to bed and then Cate. I hoped she wasn’t getting broody in her old age. Trish, Livvie, Meems and Hannah went off together and I let them listen to a talking book. Downstairs I went to finish my sewing while it was quiet and found Julie waiting for me. “I’ve made you some tea.”

“That’s very kind, sweetheart,” which meant, what are you after.

“Can I have a little chat, Mummy?”

“Of course, shut the door and we won’t be disturbed.” She did as I asked and I sipped at my tea.

“I’m not sure how to put this...”

“Take your time,” I said putting down my cup.

“I want to expand the business.”

“Okay.”

“I want to do laser hair removal.”

“Do you need courses for that?”

“Yeah, what I can’t do is afford the courses and the equipment.”

“So what d’you want me to do?”

“Help me convince Daddy to loan us the money.”

“Have you got space to do that assuming he gives you the money?”

“Yeah, we’ve got two rooms out the back we can convert to other things. Maureen or one of her lot will do the work for us, she’s costed it for us.”

“So Phoebe is in on this too and happy about it?”

“Yeah, but I’ll do the courses first, then once we’ve covered our outlays, we can look to possibly set up another room and she can do the courses.”

“So you want me to speak to Daddy and prime him?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Okay, but this is for loans?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“We thought we might offer the service to transgenders.”

“During normal hours?”

“Yeah, why not? They’ve got to mix with muggles at some point.”

“Muggles—as in H. Potter esquire?”

“Yeah, those not in on things.”

“Be careful you don’t alienate your blue rinse brigade while you still need them.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t. We see the odd one now for electrolysis or makeovers, but usually we do that in the afternoons or early evenings, unless they look okay and sound okay.”

“Yes voice can be a great problem for some people.”

“We did think about getting someone in to do that.”

“The way you’re going you sound as if you’re setting up a changeover service?”

“That’s what we’re doing.”

“Is there enough custom to make it pay?”

“Oh god, yeah; being trans is the in thing.”

“What if it peaks and troughs?”

“We go back to what we used to do, clever innit?”

“I’ll tell you that when I see your books after the first year.”

“Thanks, Mum, you’re a star.” She pecked me on the cheek and smirking went off leaving me with the problem of how to soften up Simon for the assault on his pocket. I hope they’ve done some sort of business plan.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2804 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

When I got to bed Simon was already there and fast asleep, so my chance to talk to him on the girl’s behalf was limited, no make that impossible. I did think about trying to tell him while he was asleep but if it worked it could be seen as almost like trying to plant post hypnotic suggestions and i don’t want him to do what I tell him—well yes I do actually, but I want him to look at their business plan and make sure it’s viable and then lend them the money at a good rate. Instead I read some more of Elly Griffiths before falling asleep, book still clutched in my hands. However, I dropped it, lost my place and woke myself up.

It wasn’t cold, which was about all you could say for the dreary weather, which seemed to take every opportunity to rain or blow a gale. I also decided I wanted the lounge redecorated before Christmas. I’d ring Maureen tomorrow see if she could recommend someone.

I groaned, how could morning come round so quickly, plus someone was going to show me some massive secret of the universe instead I was awoken by screams or at least yells of pain followed by a crash and groans. I’d felt movement on the bed so I knew it involved Simon. Why couldn’t he let them kill him quietly?

I sat up and he was nowhere to be seen but the groans were getting louder. When I leant across the bed he was lying half under it. “What happened?” I was pleased with myself because I hadn’t asked him if he was all right.

“I got cramp and jumped out of bed—my leg just folded underneath me.”

I clambered out of the bed and went round to him, “Anywhere hurting?”

“Yes all of me, so don’t go making it worse.”

“Simon, it is six o’clock on a Sunday morning and I have been roused from my slumbers an hour before I was expecting to, so if I were you I’d think bear and sore head before you answer my next question. Is anywhere hurting to stop you getting up, with help from me, natch?”

“My leg’s sore but I don’t think it’s broken.”

I could arrange to correct that, I thought but said, “Right, let’s get you out from under the bed unless you’re going to clean up the fluff while you’re down there.”

“Very funny, here I am at death’s door and you’re making jokes.”

“I can go and select some sombre music if you want but we’re still going to have to get you up off the floor, or I could just throw you a blanket and go back to bed. It’s your call.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, woman.”

I yawned, it looked as if it might be one of those days—why do they always start so bloody early? “Me ridiculous, I’m not the one lying under the bed because he was a little potty.”

“That’s right, mock me with silly schoolgirl jokes.”

“Well if I told you one more sophisticated you might not get it.”

“You cheeky cow.”

“Okay, a photon checked into a hotel, asked if he had any luggage he said, ‘No I’m travelling light.’”

“That’s a joke?”

“Yeah, and I thought you were good at physics.”

“I was, c’mon help me up.”

“A decision at last.” We struggled with him groaning and me huffing and puffing, he is heavy—he’s my hubby, not my brother. After two very long minutes he was lying on the bed breathing heavily and grumbling.

“Oh hell,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” I wondered if we’d left a leg or something lying on the floor but I had a vague recollection of counting them—still, he’s the mathematician.

“I need a bloody pee.”

“C’mon, I’ll help you.” Several minutes of struggle and he got to the bathroom where I left him to micturate in peace, threating to break his good leg if he so much as got a drip on the floor or the seat. When I went back he was sitting on the loo with his pants down round his ankles—he’d thought he’d better sit to do it. Well I, and thirty million females do it like that every day in this country.

I got him back to bed, anyone would think he’d fallen down stairs not out of bed. After this it was down to make some tea in the hope that the cup that cheers might stop me making myself a widow. As the kettle was boiling Tom came into the kitchen.

“Whit are ye daein’ up this time?”

“Simon fell out of bed and by the time I’d helped him up I was wide awake and I need to boost my tea levels.”

“When they did yer op, whit blood group were ye?”

“Twinings, why?”

“I thocht it mebbe Typhoo.”

He can talk, his is Laphroaig.

He made himself some coffee as the kettle boiled and I did a cup for Simon with tea for me. “That paper wis like auld times.” He beamed at me and I knew he was as likely to tell me how bad I was before as how good I am now.

“That bad, eh?” I answered putting milk in my tea.

“Och, of course not ye scunner, it wis guid.”

At least I’d got a positive response by opting to go for the negative one. “Glad you liked it."

"Ye need tae publish more.”

“Okay, I’ll resign and write papers instead.”

“Ye’ve got some guid research underway, why not publish some o’ it?”

“I’m just the supervisor, remember and I have four research projects to keep my beady eye on. Besides, our students have little idea of deadlines, so they just over run.”

“Aye, ye’re tae saft on them.”

“So you keep telling me, we’re also waiting for some results from Brighton on the DNA. You of all people should know how slow molecular biology is.”

“Aye, I ken fine weel.” He slurped his coffee, “Yer no expectin’ anythin’ unusual are ye?”

“No it would be unexpected but until we have the results, I can’t speculate—as someone keeps telling me, it makes poor science, or actually, puir science.”

“Aye, well jest ye remember it an’ we’ll mak a scientist o’ ye yet.”

“Don’t I have to be a crabby auld git, first?”

“Och ye scunner...”

“Talking of which I’d better take this coffee up to his lordship before it goes cold.” I excused myself and clambered up the stairs trying not to spill the hot fluids. I handed him his coffee.

“Wot, no biccies?”

It was only the thought of stripping the bed that stopped me pouring it over him. “No,” I said tartly.

“Well the length of time you were down there I thought you were making toast.”

“I was talking to Daddy about the paper I wrote last night and he proofed for me.”

“I could have proofed it for you.”

“If you’d been conscious, possibly.”

“That’s right get on to me cause I had a little drink.”

“You left your car at the rugby club, came home by taxi, which I had to pay, and then tried to get in the dog’s bed.”

“Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t put your underpants on back to front either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Take a look, I’m going for some breakfast.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2805 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Sunday, once I actually got started, was tough. Lack of sleep made me feel lethargic and Simon avoided me somewhat which suited me fine. In the afternoon he retreated to the lounge and watched Andy Murray win the Davis cup for Great Britain. I might have enjoyed watching it as well but spent the time sorting laundry and ironing the same. It’s true, men work so much harder than women—I was only ironing sheets, Si was rooting for Andy and that takes so much more energy. He was exhausted at the end and asked me to make him a cuppa as he didn’t have the energy. I did as he requested and kept my thoughts and tongue to myself.

At least he seemed to have suffered no lasting effects of either his afternoon on the piss or falling out of bed, nor did he mention how he had his underpants on back to front—I actually did that to make him think about things. I hope it succeeded.

I also took Danielle to her football game and got Julie to go and collect her—it was pretty foul weather. David came in early and did the dinner which I agreed to dish up, Simon ate it but didn’t enquire how it got on his plate nor how his plate was cleaned afterwards.

While Amanda was starting the next day, I didn’t want to leave her with a whole pile of things to do until she had found her feet and knew where stuff was kept. Jacquie would be around most of Monday, studying from home and keeping an eye on the little ones, though Cate is due to start the convent after Christmas. In which case, I’ll have to fit the seat in the back of my car, which means no boot space—remember I have an estate car, sometimes called a shooting break even though I don’t carry guns in it.

I printed off a couple more copies of my paper while I got the little ones to bed. Simon’s mood lifted when Murray won the tennis and Great Britain were the winners for the first time in ten zillion years apparently since Fred Perry won it while simultaneously swimming the channel and running the first five minute mile, or something like that. I might have exaggerated, it was a six minute mile because if he ran any faster his pipe went out.

The youngsters went off to sleep very well and when I came back to my study Trish was reading one of the copies of my dormouse paper. “What are you doing, you little monkey?”

“Reading this, why?”

“I didn’t print it off for your benefit.”

“Pity you can’t spell dormouse.”

“What?” I gasped. “Let me see.”

“No, wanna check your other spelling.”

I quickly tore the other copy from the printer and quickly scanned the whole thing. She sat there giggling.

“I can’t see any mistakes, neither could Gramps.”

“There aren’t any but you should have seen your face,” she handed me the paper and ran off laughing.

“You little scallywag,” I called after her which just made her laugh even more.

Eventually, Julie went and got Danielle who phoned as it was pouring down, but only because I let her go in my Jaguar. The match had been postponed because of weather conditions—wind and rain—so they’d had a extra training session indoors and she fell asleep listening to the team talk so they left her in the gym, until someone coming into clean it woke her up an hour or so later. I’d be having words with their coach afterwards—she’s still a minor officially.

She demolished her dinner like she hadn’t eaten for a week—she’d only had a snack before going out and I sat and talked with her while she ate, sipping a cuppa. I asked her what she’d done with Cindy the previous day and she just said, ‘Shoppin’,’ so no change there.

“Buy anything?”

“Not a lot, why?”

“I’m just trying to show an interest in your life.”

“Oh right, this is good,” she said cramming another slice of meat.

“How’s Cindy?”

“All right.” I could have predicted that answer. Teenagers are such hard work.

“Oh well if you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll go and read my book.”

“Hang on,” she said swallowing, “what can I get daddy for Christmas?”

“Best ask him I think, then he can’t blame me if it’s wrong.”

“Ooh, who took your lollipop?”

I rose and walked away, I wasn’t going to get into an argument with a teenager, I’d have more chance of a sensible one with Bramble. I found my book after telling Trish, Livvie, Meems and Hannah that they had twenty minutes before bed.

“But it’s early,” they protested.

“So you can read for a while.”

“Still early.”

“You can go now if you want?”

“No thank you—just ’cos she ’ad a fight with Daddy.”

“Shurrup, Trish, you’ll make things worse.”

“I’d take good advice when it’s offered, young lady.”

“Yeah okay, twenty minutes.”

“It’s fifteen now.”

“Thasnotfair,” she grumbled.

“Tough.” I walked towards my study and ‘Bully,’ was called after me. I’d actually let them have half an hour but if I told them twenty minutes they’d go more quietly. I sat down and found my page on the latest Elly Griffiths. Did the woman kill all three of her children—if they were anything like mine, I’d be posting bail for her. And was the old lady hanged for killing umpteen children innocent of the crimes—I’d soon find out—well in two hundred pages or so.

Time flies when you’re up to your eyeballs in a good book. “Tea?” Danielle asked bringing in a mug of the stuff for me. “Sorry I was a bit off earlier.”

“Any reason?”

“Yeah, me an’ Cindy had fallin’ out yesterday.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really, we both like fancy this boy...”

“Classic rivalry, it happens with girls.”

“Yeah but only one of us has the equipment...uh...” she blushed.

“You are fourteen, young lady—it’s not legal to do anything at your age.”

“I knew you’d take that attitude, I’ll bet you were doing it with any Tom, Dick or Harry though, weren’t you?” she stormed off before I could explain what I really meant to say. Okay she can’t get pregnant but she could catch some horrible disease and she is too young for a proper relationship. I drank my tea and I wasn’t sure about the girls but I felt like calling it a day before anything else happened.

The four musketeers surrendered having a drink of milk and a biscuit before going off to clean their teeth. They went to bed at the usual time and I let them read for twenty minutes before calling lights out and pretended not to hear, ‘Candles out,’ followed by giggles. By not reacting the laughter soon abated giving me a chance to make my peace with my husband except he was asleep sitting in front of the television which was blaring at him. As soon as I switched it off he woke with a start and declared, “I was watching that.”

It certainly had been one of those days.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2806 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I broached the subject of the loan to Julie and Phoebe. “I’m not at liberty to discuss financial matters about potential customers.”

“I think, as a fellow director, I have a right to know.”

“That’s a bit doubtful.”

“As the girls’ mother?”

“They’re of age—so even more dubious.”

“I could just threaten to kill you.”

“I won’t talk.”

“You sure about that?”

“Absolutely.”

“So if I were to grab these and squeeze...”

“All right, all right—bitch.”

He was sorting them a low interest loan, which he’d have told me about anyway until I asked about it—go figure. Sometimes I think men are more fickle than we are.

Anyway I hadn’t damaged his dangly bits too much but to be sure we gave them a test drive and once again he was asleep by the time I’d had a little wash. It always seems easier for men, or for most of them. They do less with the kids, or round the house and they just fall asleep after the act or should that after the fact? Whereas women have to do everything else. Okay so no one forced me to become one, except like all little girls, I knew I’d grow into one eventually. It was just that most people when I was younger weren’t aware of it. So no one forced me, unless you consider the force of nature or destiny.

The nights were definitely getting cooler and I cuddled into Simon. He’s like a radiator in bed. His arm draped over me and I felt safe, secure and loved. For all the silly games and occasional spats, we love each other dearly. I believe our family is as secure as many others and more so than some. Despite the fact that the children all adopted and half of them are transgender as are half their parents, we seem to have bonded as real family without some of the rivalries of natural siblings. The girls squabble but make it up afterwards.

I recollected Trish and Livvie going at it hammer and tongs when I interrupted and made them stop. The fight was over something totally trivial like choice of TV programme. I made them sit silently for five minutes the asked, “Now was the item you were fighting over really worth it?”

Trish wouldn’t meet my eyes. “No, Mummy.”

“Well was it, Livvie?”

“It was her fault...um no, Mummy.”

“What is it that makes us a family, not just a group of house mates?”

The both quietly said, “We love and help each other at all times, no matter what.”

“Do you understand what you just said?”

“Yes, Mummy,” they were both looking at the carpet with tears dripping off their noses.

“So shake hands and apologise for your part in the fracas.”

They shook hands and then hugged each other and apologised crying rivers over each other. It was quite touching and I had to swallow quite hard once or twice. Even lying here in bed my eyes felt moist.

The week slipped past, Amanda began to find her way round with David’s help though I kept telling myself I didn’t want them to become an item. David spoils all us younger women, especially my girls. Given his background I think he remembers how it felt to be ignored because he was originally a girl. Mind you, I frequently was ignored too and I was supposed to be a boy. As I drifted off to sleep, I realised even in those days he didn’t treat me quite the same as other boys I knew were treated by their fathers.

I always had to be home by a certain time or god help me. I was supposed to be neat and tidy and not get involved in horseplay or rough-housing. Do people still employ those terms? One of my friends suggested that Dad watched me like his dad did his sister. I pooh-poohed it at the time with possibly too much emphasis but secretly, I felt good. However, the one difference was Dad would lay on the corporal punishment at the slightest excuse. One day after I’d finished crying, my mother came and saw me, rubbing cream on my weals and told me it was how he was raised. My granddad, who died before I was a year old, was very strict with him but not Auntie Doreen. She used to twist round her little finger—one of the reasons my father hated her so much. She was a spoilt brat who got everything and he was someone who received frequent beatings simply for being a boy.

I tried to forgive him, I really did, but once or twice I felt I’d done nothing wrong and suddenly realised he beat me because he loved me, because it hurt him to do it and he was punishing himself by hurting someone he loved. And I thought I was screwed up.

Diane sent off my manuscript to the journal. It would be peer reviewed and then hopefully published. I did another tutorial with the boy who’d stormed out of my class and his attitude seemed to have changed significantly. I also discovered he was far cleverer than anyone realised, which may have been part of his problem. I began to challenge him and waited to see where it got us. I felt much happier.

That was until Thursday. The day before I noticed the date and realised it was my birthday, then moments later forgot. We had rather a stormy meeting about finances—university, not personal ones. I threatened to close my courses if they took any more money from them, especially the well funded ones.

“So how are we going to make up shortfalls?”

The whole truth was I didn’t really know. I research mammal ecology, I’m not a businesswoman and I told them so. I also reminded the financial team that I had lots of support and respect from other science departments.

On Thursday morning I remembered it was my birthday was my birthday when several young women burst into my room and woke me up with kisses and cards. I suspected Stella was responsible but I couldn’t prove it.

I got loads of cards, my students even got to know and I was presented with a box of chocolates—Lindt ones, my favourites and bouquet of flowers. I was flabbergasted. Some days I wonder why I do my job and on others I know why. My birthday was one of them. Daddy took Diane and I out for lunch, which I didn’t think I would enjoy but I did, though the flowers from the manager at the hotel were a bit OTT, which Tom said he knew nothing about. Wasn’t sure if I believed him.

The girls bought me all sorts of things like my favourite moisturiser and hand cream. Stella got me some new cycling gloves for when the cold weather started. It didn’t worry me, I didn’t have time to ride in good weather let alone poor.

We went to the hotel for dinner, giving all us girls a chance to slap on the makeup and best frocks which Henry paid for as my birthday present and Simon gave me a new plain gold necklace and matching bracelet, which was beautiful.

Just as we were about to sit down, Erin appeared and after dinner handed me a silver salver. My dormouse film won an award as nature film of the year. They all stood up and clapped while I sat there feeling as hot as a freshly roasted chicken.

It was nice but I still don’t know how to handle praise, perhaps I never will.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2807 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“So what was wrong with being respected for what you’ve done?” stated Simon as we cuddled down in bed together.

“Nothing I suppose.”

“So why all the embarrassment?”

“I can’t help it, I don’t cope well with praise.”

“Or rejection, if my memory serves me right.”

“Does anybody?” I threw back, I knew he didn’t.

“I don’t but then I’m used to having my own way.”

“Are you? Gosh, I hadn’t noticed.” I said and he tickled me until I begged him to stop. “That was mean,” I said when he stopped.

“What stopping?”

“No, tickling me, you know I hate it.”

“Almost as much as praise.”

“I thought we’d discussed that.”

“We discussed tonight’s aversion, what about the two heroism awards you turned down?” I didn’t know he knew about those.

“What about them?”

“Why did you turn them down?”

“Because I didn’t want them—good enough?”

“Even though it enables people in the community to see your example as a role model.”

“What doing things to get awards?”

“No, doing things because they needed to be done at that instant.”

“So why is that worthy of an award?”

“Because you forsook your own safety to rescue someone else.”

“So? We’ve all done things like that at times.”

“We haven’t all crawled into a burning car to rescue a baby without knowing if we’d ever get out alive.”

“I wouldn’t have if that chap hadn’t pulled me out—he was the real hero, not me. I risked my life on an impulse.”

“To save a baby.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Only a woman would do that.”

“Rubbish, fire fighters do it all the time.”

“It’s their job, they’re trained for it and have the equipment to minimise risk to them and the people they’re trying to help. What equipment and training did you have?”

“See rank amateur, risking other people’s lives—I’m dangerous, not a hero.”

“Is that why Meredith sends you a Christmas card every year but you hide them.”

“It’s a free country she can send cards to whoever she likes.”

“Do you acknowledge them—I doubt it.”

“Actually, I do.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Does she ever say she wants to come and see you?”

“Not any more.”

“But she used to?”

“For a couple of years—for an infant she had remarkably good handwriting.”

“What? You are crazy sometimes, wife.”

“Like when I said I do to you?”

“It wasn’t to me, it was to Marguerite.”

“I could have sworn it was you I married...”

“Very funny—not.”

“Look, I need to go to sleep, I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“I have one of those every day,” he quipped back.

“Sorry, I forgot that housework and child care don’t count as they’re hobbies of mine.”

“Quite, so stop whingeing.”

“Sorry, oh lord and master.” He suddenly moved his hand to cover his genitals. “What are you doing?” I asked feeling his hand rubbing my bum.

“Protecting my assets.”

“As if...”

“Cathy, if skin wasn’t so elastic my scrotum would be down round my ankles you’ve yanked on it so often.”

“My own little woodmouse.”

“What?”

“The male woodmouse has proportionally the largest scrotum in the UK mammal population.”

“Really, so it should be built like a wood mouse not a stallion?”

I felt myself growing warm, “Um I doubt a woodmouse is quite as impressive as a horse.”

“But you said they were impressive...”

“How can something that weighs about a hundred grams be compared to something completely different that weighs about half a ton.”

“Just imagine the tackle on a half ton woodmouse...”

A surreal image flashed into my mind and I shuddered.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I just imagined a half ton woodmouse.” There was a pause as he contemplated what I’d said, then he roared with laughter. Well if he roared anything else he’d frighten the children and possibly the dormice.

Eventually I slipped off to sleep with him still holding me and thankfully didn’t dream of any half ton woodmice with bits of them dragging on the ground. In the morning, I awoke alone as Simon had gone off to work, astonished that I hadn’t heard him rise or leave. Usually I hear or feel him going or hear the car, this morning I heard nothing. I must have been really fast asleep. Thank goodness the house didn’t catch fire or anything else happen.

Tonight I would start writing my Christmas cards—what a chore that is. This morning I’d be writing one to each of the universities that helps us with the survey, another chore but one which I hope reminds them to send us records. Sometimes indirect reminders work best. Diane will address and stamp them with a message thanking them for their assistance and I’ll sign them. The survey pays the postage, which increases every year.

The other chores were agreeing the guidelines for exam questions with the rest of my staff, including a marking protocol for each type of question. Student course work including any laboratory work is similarly agreed. This ensures everyone knows what is going on and that students will be informed accordingly. It also costs me a few quid for mince pies. We used to get them made by the refectory staff now it’s easier to buy them from a supermarket—I bought them in Lidl’s on the way in.

Once that was over it was avoid lunch with Daddy as I had tutorials to do and a disciplinary to conduct—my least favourite activity. A student had been accused of submitting a dissertation which was in a large part copied from someone else’s. We don’t mind them copying the odd paragraph as long as it’s acknowledged, for the purpose of supporting a view or demonstrating one. When it’s claimed to be an original piece of work and clearly isn’t, then the plagiarist is sent down. Each submission has a declaration on the front that it is an original piece of work.

It took ninety minutes to hear the evidence for the accusation and the response by the accused. Had she come and said she was in trouble with her project, we’d have tried to accommodate her, but she didn’t, she chose to cheat copying an obscure paper from an online journal. She obviously wasn’t aware that her mentor also knew the original paper and even tried to warn her off by citing it to her. She continued by slightly changing the title and the first page.

The evidence was pretty damning and in the end she admitted she’d copied someone else’s work. She was asked to leave and registered as a fail. I was late collecting the girls and not in the best of moods. I take the integrity of our courses very personally and warn all students that plagiarism isn’t acceptable and will be dealt with firmly, as will any other form of cheating. I urge them all to get a good degree by working hard and talking with tutors and mentors. We use post grad students as mentors for the baccalaureates but the marking is done by teaching staff. We also encourage study groups for people with similar interests. I have been known to sit in on the dormouse or mammal ecology ones.

When I explained why I was late and why I was upset, they considered it was reasonable, as was my expelling a student for cheating. I hope to goodness that none of mine will ever do such a thing.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2808 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Episode 234 doz for dodecaphiles.

The weather for the rest of the week remained mild, wet and at times very windy, the storms at first being denied and then named as they alternately drowned or destroyed things. However, all the leaves Si had swept up remained on the compost heap because they were soggy and presumably sticky as well.

It was a pain travelling to and fro the university in the rain or sunshine—the latter being low in the sky tended to blind anyone trying see where they were going through the windscreen of a car. It was also difficult to know what to wear, skirts in the wind tend to fly around the place and feel very draughty, whereas trousers never feel quite so smart. Thankfully we had no formal requirements, so much of the week I wore jeans, corduroy variety and a shirt. I know, I go to such lengths to legitimately wear skirts and end up choosing trousers most of the time—they’re just more convenient much of the time.

I also wore flat heeled lace up shoes with them which are more comfortable. Next week, I had to do the annual Christmas lecture. Every year one of the professors has to do a lecture in the main hall to anyone from the university who wants to come. It has to be in simple language so everyone can understand it. I decided to do one on evolution including some ideas by Professor Brasier from Oxford and his observations of fossil and living foraminifera.

I spent much of the morning drafting the outline of my lecture and what slides I’d need to organise to illustrate it. This is essential for non-biologists otherwise they may struggle to understand what I mean. Pictures always help the understanding of unfamiliar objects.

Being anthropocentric creatures many of us believe the evolution of humans from a shared ancestor with the apes to be of huge importance, leading to Homo sapiens. It isn’t. Much more important happened about one to two billion years ago when two single-celled simple bacteria decided to merge or one swallowed the other. This was the moment from which complex cells could exist.

Over a period of hundreds of millions of years, during which time the earth was fairly stable the symbiotic nature of the two simple bacteria presumably benefited both bacteria and one became part of the other but with a nucleus that had a separate membrane around it—a historical hint of what happened.

In the case of green plants, their forerunners got together with cyanobacteria, the latter eventually forming chloroplasts which ultimately is thought to have been the founding moment of all green plants. They provided the oxygen which most species require to prosper, as a by-product of photosynthesis. They also provided glucose for the partner cell to consume and which in return provided protection. This is demonstrated quite clearly in some algae such as spirogyra.

I left a list of species names and other items I wanted as slides to illustrate my talk and gave them to Diane to run down and obtain pictures. I’d warned John, one our technicians he might have to help her. As she’s quite an attractive woman, I suspect I know who’ll be doing all the running around. He might have to take some photos from microscope slides, but that’s what he gets paid for, otherwise, we’ll have to beg, borrow or steal things from other universities or the internet. We had a week to acquire the slides and make any PowerPoint ones I’d need. I’d be talking for about an hour with some time for questions afterwards, then it’s mince pies and tea in the refectory and the term is officially over. Sadly, that doesn’t mean I can stop, though the technicians will take care of the animals, including the hibernating dormice over the holiday so I don’t have to go in to do that, neither does Tom.

I collected the girls from school and they told me about their day. Apparently, they can’t go long without one of them getting involved in something that causes me to be requesting to see the headmistress. That would be tomorrow morning as she had to go out that afternoon.

When I asked what had happened and they’d better tell me, because if the headmistress does first, whoever it concerns is in big trouble with me, let alone what the headmistress wants to do to them. I didn’t mind defending or apologising for them providing I knew what was happening and wasn’t caught unawares by the headmistress.

Danielle eventually owned up amid much blushing and finally tears. I notice she’s also got one or two spots, presumably from the oestrogen. If I understood things correctly, the boy she’d fancied and over who she’d practically come to blows with Cindy, had asked Cindy out. She was doubly upset because she’s been done, courtesy of Pia, and Cindy hasn’t. Also, Cindy doesn’t have any spots but does have her original genitalia. She could see the irony but didn’t find it particularly so.

The boy of course goes to a local comprehensive and may have been put off with dating the convent’s football team captain, county and England cap; he plays soccer, the boy that is, and might feel inadequate with Danni, a bit like I do with Trish talking about physics.

I tried to tell her that sometimes it was more important to see herself and Cindy as friendly rivals and that her friendship was possibly more important than a few boys who they’d outgrow when they went off to university.

“How can she be my friend, she betrayed me.”

“I suspect that’s a bit melodramatic for what happened, Danielle.”

“But we agreed, neither of us would go out with him as long as the other was interested.”

“You said he asked her out?”

“So she said.”

“She didn’t exactly betray your trust, did she?”

“She went out with him—what’s that then—Scotch mist?”

“No need to be cheeky, young lady, I’m trying to help.”

“Well, you say such stupid things.”

“Thank you.”

We got home and she ran off up to her room. David looked at me and I mimed, ‘Don’t ask.’ He shrugged and continued making the dinner. Isn’t life with teenagers such fun?

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2809 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“Could you have a word with Danielle?” I asked Julie as she took her coat off.

“What’s the silly cow done this time?”

I explained the situation as I understood it and how Danni was feeling. Julie rolled her eyes. “What d’you want me to tell her—that the boy in showing such poor taste isn’t worth the aggro?”

“Advise her of that fact but also she needs to stay friends with Cindy.”

“What for? If she grabbed some guy I fancied, I’ve have her eyes out the next day. Has Cindy been done yet?”

“No, she’s fourteen, they won’t do them until they’re at least eighteen.”

“So what’s Danni so upset about? He won’t be able to get beyond first base with her unreconstructed friend.”

“Yes, it had crossed my mind, not that I’m about to encourage youngsters to experiment with sex.”

“Why, it’s not like she could get pregnant, is it?”

“There are other nasty things that can happen to a young woman out there.”

“Tell me about it.” I remembered Julie had sacrificed herself to save Billie on a previous occasion, so she would know all about the seamier side of life.

“Will you talk to her?”

She rolled her eyes, “Course I will.”

“Thank you.”

“She’s my sister—unfortunately.”

I knew she didn’t mean that but to be anything other than offhand would look like she actually cared for somebody other than herself. She did, she was a very caring person.

Fifteen minutes later Danni came rushing down to the kitchen and entered shouting the odds according to Jacquie who’d just come back from university. Without apologising to her or David she ran out again and found me, not that I was lost, in my study.

“Why can’t you mind your own flipping business?”

“You are my business, missy.”

“You’re impossible,” she exclaimed and stormed out.

Julie sauntered in a little later. “That went down like a lead balloon. If she was twice as bright she wouldn’t make a halfwit.”

“She just came in here and told me I was impossible.”

“Nothing new there then.”

“I beg your pardon...”

“Why, wotcha done?” She sniffed several times as if trying to scent something. “You ain’t farted again, either that or your incontinence pads are working better than I thought.”

“D’you mind, there are youngsters here who might just believe you.”

“Well you’re so old.”

“I’m thirty two.”

“See what I mean?”

“No I don’t, you’re twenty three nearly.”

“Yeah but that’s a lot younger than thirty two.”

Sadly I agreed with her the problem is in being transgendered it takes us longer to mature. Given that I didn’t transition until I was twenty three, I felt I’d come a long way in a short time plus I was trying to give my transgender children more chance to grow up as women than I had. They don’t often show any gratitude for it, which isn’t what I want anyway, I just want them to grow up to be as natural women they can be.

“Yeah well go and make my ancient body a cuppa will you?”

“Ha, certainly, Mummy dear, wouldn’t want you to exert yourself, not at your age at any rate.” She strolled off chuckling to herself.

“Laughing at your own jokes is the first sign of insanity.”

“You should know.”

Unfortunately, she was probably the best footballer in the area, Danni, that is; so if she went out with a boy who played he’d be likely to remember. Not only that, but she’s fallen out with her best friend because of it.

Because she’s a teenager, everything is in black and white, yet in two or three years the balance will swing back to normal and the shades of grey, fifty or otherwise, that the rest of us see. But until then, we’ll have to put up with her impassioned feelings and their explosive responses.

I thought back to my own teen years and how I’d got upset when my parents reacted to my helping my friend out with the flooding. My mother initially thought it was funny, that with my long hair and Siân’s borrowed wellies I looked like a girl. When I confessed they all thought I was a girl, she roared with laughter. It was only when my dad suggested I was nothing better than a homosexual, did her opinion change. It was bad enough being laughed at when they then declared me an obviously practicing homosexual, I was incandescent with anger. Now I’d have laughed in their faces, then—I wanted to kill them I was so angry.

When I look back at memories like that, I was initially embarrassed to be mistaken for a girl, nowadays I’d be embarrassed to be anything but. Perspectives do change with time and experience. If only I’d understood that at Danni’s age. I was about her age when I realised people who considered they were the wrong sex could do something to resolve their issues and if necessary, change their bodies to ones which more closely resembled their self-image. My body had started changing a bit by itself, being wider hipped and narrower waisted than most of my peers.

Then again Danni’s issues are slightly different and I’m still not sure how transgender she actually is, except perhaps being trapped in a female looking body. Paradoxically, she seems to have taken to being a young woman like a duck to water, though Julie shares my suspicions, so it isn’t just me. I so hope I’m wrong or the realisation when it comes is going to be catastrophic. Thankfully, her ambition to get more England caps at soccer, give her a focus but she can’t be too open or honest with most people because their reaction might be unhelpful. It’s noticeable since they found out her original status, she hasn’t been called up to play for her country, even though she’s one of the best players they have—a sort of young female David Beckham, a goal making, midfield opportunist; who creates chances for others with pin point passing, set piece kicks and corners, but who is also prepared to have a go and score goals herself.

I was lost in my thoughts when I became aware of somebody watching me. It was Danielle. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“I—um came to say, sorry for being snotty.”

“That’s okay, at least you recognised it by yourself.”

“No she didn’t,” said Julie from just outside the door.

At least it demonstrated I understood some of what my kids were up to and experiencing.

“Anyway, you’re forgiven. It’s all part of the growing up process.”

“David said that dinner was ready,” called Julie.

“I think that gives us time for a quick hug, doesn’t it?” I said to Danielle holding open my arms.

“I’m sorry, Mummy,” she said flinging herself into them.

“That’s okay, sweetheart, but if you get mascara all down this top it won’t be...”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2810 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

In the wind down before Christmas, the place was full of students swapping cards and presents. Then, by mid afternoon, the same are staggering around carrying bunches of mistletoe wanting to give drunken kisses to all and sundry. I try to avoid it all because I find it all embarrassing. If they put the same amount of effort into learning that they do for partying, we’d have all of them getting firsts or top end seconds.

Okay, I’m not Scrooge, but it’s my job to try and make the department as effective and efficient as it can be. Diane had sourced most of the slides I wanted and it was looking quite useful. My talk would be the final academic event of this current calendar year, after which there was a carol service and dinner dance in the evening. I normally avoid both if I can, assuming that Daddy’s presence is enough from our house, apparently it isn’t this year and as a professor and member of the college council, I have to attend. At thirty five quid a ticket, I consider it a rip off for a roast turkey dinner, especially as I’m expected to be accompanied by a partner—as George Clooney was busy, I suppose Simon will have to do.

He was arranging to have an early finish to get home and change for the dinner dance, however the trade off was that I attended the bank’s dinner dance at the Dorchester the following week. Henry and Monica were going and expecting me to attend as a director and consort to the heir to the throne, so to speak. At the weekend, Stella and were going out to find a dress for me to wear. When I suggested wearing the same dress to both events she was mortified, “You can’t wear that old rag to the bank’s dinner dance.”

“Why not?”

“To start with, it looks like you bought it in Oxfam. No, the bank dinner is very much, if you have it flaunt it. Simon has given me a budget of two thousand for your dress with any extras on top, like shoes and knickers, assuming you plan on wearing any.”

“What, become knickerless?”

“Do concentrate, girl; you’re Cathy, not Nicholas, saint or otherwise. In the event of being sans underwear of a bottom covering variety, in the interests of not having something show under your dress...”

“It’s precisely why I shall be wearing knickers, so I don’t have anything showing.”

“It would prove categorically you were female.”

“I wasn’t aware it was in doubt.”

“It isn’t.”

“So why do I have to prove anything, then?”

“You don’t.”

“Good, because I’d have thought that shagging your brother for the last few years would have proved that beyond doubt. I’m sure he’d have noticed if something wasn’t there.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Stella, Simon isn’t stupid, he’s just a bloke they operate on different wavelengths to women.”

“You mean they’re stupid?”

“Uh different.”

“Stupid.”

“Oh all right then. But if he was so stupid how come he married me?”

“We told him to.”

“But wouldn’t that make me stupid as well?”

“He’s worth millions.”

“Okay, I was just checking out the criteria.” I had another thought. “If he was that dumb, he wouldn’t be able to follow instructions, would he?”

“Course he can if you make them simple enough.”

“Well I don’t think he’s stupid,” I said bridling over her dismissal of him.

“What about the table cloth?”

“My grandmother’s one?”

“The same.”

“He was unlucky, he knows nothing about washing machines and fabrics.”

“Perhaps you’re as dumb as he is,” she muttered.

“It’s probably why I’m a professor labouring to teach the uneducable when I could be home doing something useful like getting my legs waxed.”

“Reality at last.” She said triumphantly. “Oh by the way, I’ve booked you a manicure at the girls’ salon.”

“Why?”

“You’re an aristocrat’s wife.”

“So? Most of them would mucking out stables, strangling foxes or plucking peasants.”

“Most of our peasants are definitely unplucked, but if they get rowdy tell them to pluck off.”

“I deal with spotty, smelly undergraduates for a living.”

“You were one once.”

“I might have been an undergrad but was neither spotty nor smelly.”

“Little Miss Perfect.”

“You guessed?”

“It wasn’t exactly difficult, was it?”

“It was for some as I was supposed to be a boy at the time.”

“Anyway, about this ’ere dress...” It looked like we were going to have to go to London and visit one or two of the top dress shops—you know, the kind of place where if you need to ask the price you can’t afford it. I mean serious dress shops with names like Versace or Armani. She’s looking forward to it, I’m dreading it. I hate being measured and poked just for a wretched dress I’ll only wear once, plus the silly shoes I’ll have to wear with it. It’s not that I don’t enjoy being girly now and again, but that doing so in this context is just to prove we’re richer than somebody else, so the shoes will be equally expensive and uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing if I fall and break my neck, I’ll still be a corpse. So even in the most expensive of gowns or frocks, I’ll still be a pig’s ear—glad it’s not my money, if it was I’d have gone to Debenham’s and grumbled about the prices there.

Goodness it was Thursday already, or more precisely, Thursday evening. Is it a whole week since my birthday? I must be getting old, tempus is fugiting far too quickly.

According to Trish, Danni and Cindy were talking civilly to each other so maybe the romance with the boy they both fancied is over. Trish was giggling about something but wouldn’t say what. Then the other youngsters were giggling so obviously they all found it funny. So the chances are it was either about willies or defecation; both seem to be objects of amusement to young women.

After button holing Hannah, I discovered the giggles were about Cindy’s boyfriend having rather a small willie. How she would know and what difference it would make as you’re not supposed to have sex at her age anyway, I couldn’t say. I’d have thought from Danni’s viewpoint it could be an advantage especially if they had some form of penetrative sex, as a well endowed male might tear her.

Why am I worrying about this, I’ve told her that if I catch her having sex I’ll kill the pair of them. She told me I was being paranoid and she wouldn’t anyway. I caught part of a programme on Radio four the other day and some young woman was saying about how she was abused by her partner and it took her years to escape him because she’d been brought up to believe she could only have validity by having sex with him, by existing through her relationship with him. It had taken her years to realise that she was someone in her own right and didn’t need to be an appendage of some abusive male. I found the whole interview very poignant, especially as I suspected we had dozens like her attending the university.

On a bad day I accept I sometimes question my validity as a female, they seemed to be questioning their right to be seen as a person. Compared to them, I was doing all right.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2811 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Another day, another argument. This time the subject was the teddy bear that was on the table, a soft toy thing about six inches tall standing up, which could prove difficult for the average soft toy. Normally it’s Trish and Livvie who squabble, this time it was Cate and Pudding. I banged the table and shouted, they both fled and then two minutes later Stella came in accusing me of threatening her child.

“It was no threat, I promised her and Cate if they didn’t stop squabbling I’d throw the soft toy in the fire.”

“You big bully.”

“You taught me all I know.”

“Not about dormice I didn’t.”

“Okay, you taught a bit of what I know—satisfied?”

“No, I’m sure I taught you more than just a bit.”

“Tough, the negotiations are over and I’m going to send both the squabblers to the dogs home.”

“What about the teddy bear?”

“It’s on the fire,” it was a lie, it was in the drawer.

“The fire isn’t lit, Cathy.”

“I’m going to take it and sacrifice it over a Bunsen burner in the technician’s room.”

“Why?”

“To stop them fighting over it.”

“It’s Pud’s, you knitted it for her, remember?”

“Did I? God, you must have caught me in a good mood to knit something.”

“Unlike this morning.”

“I was fine until your hooligan offspring raised her annoying voice and threatened to deck Cate.”

“Because Cate had her teddy, made for her by her wonderful Auntie Cathy.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” unless you lay it on with a shovel.

“Okay, I’ll tell her you’ll knit her a new one.”

“Sorry, but I shall never knit another teddy as long as I live.”

“Oh, why not?”

“Lost the plot, no the pattern, that’s right I lost the pattern.”

“Think you were right the first time.”

“It’s those two hooligans of yours, drive me mad they do.”

“Not the voices, then?”

“Yes the voices of those two hooligans.”

“You have two seconds, Catherine Cameron, nee Watts, to produce the teddy bear or I shall get a search warrant.”

“Don’t write it in crayon this time then.”

“Well I couldn’t find a pen, could I?”

“Okay, I give up, where’s the teddy?” I said.

“What teddy?” asked Stella. “Hang on, you’re the one who took the teddy.”

“Did you see me take it?”

“Of course not, I was upstairs.”

“So we only have your daughter’s word that there ever was a teddy?”

“Yes, but she’s not given to lying.”

“Do you have evidence to back up this claim.”

“Which one—the lying or the teddy bear?”

“There is no teddy bear, never has been one, she’s mistaken.”

“She says not.”

“There we are then, she denied having a teddy and you come here stirring up trouble. You Camerons are all the same...”

“You’re a Cameron too, Cathy.”

“Some of you Camerons...” I restarted.

As I was talking Trish went to the drawer and got the teddy and handed it to Stella. “Here, take the friggin’ bear, we’re gonna be late for school because of it.”

Stella and I looked at each other in astonishment and she had to leave the kitchen because she was needing to laugh so much, tears were running down her face.

“C’mon, Mummy, we’re going to be late.”

“It’s only quarter to eight.”

“So? We don’t wanna be late do we?”

“I’m having some breakfast first, so sit down and behave.”

“Well hurry up then.”

“Anymore cheek from you, Missy, and I’ll make you walk.”

“Good,” she said, “Where’s my coat?” Trish disappeared to the utility room where the coats were usually kept. “Bye,” she called and the backdoor slammed.

“Want me to go with her?” said Danielle, finishing her toast.

“Please.”

She ran out to get her coat and backpack full of books. “Gonna cost you.”

“How much?”

“New mascara.”

“All right,” what does she do with it all, mind you having seen her looking like she had two dead caterpillars, hairy variety, on her eyelids might explain it.

I got the others together about ten minutes later but we didn’t see any sign of Danni or Trish and en route no one would tell me why Trish wanted to be in school half an hour earlier than usual. I got Livvie to check she was actually there and then drove off to work where the second argument occurred.

John our technician and Diane were arguing over the slides I was going to use for my talk. I left them to it shutting my door noisily because it looked like they hadn’t seen me. She knew I was there however because there was a mug of tea with a saucer over it to keep it warm. I glanced at the clock, despite leaving early I hadn’t got here any sooner, hence my tea. She isn’t psychic, thank goodness for that.

I had an email from Dan to say he’d call by later on and I suggested we meet for lunch. He was quite pleased with that idea, especially when I said I’d pay. He can be a bit of tight wad, but otherwise is a nice chap.

He’d now completely recovered from his ordeal with the burglars, as had Simon’s hand—if you recall he hurt it when one of the thugs rubbed his face against Simon’s knuckles. He’d only been off a couple of days because he enjoys showing school kids round our reserve and doing workshops or talks with them. I did the day I stood in for him—it reminded me of the course I led at Gloucester with all the old biddies, but they had great fun or so they said.

I sorted out some bits of paper, signed some letters and looked over the slides for the talk—despite their little kerfuffle, the slides looked very good. A short time later Dan arrived and we went in my car to the same place Tom uses. I knew he wouldn’t be there today, he had to go to Winchester for some meeting or other.

We discussed the things Dan wanted to as we ate, though he was still shaking his head about the way the manager recognised me, “Lady Cameron, how nice to see you again. Usual table?”

“Please, Mr Largetto, and the usual to eat please.”

“But of course, good day, sir,” he said to Dan.

“D’you want a drink?”

“Half of lager?” said Dan.

“Which one, sir.”

“Carlsberg if you have it?”

“We do,” he fussed us to the table Tom usually has.

“Come here often, do you?”

“Tom comes here most days, occasionally I get summoned to accompany him.”

“Where is the old boy?”

“Winchester, a meeting of deans or something; I reckon it’s just a chance to have a blow out at the university’s expense.”

“I’m surprised you don’t go to more things,” he said tasting his beer.

“Too busy, I tend to do internet conferencing about once a month with four other universities, we even had Oxford trying to muscle in a month or so ago.”

“You’ve hit the big time, Cathy.”

“Who me? Nah, they probably wanted me to do their washing up.”

“Which other unis do you talk with then?”

“Sussex, Surrey, Bristol and Imperial, London.”

“Playing with the grown-ups, eh?”

“Perhaps, I think Bristol are trying to line me up to succeed Steve Harris.”

“What?”

“Unless I go to Sussex...”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2812 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“You thinking of leaving?” he gasped.

“Not for the moment, why?”

“You sounded as if you were thinking of it.”

“It might be nice to run a department at one of the bigger universities.”

“Be quite different to Portsmouth, I’ll bet.”

“Probably, but it’s just a matter of scale, get the right team and it should work just as well.”

“Why those two—why not London or Cambridge?”

“They have a strong tradition of mammal biology, so are more likely to want to continue it...”

“Which is why they’d be interested in you.”

I smiled.

“Do Portsmouth know you’re thinking of leaving?”

“No—not yet.”

“I’m astonished, I thought you were happy with your lot.”

“Portsmouth is okay, but in order to run bigger ideas, I need bigger budgets and from there comes greater reward. It’s cramping my ambition.”

“So it would seem. Tom will be horrified.

“Disappointed that I don’t want to vegetate like he has.”

“I don’t know, he got the mammal survey.”

“Sort of.”

“What d’you mean?”

“He wanted the mammal survey but he needed a mammal survey specialist.”

“You, you mean?”

“I don’t know if I was his first choice, but I was reasonably experienced in doing surveys of all sorts of things, being essentially a field biologist or ecologist, so unlike anyone else he then had in the department, I could offer surveys of systems or individual species. While he was putting in bids for the survey, which wasn’t generally or widely known, he was making me do all sorts of stuff, including teaching others to do surveys. I also wrote his protocols for him.”

“I heard he took you because you reminded him of his daughter.”

“Because I was like his daughter, Ezzie Herbert wrote to him and suggested that he might be able to sort myself out—genderwise. I didn’t think any of the hierarchy had noticed but he obviously had.”

“How would Tom do that?”

“His daughter was transgender as well—you didn’t know?”

“Bloody hell, fancy lightning striking twice.”

“Quite. Anyway, Herbert sent me a notice of some lecture Tom was doing and I went to hear it. When I got back, he asked me what I thought of it and then suggested I write to Tom and tell him. So I did. He asked me to come and see him to discuss it, offered me a chance to do an MSc and write his survey protocols.”

“Well I never, and you had no idea this was all going on behind the scenes?”

“No, it was a few years later when I went to do a talk at Sussex that Herbert hinted at things. He also told me I was the best student in my year and the best ecologist he’d ever taught.”

“Hence them looking at you to replace him when he retires.”

I smiled.

Our food arrived and we chatted about other things. By taking Dan into my confidence, I knew the rumours would be round the university in hours and the rest of the world by Monday. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, but were I to be thinking of it, Sussex, Bristol or Oxford would be my choices. However, while they would eventually get wind that I might be interested and when the time came if they offered the right package, then I would at least go and have a look. But, meanwhile, during the next term, I negotiate my continuing to act as professor for another year, knowing that I might be subject to a better offer—a much better offer—won’t do me any harm. Machiavelli, I’m not, he was an amateur, this girl is a professional.

I did a couple more hours of tutorials then went to collect the girls. Still no one was saying why Trish went to school so early. The reason, as I suspected, we hadn’t seen either of the girls who’d gone on ahead of us was because they’d caught the bus. Danni had enough money to pay for the tickets and I refunded her when we got home.

As no one was saying what Trish was up to, I declined to ask—my efforts the day before had met with stony silence, so pretended to be letting things ride. If Trish asked to go early on Monday, I’ll ask why but not necessarily believe the answer I get—she’s up to something. How do I know? She’s like me in so many ways but with a bigger brain.

It had me thinking about my time in junior school and the year they promoted me from shepherdess—okay, they wanted a shepherd, but I was a shepherdess—to BVM in one easy lesson, simply because I knew all the parts. Obviously, I was a budding thespian or drama queen back in those days so nothing has really changed. I really enjoyed it, I don’t know if Dad ever worked out which part I was playing. If he did, he said nothing. But you can see the only times I’ve trodden the boards it was in dresses.

David had done a cottage pie for dinner which was in the oven so all I had to do was turn up the gas and brown the top of the potato. I knew Simon would be pleased, he loves it. He licks his lips and says, “Brill, school dinners,” then eats two lots. I can only assume he enjoyed his dinners at Millfield; mind you, Stella eats her share of cottage pie. Me—I don’t mind and it’s easy to serve, just do some peas to go with it and watch it disappear.

Oh well, next we finish on Tuesday, with me boring the pants of them and then Friday, the girls finish for Christmas, so I’ll have a day or so to go shopping for presents. They also have a Nativity play to finish on with a carol service around it. Then Simon and I have to dash to be at the Dorchester Hotel for eight for the bank’s Christmas dinner dance. The university one is on Tuesday so at least we have a break in between. Damn, I’ve agreed to go shopping for a dress tomorrow, just what I needed—not.

As I went to call the girls for dinner, the younger ones were all busy whispering about something, so when I walked in on them Livvie said, “Oh-oh,” whereupon they all spun round then after some red faces they all laughed—guiltily in my estimation, but I was not going to ask them what was going on.

After dinner I told them I was going off with Auntie Stella in the morning and that Amanda was coming in to watch them for some of the time, otherwise Daddy was going to be in charge. They went off back to their conspiracy and Simon grabbed me as I cleared the table. “You’re surely not expecting me to watch them all while you’re out tomorrow?”

“You want me to accompany you to the bank’s dinner dance?”

“You’re a director, of course I do.”

“Well unless you want me there in jeans and tee shirt, I have to go and buy a dress.”

“Haven’t you got one?”

“Nothing I have is suitable apparently.”

“She has my card, doesn’t she?”

“You know she does,” except I’m your wife and I don’t have one.

“Okay—I’ll be here, just get back as quickly as you can, won’t you?”

“I think Stella said she’d booked a show for us to go and see—oh don’t forget, you’ll have her two as well.”

“What?” he went rather pale.

“If I were you I’d see if you can bribe Amanda to stay longer and possibly offer some to David and Jacquie—but they are our children, except Stella’s two natch. You have looked after them before—but don’t take them down the rugby club and fill them up with crisps and lemonade.”

He blushed, “I thought they might enjoy a change.”

“If you do you’ll be going to London on Friday on your own.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2813 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

The train seemed inexorably slow but parking in London is both difficult and expensive, whereas the train is slow and expensive. I yawned, it was only half past seven we were supposed to be there at eight thirty, a quick breakfast and off to the shops. Stella went and got us some coffee and came back with a small pack of custard creams—my favourite cream biscuit, no danger they’ll survive more than a couple of minutes.

“What sort of thing are you looking for?”

“Dunno, the Duchess of Cambridge can get away with stuff from Topshop or Next, but I have to go to some overpriced boutique in case someone else has the same dress.”

“Yeah. But I’ll bet the security service goes round arresting anyone who bought the dress before Kate wears it.”

“Why can’t they do that for me, it’d be cheaper than spending megabucks on something I probably won’t wear twice.”

“You could wear it to the university do as well, that would halve the cost of each wearing.”

“It will probably be over the top for a dinner in the sticks.”

“No it won’t, I’ll use my infallible taste to make sure you get something that is both amazing and ordinary.”

“I think that might be a contradiction somehow, but if we’re buying Gucci I want them to leave the label on it so everyone knows I didn’t buy it from Poundland.”

“Like the badge on your Barbour?”

“Don’t have one now, it fell off, I have a dormouse one I got from the RSPB.”

“That would a good name for a company that made sleepwear.”

“I won’t stop you using it, providing you pay me the royalties,” I joked.

“In acorns, okay.” Damn, Stella was more awake than I was despite the coffee.

We took a taxi to a little place she knows for breakfast. The shops don’t open too early for the upper crust, in case they were up all night partying—the chance would be a fine thing—no it wouldn’t, I’d rather be home in bed in my winceyette jammies.

Breakfast was delicious, we had bacon and eggs with mushrooms, tomatoes and toast. Even the tea I had was good and I drank my share of the pot, making sure I used the loo before we went.

It was breezy with rain in the air but nothing to make you wet, it was just unpleasant. By half past nine we were ringing the bell on the top of the door of the first shop, in Kensington, not on the high street but a little side street. I noticed that nothing had any prices on them and it seemed they only carried designer labels, top of the range variety.

Instead of asking my size they measured me—they don’t do that in British Home Stores—unless you ask. As the tape measure was being draped about my body, Stella was in deep conversation with what appeared to be the owner of the shop. Their voices were hushed but the way they kept looking at me, I could imagine saying, “Poor girl, doesn’t get out much but needs a posh party frock.”

Eventually half a dozen were selected and I was led to a changing cubicle as big as my bathroom. The assistant who’d measured me stayed and helped me change—I was so glad I’d worn a tidy bra and pants which matched and the knickers were the ones which M&S claim don’t have any VPL. Even so the bra had to come off and on with a plunge one which sort of doubled my assets and I’m not exactly short of them since breast feeding, mind you did droop more than they used to—gravity I suppose, bloody Isaac Newton. Still, it showed they were real rather than plastic.

The first dress was a no-no, it was almost like silver foil and I looked something like the turkey will wear on Christmas day. The second was a blue colour but it wasn’t very comfortable and I rejected it. Next was a red dress which fitted rather well but meant I’d either have to graze rather than tuck into my dinner or show everyone that I’d got a belly to match my boobs. “You could always get one of those tummy controller girdle things,” hissed Stella as I walked around holding my breath and my tummy in.

“No way,” I said moments before I was handed one and told to put it on. Why did I comply, it felt like I was wearing a tight rubber band that started just below my breasts and ended above my groin.

“We have one with control briefs as well if modom is interested.”

This was bad enough, if I needed to go for a pee wearing the briefs thing, I’d never get them down in time, let alone back up again. I have a sports bra at home which I only wear when I can’t find the other one. It has a broad elastic band at the bottom and it has a habit of rolling up as you try to get it on or worse get it off. If the fan belt in the car went, I’m sure it would do just as well.

The red was certainly a possible as I had a pashmina at home which would match it quite well. Stella had other ideas and before I could say no, black silk jacket was pulled up my arms and overlapped at the front. I suppose it would keep the frost off my nipples if it got cold. At least it wasn’t a mink stole—that I would have refused.

The red dress was ankle length and the one following it was a shorter LBD with a sort of deep cowl on it. I shook my head and it was removed. I refused to try on a gold lycra thing, saying. “If I wanted to wear lycra I’d use my cycling kit.” The horrified looks I got rewarded my rebellion, Minnie the Minx eat your heart out. I always associated more with her than Desperate Dan, but mum wouldn’t let me buy a red and blue striped sweater and blue beret with a red pom on the top.

The rest of the morning we wandered from boutique to boutique and I was really fed up by lunchtime and said so. A light lunch pacified me somewhat and I agreed to one more shop. We took a cab to it, Stella promising all the way that she’d kept the best until last. Why? I almost felt like dashing into Debenhams and buying the first thing that fit me.

We alighted outside a shop which seemed closed. Stella rang a doorbell three times and eventually, a middle-aged woman answered it. She greeted Stella like a long lost friend and me with a cursory handshake. “Phew, I was relieved to see you’re still in business, Rosemary.”

“Stella, I’m supposed to be semi-retired but I’m busier than ever. What are you looking for?”

Before Stella could respond I interjected, “Might I see what you have?”

Despite Stella nearly having a tantrum when I took the initiative, the dresses were exquisite and I fell in love with one which had a silk underdress over which was a gauze thin silk populated with poppies and bluebells, the latter round the hems of the base and the cuffs.

I refused to look at another, it fit like a glove, the underdress part, the gauzy bit was quite floaty. I also bought a red long coat to wear over it. I’d team it with cream sandals I had and a small bag.

It cost over a thousand pounds but I was happy with my purchase. “You’ve developed your own style haven’t you?” remarked my sister in law as we journeyed home on the train.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, it was meant as a compliment.”

“From you, Stella, that is praise indeed.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2814 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Sunday proved to be a day of recovery from the excesses of spending large sums of money on unnecessary bits of cloth. Let’s face it, if I didn’t go to the stupid dinner, either one for that matter, the world wouldn’t end, neither would the university or the bank. But to go I had to purchase some idiotically priced piece of cloth which someone had sewn into the shape of a dress in my size. Admittedly, it was the most beautiful dress we saw that day, or in my humble opinion it was. Stella went on to tell me about the woman we bought it from.

“Rosemary Kingsdon, got dissatisfied with the couture houses when she was a young designer. The older better known ones got all the credit even if the ideas weren’t theirs, so after ten years of that sort of treatment she left and set up her own studio selling her designs to upmarket chain stores. She wasn’t happy but it brought in a regular income until she could launch her own brand.

“It didn’t happen, she became totally disillusioned with the fashion industry and nearly stopped working completely. At about this time I met her daughter at university and she wore the most amazing clothes, especially to party—and boy, could she party. I eventually met her mum, Rosemary, that is, and she showed me a few of her designs. I was hooked and begged her to make me a dress for the end of course prom. I got Daddy to pay her outrageous price but it was worth it. I wore it to my coming out ball as well.”

“What you were gay?” I gasped and half the train looked round.

“No,” she rebutted me very loudly, “I am not, that was what we called the debutante’s balls.”

“I didn’t think they had any,” I smirked.

“Really,” she sighed rolling her eyes, “mind you one or two might have failed the physical exam. Where was I? Oh yes, my dress was so outstanding that I had half a dozen death threats if I didn’t tell them who made it. She never looked back afterwards, but she only sees people by appointment.”

“So you rang her?”

“Of course, unless you have an appointment she won’t see you—it’s worse than the average doctor. The rest is history as you know.”

“I know she makes the most exquisite clothing I’ve ever seen.”

“You won’t see another of those dresses anywhere, she only makes one at a time and if sold, she doesn’t do another.”

“So my dress is unique?”

“Yes, if she does another it will be of different cloth or slightly different in some other aspect.”

I felt even happier after hearing this, Stella also told me she had designed stuff for the Princess of Wales and her successor. “So how come I’ve never heard of her?”

“I only did because of knowing her daughter; she is very exclusive and she doesn’t make things for size zero stick insects.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Nothing was said by Trish or the others as to what she was up to and if anything she seemed well behaved on Sunday, even asking me if we could go for a ride. We did but not very far. Meems nearly got blown off by one vicious gust of wind and although she laughed, it worried me and we turned around soon after only having done about four miles altogether. I probably got more exercise yesterday going round the shops or walking in between them.

Simon didn’t even ask to see the dress, because as soon as we arrived home on the Saturday he shot off down the rugby club with a headache. I told him Stella and I were doing the same the following week for Christmas shopping. His answer a loud, “No way.” We laughed about it all evening.

I did some paperwork plus the Observer ‘Everyman’ crossword after lunch which took me about half an hour, by then it was time for tea and David disappeared after lunch, so guess who got the evening meal?

Everyone seemed pleased with Amanda, so if it continued, she’d get a nice Christmas present from me in the form of a bonus. She seemed keen to please and wasn’t a shirker, also David was becoming quite friendly with her of which I wasn’t sure what I felt. So far any romances that happened between my staff seemed to bomb with disastrous consequences. I wasn’t therefore encouraging anything between them except a good working relationship.

I did actually remind him of what happened between he and Ingrid, and I also mentioned that Jenny Bell had had a bad relationship with Caroline, although it’s fair to say Caroline was just a diversion for Jenny while she wound her up and dropped her. I also hinted to Amanda that the previous relationships between staff had ended badly. She looked at me, “Lady Cameron, I like David, he’s fun to work with and a brilliant cook—but he’s so old.” I felt better after that. David is forty something.

Trish was up and ready to leave early, mind you so were the others. When I asked why, I was told she’d forgotten to do some homework. I knew something was afoot and it wasn’t five toes or twelve inches.

I agreed to take them early but, “If any of you are up to some sort of mischief and you fail to tell me, I won’t be able to help you when it’s discovered. Do you all understand?”

They claimed they did but I wasn’t sure, however, I had to give them some licence and asked Danni to stop them getting into trouble. She said they were okay, just winding me up. I know that they were asking David for treats to take to school for the class parties on Thursday. Funny that none of them have mentioned the nativity play, I suppose they can’t be interested—mind you, except the time I played the BVM I wasn’t very interested either.

You’d think that on a Monday morning no one would bother sending emails and letters, they should still be getting over the weekend, I know I was. I was actually still reeling about the cost of that dress. Diane asked if my hunting expedition had caught anything, so we spent the first twenty minutes discussing it. She wasn’t attending the university dinner—lucky sausage—so I agreed to get a decent photo of me in it. “It sounds delightful.”

Diane, it’s more than delightful, it’s delightfully ostentatious.”

“How much was it?”

I told her and she looked shocked.

“Twelve hundred quid,” she gasped.

“But I plan on wearing it twice,” I said sounding very earnest.

“That’s still six hundred quid a time. Jeez, how the other half live.”

“That doesn’t include the Jimmy Choo shoes and matching handbag or the full sable coat.”

“What?”

I roared with laughter, “Some women would spend all that, five hundred for a pair of shoes, and thousands on a dead animal coat. I’ve got a silk coat.”

“Yeah but how many silk worms were killed to make that?”

I had to admit I hadn’t thought of that, nor was I going to or I wouldn’t be able to face a tin of tuna again, let alone eat one.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2815 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Tuesday followed Monday, which I’m pretty sure I could have predicted. Simon still hadn’t asked to see the dress though he would tonight. I checked I could get my mobile in my little handbag and checked my shoes were okay. I’d worn them a few times but always polished them afterwards with some polish called Scuffcote or something similar, which is intended for easy renovation of kid’s shoes, you paint it on and leave to dry, then buff to a nice shine. It certainly did the trick.

I got the girls organised and changed into a trouser suit for the lecture I was going to give, even using a bit of makeup and jewellery and wearing a pair of shoes with heels. My lecture wasn’t until eleven but I had plenty of paperwork to sort before that; in fact I was so involved in it that Diane came in with a fresh cuppa saying, “You realise it’s gone half past ten?”

I hadn’t but thanked her for her reminder and found the folder I had with the talk written in, except the papers weren’t there. I called Diane and she was mystified as she could have sworn she’d put them in that particular file. Thankfully, the slides were on memory stick so if necessary I’d talk to them, except it isn’t very professional. Diane disappeared and two or three minutes later came back with a fresh copy of the script and placed it on my desk. “Don’t lose this one,” she said assertively. I promised I wouldn’t.

After finishing my tea and mince pie, well it’s a long walk to the main hall and I might get peckish, I checked my makeup and went to the loo, then I followed the majority of people who were walking to the main hall. In doing so I overheard a conversation between two students.

“You know anything about this Professor Watts?”

“Not a lot ’cept they say she used to be a man.”

“Don’t fancy listenin’ to no pervert.”

“It’ll be a laugh, let’s see how many things give her away.”

“Like big ’ands an’ feet?”

“Don’t they always have Adam’s apples an’ deep voices?

“’Spect so.”

“An’ spottin’ the tranny will be more interestin’ than some stupid talk.” It would be interesting to see if they listened or not, my ego said.

Tom was going to introduce me and I decided I’d wait until he finished before I appeared on stage. For those who didn’t know me, it would keep the tension mounting for a couple more minutes. I handed the memory stick to John the technician who went and loaded it into the computer. I would then have a remote clicker to move the slides on or reverse them.

Tom popped in to the little room backstage and asked if I was ready. I nodded. “I’ll introduce ye then.”

He wandered back to the hall where the noise level was increasing and I could definitely feel the energy and anticipation rising. “Ladies and gentlemen, Vice Chancellor, Sir David...”

I didn’t hear any more of what was said trying to think who Sir David was, probably some local politician or business man. They usually have someone to propose a vote of thanks after the questions are over. So that’s probably who it is. I glanced at my script, until I heard Daddy say, “So without further ado, please welcome Professor Cathy Watts who’s going to talk to you about the most important step in evolution.”

I stood up, took a deep breath and walked out onto the stage. There was a hush before a roar of applause happened. I stood for a moment trying to see who was there but with up to five hundred faces to scan I could only recognise Diane and one or two of my students. Oh well here goes...

“Mr Chairman, Vice Chancellor, esteemed guests, ladies, gentlemen and anyone else who doesn’t fit into any of those categories. It’s funny because much of biology is about putting things into categories—classification we call it—but it’s not especially relevant to my subject today. I’m going to talk to you about evolution, you know how things develop to take advantage of their situation or environment or adapt to changes in their situation or environment.”

I pressed the first slide which showed a cartoon of a number of pictures starting with one of the primeval ooze and running up through various stages until we had some sort of ape becoming a hominid and this turning into Charles Darwin who was the end of the line. It got one or two smiles from the biologists in the assembled throng.

“Now some of you might believe that the most important step was the final one, the emergence of Homo sapiens from the hominids or stages in between. I’ll accept it’s quite important because it could be how we got here, apart from our parents getting amorous in the back of the car in lover’s lane. I remember once seeing a wonderful statistic which suggested that ninety per cent of motorists were the result of accidents.” There were one or two chortles loud enough for me to hear then some groans as others finally got the joke. Well it is a university, they’re supposed to be able to think—occasionally.

“A long time ago in this galaxy, actually on this particular planet we call earth, though most of it is water, at least on the surface, something remarkable happened. Life began and although we don’t entirely understand the mechanism—yet, it happened, probably about four thousand million years ago or four billion years give or take the odd week.

“In those days, the height of evolutionary sophistication were simple celled bacteria, which we call simple because their nucleus had no membrane around it.” I showed the slide of a simple bacteria. “These abounded for some two thousand million years and many are still with us today—not the originals—duh.” That got a laugh so some of them were still awake—good sign. “Then what we call a singularity happened and this is what I consider to be the most important step in all evolution, but before we deal with that, let’s look at the term singularity.

“Usually this means a one off. In the case of this viewpoint I’m using it to mean it hasn’t happened again in modern times though it must have happened many many times at this period of the development of life forms on this planet and why we think it hasn’t happened again in more recent times.

“For some reason, some simple celled bacteria ingested or absorbed another one, which they do for food or to reduce competition and so on, but instead of digesting it, the prey item was held within the protoplasm of the predator and a symbiotic relationship began.” I showed them some simple diagrams to explain what I’d just described.

“As our host bacteria divided so too did the visitor and replicas of the new creature were created—effectively a new species had been created with a major difference, it now contained a second nucleus and this had a membrane around it. Complex celled organisms had evolved, and if we look at an electron micrograph of a complex cell, we can see the nucleus with the membrane, some have two or three membranes but we also see other structures like mitochondria, which are thought to have again originated as other simple celled bacteria and we think, some of the predator bacteria absorbed more than one other individual because it gave it some sort of advantage, if only in extra genetic material but also we know, where the prey bacteria was a cyanobacterium these often went on to form chloroplasts and evolved into the green plants we have today.

“The reason I think it was so important in evolutionary terms is because everything since, all the wonderful animals and plants we see in our world today, evolved from these new complex cells which were forming some one to two billion years ago. And that includes everyone here—except possibly one or two first years in media studies.” That got a roar of laughter.

“Only joking...” and I was about to continue when some wag called out, ‘Can’t you be more exact about the timing of this?’ “Okay, it was a Tuesday afternoon at the end of March because British Summer Time had been introduced and they think that was what caused it to happen...”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2816 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“So effectively, we began as individual single, simple celled organisms that decided to club together and form more efficient, resilient complex cells. We don’t know what the trigger was but we know that in order for them to achieve that massive change took about fifty to one hundred million years of relatively quiet and undisturbed life. At the end of this period we had not just some of the original simple bacteria but some new species of complex cells which were brilliantly demonstrated in the fossil record of the foraminifera.”

I showed how the shell like structures of the external skeletons of these simple celled organisms become increasingly complex as they progressed up the geological periods towards the current one by a collection of photographs taken by Professor Brasier of Oxford University.

Finally I finished with the warning that Brasier used to end his book; which was that the more efficient a species becomes, the more specialised it becomes the faster it seems to head towards extinction as it has no leeway to give to change and that man had been reasonably successful because he was effectively a generalist who adapted to virtually every environment.

I stopped and Tom asked for questions. Some were good and challenged me others made me wonder if they’d listened to anything I’d just said. However, it was Christmas, so I explained things in terms of one syllable to these simple celled listeners. I spotted the two I’d overheard talking as I walked to the hall, thankfully, neither asked if were a man or woman, if they had I suspect Tom would have stamped all over them. I would have attempted to turn the ridicule back on them for asking. Instead, as I half expected I got one from the religious wing.

“Professor, nowhere in your lecture did you mention the fact that God used these mechanisms to create the world in which we now live, why is that?”

“As far as we know there is no evidence to suggest the mechanism was anything but one where given enough undisturbed time, life will experiment and in this case it moved things on rather more than some of the blind alleys it also tried and which led to extinction possibly because they became over specialised and therefore had no slack in their response to change in their environments. If you consider that this was divinely inspired it doesn’t say much for the designer who seems to have got it wrong more often than right. But if you want to see it in evolutionary terms, then the following model shows what probably happened.”

I showed a picture of the evolution of man with him arising from the hominids, “This probably happened between two hundred to fifty thousand years ago according to the fossil record, and this, about five to fifteen thousand years ago.” The next slide showed god emerging from the mind of man.

“Professor, are you insinuating that man created God?” asked the excited questioner.

“I’m insinuating nothing, just showing the evidence.”

The questioner stormed out muttering to himself as he went. Tom wound things up, “I think that is as good as anywhere to stop. Now it’s customary to ask someone from the floor to propose a vote of thanks to a very enjoyable and understandable lecture. I’d like to call upon Sir David to offer the vote of thanks.”

At last I’d see who this mysterious business or political heavyweight they’d talked into coming to be bored out of their tiny brain. An elderly but quite spry figure came from one of the seats at the side. Oh my giddy aunt, it’s Him, St Attenborough, the patron saint of conservationists. I felt quite ill, I was in the presence of my hero, oh my goodness. I felt quite faint so I didn’t really hear what he was saying in that lilting, soft voice of his, except when he stopped the place erupted with applause.

I acknowledged the audience and waved my thanks to them before sitting down. My legs felt really strange, had I just hallucinated the whole thing? “Cathy? Cathy, come on dear, Sir David is waiting to go to lunch.”

Tom was pulling on my arm asking me to rise and my whole body seemed awe stricken. It was ludicrous that the most gifted communicator of the natural world was here paying tribute to me, a mere tyro by comparison. It felt completely ridiculous, I was in the presence of a demi-god, me—the weirdo from Bristol. My feet seemed to follow Tom’s urging as I staggered along with him to meet my all-time hero, my brain still in stunned mode.

We were introduced and can you believe what I said? My stupid gob opened and out tumbled the words, “Could I have your autograph?” as if I needed proof that I’d been in the presence of the presence.

Lunch followed but I can’t really describe what I had or what was said, but I was sitting at the same table as this great man drinking in his every word but none of which seemed to register in my consciousness. Not to put too fine a point on it, I was blown away by his normalness and approachability. A legend in his own lifetime and as down to earth as anyone I’d ever met.

When he left the restaurant, I thanked him for coming and he shook my hand and told me it had been his pleasure to meet me, and how much he’d enjoyed my two films and looked forward to seeing me do more.

Tom and the Vice Chancellor saw him off to his cab while I slumped in my chair feeling totally exhausted by the experience. I knew Tom would tease me for a long time over it but I was totally and completely overawed by the great man’s charm. After that, everything else would seem a total anticlimax.

“Cathy, c’mon hen, ye need tae get yersel’ in gear lassie,” all I could do was yawn at him.

“How come you spoke English to Sir David but not to me?” I asked my brain still not functioning except on auto-pilot.

“Och. He widdnae understand proper English the noo, wid he?”

I returned to my office somehow. We had a taxi back to the university. Diane asked if I was okay and Tom sniggered and told her I was star struck. She brought me a cuppa and said she’d really enjoyed and understood my talk, which was nice of her to say. She went on to relate how Delia had told her to go and listen to me lecture if she could, because she’d enjoy it.

“Sir David Attenborough did, or said he did. He also said he felt good to be handing over the biology element of his mantle to one who was a worthy successor and that Brian Cox would carry the other sciences, but it was nice to see a lovely young woman presenting his subject, the natural world, with such calm authority.”

He said that about me—about me? Oh god, I feel sick...

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2817 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I wasn’t sick, except as a parrot. I’m never quite sure what that’s supposed to mean unless it’s because some parrots are green, goodness knows.

In the UK it often means sick in a metaphorical sense rather than bringing up breakfast and it was this I was referring to. I mean, I get to meet my hero—oh I did get his autograph—and I’m so overcome with the situation that I act like a tongue tied six year old. I’m sure he spoke to me several times but all I did was blush and giggle—what a twit. Whatever happened to the articulate wildlife film maker and presenter, goodness knows.

Tom will give me hell about it for weeks, I just hope I didn’t blow it for everyone else. I was sitting thinking about this when he came over. “Jest came tae see if ye’d recovered?”

“Recovered—oh from this morning—that was a rotten trick to pull on me. Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?”

“If I haed ye’d only hae worrit yersel’ a’ mornin’, instead ye gave a reasonable accoont o’ yersel’. Sir David enjoyed it or sae he said.”

“I just didn’t know what to say to him, I must have looked a total fool.”

“No, he ken’t ye were overcome with nerves at meeting him, sae ye sat quietly and let him dae thae talking. It wis most interesting tae.”

I shrugged, “I hope I didn’t let the side down.”

“Dinna be silly, he seemed tae think a lot o’ ye an’ yer furry vermin. I think he wants the BBC to commission some more films frae ye.”

“What?” I gasped, “He wants me to do more?”

“Aye, leastways that wis thae impression I got.”

Perhaps I wasn’t as silly as I thought? Yeah sure, and Mickey Mouse is the largest rodent in California. I glanced at the clock and told him I had to collect the girls. He asked me to give a disc to Trish.

“What is it?”

“Jest something she asked me tae copy.”

“Okay,” I took it from him and shoved it in my bag. I wondered what he’d been ‘borrowing’ from the university library for her this time. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. I pecked him on the cheek and remembered I had to go to the salon to have my hair done, so asked him if he could get the girls. He complained but went off to do it, it gave him a chance to finish early and have a little snooze before he changed for the dinner.

I gave instructions to Diane for the remainder of the day and the next, I expected to be in late the next day not from overindulgence but simply because I was going to be out later than I usually am. I know it sounds as if I’m ninety not merely eighty nine.

Arriving at the salon, Phoebe and Julie made a huge fuss of me and then asked how my talk had gone. When I told them they were almost hysterical laughing. However they managed to wash my hair and then Julie set to and trimmed it up, then started playing with various highlights. I asked her not to go overboard or I’d cancel her Christmas.

“Oh that, yeah I meant to say, Phoebe an’ me are goin’ to Switzerland for Chrimble.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we’re going with a gang, in we, Phoebes, leave at lunch time on Christmas eve.”

I was flabbergasted to say the least.

“You’ll be cutting things a bit fine won’t you?”

“Nah, we’ve got an airport taxi to take us an’ collect us on New Year’s day.”

“So you’re going for a whole week?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, but promise me you’ll look after each other.”

“Course we will, won’t we Pheebs?”

“Because I won’t have time to come and rescue you.”

“You won’t need to, we’re gonna learn to ski.”

I’ve never skied myself, no balance on fast moving objects except possibly bikes, and that isn’t very often these days, don’t seem to have much time for anything. We continued chatting and Phoebe came to sort out my nails. I left there at four thirty with dark blonde hair with auburn and ash blonde highlights. My hair was up and Julie gave me a pale red lipstick which goes with the dress and my rose coloured nails, which were longer than usual. My toenails had also been done so would look tidy if anyone saw my feet—I was told to wear sandals. I made no promises.

At home the girls were noticeable by their absence as was Daddy as he was up showering. Simon arrived just after me and was busy chattering on his phone as he came in, so ignored me. I spoke with Amanda and David, she was staying on this evening while we were out. David and she were going to watch a DVD in the lounge. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad news.

Daddy came down cussing as he was tying his bow tie then saw me blushed and said, “Melvin Burrows has gang sick could ye dae thae response tae thae Vice Chancellor?”

“What, tonight?”

“Aye.”

“But I haven’t even had a chance to think about it.”

“Och ye’re a natural, just speak f’ ten minutes, pretend ye’ve got a dormoose in yer hand.”

“When did you find out about this?”

He blushed, “Aye weel I’d better see aboot ma tie,” and dashed off to his study. I know he was chairing the event otherwise he might have done it, but bugger, I was planning on relaxing after I got nearly ready. I arranged to borrow Stella’s long evening coat. Simon had shown no interest in my dress so he could wait until we got to the city hall, the venue of this evening’s festivities. I sat down with a cuppa and tried to find some funnies—I’d probably include the one about the photon travelling light and the book I’m reading on antigravity, just can’t put it down.

I also needed some sort of educational political message—hmm. I had one but I wondered how well it would be received, especially if I complain about the raising of fees and universities not being places of learning anymore but income generators. I thought of one by Max Planck who was as contradictory in his quotations as his field of discovery was seen to become—Quantum Mechanics. In some quotes he talks about faith and god and the next minute he’s declaring he doesn’t believe in personal gods or the one of Christianity.

Simon came downstairs and I sneaked up to the bathroom and showered with my cap on, then after drying myself did my makeup and slipped into my lingerie. At six thirty I pulled on my dress and immediately covered it with my coat. At seven we left taking Tom with us in my car, Simon drove. I had a few scraps of paper with notes on them, I hoped I could throw together some coherent answer to the Vice Chancellor which made the captive audience laugh and accept as they laugh a more serious message. Our existence as educational institutions may well depend on it.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2818 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

The meal was adequate, David would have done much better, but there were well over a hundred people here so I accept scale does affect production. We had mushroom soup to begin, Simon ate my roll for me, followed by chicken breast wrapped in Parma ham with vegetables and new potatoes. Pudding—the dessert not my niece—was raspberry pavlova followed by cheese and biccies. Si had my pavlova and I ate most of his cheese and biccies. I had one glass of wine, as I’d be driving home he and Tom had two or three. Tom had to stay sober to chair the proceedings. If there was any advantage in doing one of the speeches, it was sitting on the top table, where the service was quicker. But it effectively meant speaking rather than singing for my supper.

Tom is rather good at this sort of thing and he regaled them with events at the university, including a new Vice Chancellor, over the past year. He had them laughing a bit about things and I suddenly realised he was talking the Queen’s English, not his usual Edinburgh patois. Next up was the Vice Chancellor and I tried to listen carefully to what he said because I was going to be replying to it and although it’s more symbolic as a form of entertainment than an actual response. Some of what I intended saying was possibly politically biased, but despite being married to one of the richest families in Britain if not Europe, my politics were decidedly left of centre and I spoke about what I believed in.

I asked for the jug of water to be refilled and poured myself a glass while I waited for our windbag VC to finish his platitudes, encouraging the troops etc. I felt like I was going to a Siegfried Sassoon to his General Haig, holding things up to the light.

There was polite applause to end the longest ten minutes I’d felt for a long time. Tom thanked the Vice Chancellor and then looked at me. “It gives me great pleasure to ask Professor Cathy Watts to respond to the Vice Chancellor. For those who don’t know her, she is by training a field biologist and ecologist, largely responsible for the success of the British and now European survey of mammals. She is one of the leading experts on the Hazel Dormouse in Europe and has made two successful films about dormice and harvest mice which were well regarded both by the critics but also in academia.

“This morning she gave the Christmas lecture on the evolution of complex cells, one of the most crucial steps in the whole of evolution and how we’re all here today. Then she had none other than Sir David Attenborough attend her lecture and propose the vote of thanks. He was impressed with her as a speaker and as film maker and presenter. Her students love her and she is regarded as one of the best teachers in the university with what might be best described as an inspirational style of presentation. I must also tell you that she didn’t know until two hours ago that she would be giving this address when she stepped in to cover a colleague who is indisposed. Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests and Vice Chancellor, I give you Professor Cathy Watts.”

I stood up and put my hand above my eyes as if peering at the assembled diners. “Mr Chairman, distinguished guests, Vice chancellor, ladies and gentlemen and anyone else I may have missed. Sorry about squinting at you like that but I was trying to count how many of you were at my earlier gig this morning so don’t worry this is a different talk. If however, you fall asleep you’ll be assigned washing up duties.” This got a small chuckle probably from politeness.

“For those who don’t know me, I’m acting Professor of Biological Sciences, trying to fill the shoes of my predecessor who is acting Dean of the Faculty of Science, our much loved Professor Tom Agnew, who is also the one who dropped me in it to do this talk tonight, so if you don’t like it—it’s his fault.” That got another titter, they were going to be hard work.

“I’m a biologist, so expect the odd science throwaway—like the scarab beetle who walked into a bar and asked is this stool was taken—and the neutron who was out walking with a friend and said, ‘I’ve just lost an electron.’ His friend replied, ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m positive.” These got some groans and one or two laughs.

“The Vice Chancellor has told you how he sees university education going, with more and more research being sponsored by commercial interests, either for their benefit in a direct sense or by association. While everyone loves dormice, only the government through Natural England are likely to sponsor research, no one else is that interested always expecting the funding to happen by magic. It doesn’t and we were very lucky to have received assistance from High Street Banks as well as the UK government and European Union to pursue our survey of mammals which included dormice, and the bank and Deffra also helped to sponsor the films.

“Now why would a bank be sponsoring a university to count dormice and then film it? I suppose it helps if you know the chairman—I do very well now, he’s my father in law but he doesn’t fund things on a whim and they ran a savings account aimed at young people called a Dormouse Account. They suggest it was reasonably cost effective and brought a new generation of potential customers to the bank.

“So one of my roles as an environmental scientist is to try and inform the necessary authorities of the condition of the environment and its inhabitants so they can enact legislation to deal with untoward changes, hopefully, where possible to reverse them. But you all know about that part of my job and if I’m on television any more often you’ll start to think I’m Carol Vorderman.

“Another aspect of my job is to guide research by my staff, graduate students and undergraduates and to manage that part of the department helped by my colleagues. It’s the part I enjoy most after being in the field and actually studying habitats and their inhabitants and during my time I've counted all sorts of mammals, birds, insects, reptiles, amphibians and even protozoa—little single celled creatures. Abundance gives us an idea of how a species is doing and is often the easiest element to study. From this we can then suggest where we need to go next in assessing what is happening with the species if we have figures to compare it against, and so on.

“This is all very well and useful but I also try to allow a small amount of blue sky thinking and research, which the Vice Chancellor tells us is unlikely to survive in the current climate of austerity. I would say, we stop it at our peril. Science is essentially a curiosity about how or why something happens and often what we start investigating turns into something entirely different as we follow the twists and turns of the chase. It sometimes leads to dead ends, but so does sponsored research, however there is just a glimmer that by allowing someone to follow a hunch or a whim, something entirely new happens. The discovery of penicillin and more recently graphene happened this way. So please don’t stop it altogether it kills inspiration and aspiration too.

“Don’t worry, I’ll stop in a moment, but before I do, I’d like to leave you with an observation made by Max Planck, the founder of Quantum Mechanics and one of the leading and most influential and respected scientists of the Twentieth Century. He said, ‘Scientific discovery and scientific knowledge have been achieved only by those who have gone in pursuit of it without any practical purpose whatsoever in view.’ Thank you.”

I sat down and Simon patted my hand. “Well done, girl, showing up that tosser for what he is.” I smiled back at him.

Tom was winding things up and declaring that the dance floor was now ready and for everyone to enjoy themselves, the bar would close at midnight but for everyone to drink responsibly. He handed me a glass of lemon and lime. “Ye’ve tellt it like it is but ye’ll hae made a poowerful enemy—watch yer back, lassie.

Simon and I eventually had a few dances and he went up to the bar to get some more drinks, I was quite thirsty. While he was away the Vice Chancellor walked up to me, “Would you do me the honour of this dance, Lady Cameron?”

He wasn’t my choice of dancing partners but thought I’d better show willing rather than obvious hostility. As we slowly waltzed around the floor he quietly said, “For such short notice, a creditable speech.”

“Thank you,” I said leaving it at that.

“It’s nice to meet a genuine champagne socialist, how much is pa in law worth?”

“I have no idea but I suspect it’s probably worth more than that stuck up moron who seems to enjoy sucking the life force out of anything worthwhile in this Tory afflicted country and to whom you toady.”

“Ouch, fighting talk, Lady C.”

“Not at all, I’m sweetness and light, really I am.”

“As long as you get your own way, eh?”

“You’re nobody’s fool are you?”

“Just be aware of that—it might preserve your career and department during this period of austerity.”

“That sounds like a threat, Vice Chancellor.”

“More a word of advice—please take it, the university would hate to lose you—I’d rather consolidate your acting to a permanent chair, if we can work as a team.”

“Unless Oxford happen to up their offer.”

He laughed, “You don’t really think that do you?”

“Whether or not I do, you’re the last person I’d discuss it with. Ah good, the music has stopped.” He nodded and I dropped a small curtsey and went back to Simon.

“What did he want?”

“To frighten me.”

“Want me to have a word?”

“Not at all, he wouldn’t frighten me unless he wanted to marry one of my daughters.”

Simon looked at me in disbelief and then laughed loudly.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2819 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“So, is he going to cause you any trouble?” asked Simon as we lay in bed together.

“Who knows, possibly not if I behave myself.”

He chuckled. “I can just see that happening.”

“What d’ya mean?” I pouted.

“You—you’ll do what you’ve always done.”

“What’s that?”

“Whatever you like.”

“Well you can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“I wonder how you’d have been before all this emancipation of females.”

“Not sure I want to be on the front line which is what dozy Dave is talking about, I’d settle for equal pay in every job.”

“You get equal pay don’t you—in the public sector, I mean?”

“Not everywhere, remember that case back last year when some cleaners found out the men got half as much again as the women.”

“Vaguely, from that point of view we pay the same regardless of gender, however bonuses are paid for results.”

“What if you lose more money you get paid more?”

“Yes—what, er no, that is not what I meant and you know it.”

I smirked, most of the time he let me run rings round him.

“That dress looked really nice—tonight, I mean.”

“Thank you, mind you it should for four thousand quid.”

“Quite,” there as short pause; “How much?” to emphasis the fact he sat up in bed.

“Four K, why?”

“It didn’t cost that did it?”

“It’s all hand sewn, Stella took me to some woman whose daughter she was in school with or something. Upper class dress designer.”

“Still four grand, that’s one hell of a lot for a bloody dress.”

“Yeah could get a nice carbon bike for that.”

“I’ll bet you could. Still, you’re wearing it on Friday to the bank’s do?”

“No, got an even nicer one for that, cost six grand, but you’ll love me in it.”

“You spent ten grand on bloody dresses? Jesus aitch Christ.”

“Well you told me I had to look like an aristocrat’s wife. You’ll love the other one, it’s red and...”

“I can’t believe you spent that much on dresses.”

“I only did what you told me to do.”

“I’m surprised the bank didn’t phone me.”

“Oh Stella got a call while I was trying on the second one, shall I show it to you?”

“Not tonight, you’re really getting into this lady of the manor stuff aren’t you?”

“This woman is making all my clothes from now on—I’ll give the old stuff to Julie or Sammi. She reckons she could do me a basic wardrobe for about fifty.”

“Fifty thousand?”

“Yes, good isn’t it?”

“I might have to sell the bank to pay my wife’s dressmaker’s bills, yeah really good.”

“Don’t be such a wet blanket, you complained that I never took the high life seriously enough, so here I am—I’m seeing the gossip coloumnist from the Daily Mail on Monday.”

“You’re telling me fibs aren’t you?”

“Who me? Cross my heart to lift and separate,” I crossed my fingers just in case.

“Yes you, missus,” he suddenly leant over and started to tickle me. In seconds I was squealing and asking him to stop. “So how much were these dresses?” he said giving me a tiny tickle.

“How did you guess?” Duh—ten grand for two dresses, obvious I was taking the proverbial, innit?

“You went too far.”

“What with the cost?”

“No, no matter how much you wanted to play Lady Bountiful, you’d never talk to the DM. You’d speak with the Guardian first.”

“True—yeah okay, I made up that bit. But the dresses were a snip, weren’t they.”

“I’ll tell you when the bills come in.”

“I fibbed a bit there, too.”

“Why you,” he began tickling me again until I wriggled so much I fell out of bed and then had to run to the toilet.

“Pig,” I called as I trotted to the en suite. He just lay back laughing.

When I got back to bed he pretended he was asleep until i wiped the wet flannel across his bum. Boy did he jump—then swore and chased me round the bedroom. I won’t say what happened after that but the next morning I was walking a bit funny but my glower stopped Trish in mid sentence. She was ready to go to school early again, I wasn’t I was sore, tired and hadn’t had my breakfast. However, what Trish wants she generally gets and I grabbed some bread on the way from school to the university, from a little baker’s shop I’d passed loads of times but never stopped and gone in before. I got a banana as well, so my usual breakfast would just be slightly delayed.

As we munched our charred bread Diane asked me if she could watch me do a normal lecture. “Why? Unless you’re into my stuff or have to sit through them, they’ll bore you to death—honest.”

“That isn’t what the others say.”

“What others?”

“They say don’t teach, you perform.”

“And who are these others—drama critics, perchance?”

“Very funny—I’m trying to be serious. I want to be the best secretary you’ve ever had and I feel by seeing you in action will help me understand you and what you do, how you tick.”

“Crikey, that’s going to be like having the Stasi watching me.”

“Don’t be so silly, your kids do it all the time so they can learn how to grow up into young women.”

“Why are they watching me, I’ve only been doing this a few years?”

“Very funny, I thought you said you were a girl with a plumbing problem not a woman inside a man’s body?”

I’d been outmanoeuvred again, now I knew what Simon felt last night.

“All right, I have a tutorial in an hour, you can sit in on that as well.

“No no, can’t do that far too busy,” and with that she sashayed out of my office leaving me wiping crumbs off my hands and face.

An hour and a half later I begged her for another cup of tea—how George was going to get a doc phil completely passed me by. He doesn’t listen when I’m giving him advice, he pretends he has but he’s either deaf or stupid. Perhaps he is deaf, must check that out. As I rose to speak to Diane she walked into my office and plonked the mug of tea with a mince pie on my desk.

“Ooh, mince pies, lovely—thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you speak to George just now?”

“Only to make his next tutorial, why?”

“Any problems?”

“Like...?”

“Could he be deaf?”

“What?”

“Could he...” I started to repeat and she ran out laughing. She’s going to have to go but I’m glad she wasn’t in the tutorial it was painful enough for me and they pay me a bit more than her.

“Mind if I disappear a bit early tonight, boss lady?”

“Ask Pippa if she’ll take my calls.”

“I um can’t.” She blushed and for the first time looked slightly flummoxed, I was going to enjoy this, I hoped.

“Why not?”

“She’s going to the same do as me.”

“What’s that?”

“We underlings have decided that we can have a do as well as you overpaid lot.”

“Where?”

“Southsea.”

“Oh, where abouts?”

“The Green Room, why?”

“Food is very good there.”

“So Pippa said, she got us some discount, too.”

“I expect she did.”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Know why?”

“Not really.”

“My pa in law owns it, or the bank does.”

“What? Is there anything you don’t own or control round here?”

“A few things but I’m working on it.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2820 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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I told switchboard that I was leaving and so was my secretary and Professor Agnew’s secretary was also going, so to reroute calls back to them and to take messages for me. They’d have to see what Professor Agnew wanted to do but I suspected he was in a meeting much of the afternoon. Poor old Tom, he looked the worse for wear this morning, not so much the drink but the effort of chairing the dinner dance last night. He is getting on a bit and it takes longer to recover—talking of recovery, I was walking normally now, after Simon’s animal instincts had caused a slight modification in my gait. It doesn’t always hurt but he got a bit carried away after talking about money. He still doesn’t know about the dress, which I took to the dry cleaners this morning and will collect on the way to collect the girls—good job they do four hour cleaning but the price is ridiculous, but it got a bit sweaty last night and there was no way I was going to try washing it.

I arrived at the school to find Trish in deep conversation with Sister Maria, they looked slightly guilty when they saw me coming. What is going on? Is it something to do with her early morning attendances? Neither she, the headmistress nor any of her sisters let on what it was all about and for once I didn’t demand to be told, though curiosity was driving me nuts

When we got home they were talking to David about the stuff they wanted for Thursday for their class parties, then it was the nativity play cum carol concert, dash back home on Friday and off to the Dorchester for High St’s Christmas bash. Simon had organised a room so we could shower and change there and sleep overnight before returning on Saturday. The weather looked abysmal for the week except for temperatures which were more like May than December. Apparently some place in Devon had the temperature drop to 14.2 degrees Celsius overnight making it the warmest December night ever recorded in the UK. The accompanying wind and rain are not so welcome.

I was so looking forward to having some time off over Christmas though I always had stuff to do for the survey so I never quite stopped altogether, even abroad I tend to check my emails. Simon once called me a workaholic as he was checking his emails from the office. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or serious and I’m still none the wiser.

Tonight dinner was very basic, pork chops with creamed potatoes, mashed carrot and swede which the kids love, peas and broccoli. We don’t do desserts now, all us adults are trying to shed the odd pound, preferably from waistlines and the girls are happy to have a chocolate bar or few biscuits instead. Danielle has stopped eating sweets and biscuits so I suspect she may have a boy in view. She says it’s to stop her getting spots, but her complexion is gorgeous—then it should be at fourteen. I feel really sorry for teenagers who get acne, especially girls—one or two of whom, get it really badly. It must be awful.

I taught Danni to do a deep cleanse every night before she goes to bed so hopefully that will minimise the risk of clogged pores and blackheads. I even pay for the cleanser and cotton pads not to mention the moisturiser she uses. Julie recommended one which is really good and she gets it wholesale for us, so we save a little that way, but we have about four or five bottles of it on the go most of the time, even Stella uses it.

Thursday arrived and Trish was champing at the bit as we took extra time to load all the food David and Amanda had done for the various class parties. According to the girls our stuff is miles better than anyone else’s but they don’t have a chef on tap to do it for them. I told them that if any of them get caught bragging, next year, we’ll buy it all from Waitrose, same as the others do. They all groaned—I know, I’m a mean momma. Ha ha, that would make them laugh themselves silly. One word from me and they do as they please—until I think they’re pushing their luck and then they discover I do mean what I say—they tend not to like it as iPads and mobile phones get confiscated.

The secretariat, well Tom’s and mine were looking as if they had a good night last night. They went to the restaurant and then on to a club which had male strippers. If the men’s equipment was anything like the bags under Diane’s eyes, they had something to be proud of. She looked shattered and at one point, when I had to go off to a meeting in Tom’s office mid morning, I told her to lock herself in my office and get forty winks. I don’t know if she did or not but she looked better when I returned after lunch—the only problem with meeting Daddy in his official capacity as Dean was his insistence that I go to lunch with him afterwards. He always pays so it could be worse. That sounds as if I’m a real tightwad, I’m not but after about the third time of asking to pay or to pay for my own meal, he told me to never ask again, it was his pleasure to spoil me and made up for his not being able to do it as my father when I was young. He’s such a nice man for an auld goat, as he says.

Our meeting had been officially about maintaining educational standards in our examining committee, but in reality it was the small core of dissidents who were opposed to the way the Vice Chancellor was trying to turn us into a commercial business. His previous job had been with a huge American firm of business consultants who make their money making their clients more and more efficient. I quoted by paraphrase the chapter in Professor Brasier’s book the example he gave of systems which as they become more and more efficient have only one eventual outcome—extinction. They all applauded at that.

We all know that we have to raise a certain amount of money in order to fund the research we do in the various departments. So far, tuition fees and my films plus grants from Henry have kept biology well afloat. However, the downside is that it looks as if I’m going to need to do a film a year to keep us that way. I do make some money personally as well from the venture, but then I use a lot of my own time to make them, not only in the actual shooting but also in the writing, directing and pursuing. Alan and I are thinking of forming a company to continue our partnership, though we haven’t agreed on a name yet. I suggested, Dormouse Films he preferred Catalan Films. His is more clever, mine is nicer.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2821 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

On Friday morning Trish seemed more agitated than ever and nagged me into taking her in even earlier than usual. In fact it was her that woke me up telling me she mustn’t be late today.

“Just what is going on with you, young lady, because this is getting silly?”

“I can’t tell you yet, please trust me, Mummy. I can tell you later—honest.”

“You can tell me tonight?”

“Yes,” she nodded to emphasise the point, “But I have to be in school early.”

“Is this something to do with the nativity concert?”

“Sort of,” she said and rushed off to get her breakfast. As I was going to see said concert and carol service, I thought I’d see for myself eventually.

So once again I delivered the girls to school before half the teachers were there let alone most of the pupils. I got some crumpets for breakfast on the way into work and Diane and I feasted on them dripping with butter and a slice of cheese. I began to think after the third one if I’d need any lunch. I also reminded Diane that I was leaving early for the girls’ Christmas concert so to sort what needed my attention and get it to me by lunch time because I was leaving to get to the convent for two o’clock come what may.

Curiosity made me muse on what she might be up to, Trish, that is. I knew Danni and Livvie were in the school choir but Meems has little sense of musical pitch and is tone deaf. She sings in the key of Yale rather than anything harmonius, her drone being closer to whale song than evensong. We tried letting her go to choir practice with the others but we were told after two sessions she was not to go again, her singing was too challenging for mere mortals to deal with. It didn’t surprise me so I told her she didn’t have to any more. She was delighted and I wondered if her replication of Lee Marvin’s Wand’rin’ Star, was designed to preclude her membership of the choir, only she did it with Oh Come All Ye Faithful. It takes some doing unless you are genuinely tone deaf.

I could see Trish as the Angel Gabriel informing the shepherds as if it were the soliloquy from Hamlet or the start of Richard III. ‘Now is the winter and your discontent is eased by heading to Bethlehem and seeing our Lord, the baby Jesus, who is to be or not to be our saviour.’

Lunch was a bag of crisps I had in the drawer, the sell by date of which was two months ago. They tasted all right, washed down with yet another cuppa I went and powdered my nose and off to the school.

A teacher was acting as car park attendant and I explained to her I had to dash off to London immediately after the concert, so I was able to park near the gates. I saw one or two faces I recognised and tried to hide in the crowd of parents who were milling around trying to find seats where they could see little Tamsin and she would see them without disrupting the whole proceedings.

Unfortunately, I was spotted by Sister Maria and dragged into her office. “Is there any chance you could do another talk for us, I get two or three requests every week to get you to come again.”

“What sort of time are we talking about?”

“Before Easter.”

“How long before Easter?”

“How about Maundy Thursday?”

“What in the evening?” Not a good idea as the girls will all have finished by then.

“Oh no, what about the week before?”

“What time?”

“Early evening?”

“What six or later?”

“Say seven to give the students a chance to go home and get back again with their parents.”

“Send me a date and if I can do it, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you so much Lady Cameron—that will make an awful lot of people happy.”

I smiled, trying to be gracious in defeat, now I had to think of a topic and find some film clips to use to illustrate it. Just what I needed.

“Oh, I hope you enjoy Trish’s little piece for the nativity play.”

“So do I. She’s been driving me daft the past couple of weeks to get her in early.”

“Yes, she’s been practicing very hard every day.”

“Doing what exactly?”

“You’ll find out very shortly, but be aware she is performing something she wrote herself.”

“Really?” I hoped she wouldn’t mangle too many words.

“Don’t worry, we’ve checked it all out with her and you’ll be really proud of her, she follows ever closer in your footsteps every day,”

Now my mind was whirling like a vortex wondering what on earth she was mixed up in this time. I hope she’s not going to sing, it’s like an air raid siren and definitely just for bathroom use only.

I made my way to the hall and was directed to a named and reserved seat, right in the front of the audience. Oh poo—nowhere to hide. I’d just got myself seated when the first of the girls began to walk in in single file. They began to surround the stage and I realised this was the school choir—so where were Meems and Trish.

The students not in the entertainment sat in two sections on the sides of the hall, the parents being in the main section of the centre. Then another lot of older girls were led to stand behind the chairs. Goodness, I hope it won’t go on too long for them.

Minutes later the doors were closed and Sister Maria walked out onto centre stage. “The order of the entertainment will be carols, the nativity play followed by more carols, a prayer for Christ-mass and a few notices of things to come. We’ll start with a prayer and then the choir will sing us a medley of old and new carols. Oh Lord enable us to celebrate this festival of the coming of your son, our saviour, without becoming consumed by materialism and greed and to fill our hearts with the true spirit of the season, good will on earth to all men. Amen.”

They launched into Good King Wenceslas and Hark the herald angels, the latter was written by Mendelssohn, then the Holly and the ivy. We had two readings from the New Testament by senior year girls and then the headmistress appeared again.

“You’ve heard the traditional form of reporting the nativity, now please welcome Tricia Cameron and her friends to give a more modern take on the story. I have to tell you that Tricia wrote this herself and the moves of the dancers were a combined effort of them all. Perhaps I should remind you that a performing talent seems to run in her family and her mum, Lady Catherine Cameron has acted and performed on this very stage as well as giving us the most remarkable talks ever heard here.” As she spoke I wanted to shrink into my seat and disappear.

“I give you, The Nativity Rap.” She stood to one side and out pranced Trish her hair woven into tight braids and wearing trousers and a tee shirt I’d never seen before. I watched as she started and the others danced or performed what she was saying. It was very clever and short enough for them all to get it right.

“Gonna tell you folks about a time in ancient history
When a baby born in Israel in the first century
He was born the son of God, the first in human shape
And his parents didn’t know the fuss his birth would make
When they laid him in the manger back in Bethlehem
And King Herod waited in his palace in Jerusalem
For the magi to tell him where they were so he could murder them.
Instead the wise men brought Him gifts of myrrh, frankinsense and gold
And then went home by a different way so Herod never got told.
All the babes in the town were killed by order of a royal decree
’Cept baby Jesus an’ his ’rents who warned by angels decided to flee
Far away from Herod and his murderous intent
And here ends this part of the New Testament.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2822 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Well the rest of the concert seemed a bit tame after that, but I managed to spot Danielle and Livvie in the choir and Mima had been one of the dancers in Trish’s potted nativity performance. Hannah was also one of the dancers and after the final prayer led by the indomitable headmistress, she came and found me.

Something I hadn’t spotted until then was the fact that all the performers from Trish’s rap had been wearing baseball caps—backwards—hardly haute couture but I suppose but most of the ones I've seen in pictures or on the telly, rappers that is, didn’t look clever enough to realise they had their hats on back to front. Having said that, I could well imagine writing what is essentially poor poetry with a rhythmic beat wouldn’t be the easiest accomplishment, though I suspect if you asked them if they were writing verse, they’d say they were better now.

I was still reeling from the hidden talents of my daughters. Eventually Trish and our choristers came and found me and we left. I’d warned Sister Maria that I had to dash and whisked the children off and after a cuppa, a mince pie and a wee, grabbed the case which contained my dress and coat and some night things. I also changed into some jeans and a top plus a cardigan, then after loading the stuff in my car, Stella ran me to the station. The train was on time and I settled myself down in first class and was about to catch up with the latest goings on in Venice, courtesy of Donna Leon, when a familiar voice made my hair stand on end.

“Lady Cameron, how nice to see you again,” and Mrs Browne Coward inserted herself on the opposite side of the table from me. My heart sank. I’d looked forward to catching up with my reading for an hour or so and instead I had the poor man’s hippopotamus sitting opposite.

“Mrs Browne Coward,” I acknowledged back.

“Got to go to a do at the Dorchester,” she said and I nearly pulled the cord and jumped off the train. “Tomorrow night, so I’m going to some last minute shopping in the West End.”

“How nice,” I said hoping it didn’t sound too patronising or too friendly.

“Is that one of those I-pod things?” she said indicating my tablet.

“The I-pod is an MP3 player with huge memory, this is an android type tablet computer.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Size of memory to start with, this is sixty four gigs.”

“Is that good?”

“It means I can keep Encyclopaedia Britannica on here with loads of room to spare.”

“Have you got it on there, then?”

“Uh no, I was just using that as an indication of the size of the memory, sixty four billion bytes or thereabouts.”

“Astonishing what they can do these days isn’t it. I mean I’ve got one of these things, don’t know what half of it is about. Hubby gave it to me for my birthday, darling Petunia had to show me how to make a call and send a text.”

“How is Petunia?”

“She’s fine ever since she left that school. I’m sure half those nuns were repressed, you know whats. She’s doing very well at a little school in Portchester. Captain of the school soccer team. How are your girls?”

“Oh doing okay, you know. Trish and Livvie both play soccer for the school team but Danielle is the most accomplished, she plays for Portsmouth ladies, England schools and has played for the full national side.”

“What England?”

“Yes.”

“You must be very proud of her.”

“I am, she’s turning into quite a nice young lady.”

“What else would she be?” she asked I hoped rhetorically, then decided I would answer anyway.

“You know the way that some girls are almost as bad as their spotty boyfriends in terms of the mischief they get up to, the local papers are full of young women convicted of acts of violence, whereas in our day it was only the very worst who’d get involved in gangs or similarly nasty things.”

“Oh don’t remind me. We had a girl in our school who was sent to prison for stabbing another girl over a boy they both fancied. The girl died.”

“That was a bit over the top wasn’t it? I can recall boys fighting over us girls and girls being nasty to each other but rarely was it more than being spiteful not full blown violence.”

“Which school was that?”

“Bristol Grammar.”

“I went to a little school in Lancing, then did commerce at a place in Chichester, you went to university, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, Sussex Uni, then came here at Tom Agnew’s invitation. I heard him do a talk and wrote to him saying how much I’d enjoyed it and how he could improve things, and he invited me to come and show him and turned it into a master’s degree.”

“You have two degrees then?”

“Uh three, I went on to do a doctoral degree.”

“You are so clever, Lady Cameron.”

“Not really, I just put in the hours, bit of a plodder really.”

“But you’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Doctor of philosophy, in biological science—acting professor.”

“My goodness and you’re a plodder?”

“Yes, two of my girls are far cleverer than I am, Trish and Sammi.”

“Well they must have got it from you or your husband.”

Realising that if I said they were adopted I’d give her ammunition for gossip for the next three lifetimes, I simply shrugged. “Sammi’s brilliant with computers, she does loads for the bank in cyber protection. I’d love her to do a PhD but she’s too busy with work and her social life. Trish is really into physics and maths and I think if she wanted to she could get into any university she wanted, she’s precocious and could well be ready by fourteen to apply to Cambridge. It frightens me to death.”

“Fourteen? Isn’t that a bit young?”

“She’s verging on genius level, I have to get some colleagues from the university to coach her as she’s far above the physics and maths they teach at any secondary school.”

“Really? Aren’t people who are that clever sometimes a bit unbalanced?”

“I don’t think she is, she can be challenging because she sees or understands things far more quickly than most people, I mean all this week she’s been wanting to get to school early but she wouldn’t tell me why. This afternoon, she’d showed me what she’d been up to. She and a group of friends had produced one of these rap songs about the nativity and while she sang the song the others performed a dance about the words she was singing.”

“They did a dance about the nativity—the birth of Jesus? Isn’t that tantamount to blasphemy?”

“No because it wasn’t disrespectful of the Christian myth, not that it ever probably happened in the first place. I mean the story of the slaughter of all the male children by Herod is a fiction, there’s no mention of it in any historical sources and he did some pretty awful things but that would have been noted by his contemporaries and as a biologist, I’m afraid while parthenogenesis does happen in vertebrates it doesn’t in mammals, and if it were to happen, the baby would have to be female as the mother would only have X chromosomes to offer. So if the virgin birth happened, Jesus would have been female.”

“Fancy that, it’s amazing what an education can teach you.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2823 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I didn’t get to read my book, that wretched woman kept on talking, as we’d already got more than half way I did a little name dropping. “I met Sir David Attenborough the other day.”

“What the chap off the TV—does the nature programmes?”

“Yes, him.”

“What’s he like?”

“Given he’s over eighty, amazing. He also possesses a charm which puts you at your ease immediately.”

“How did you get to meet him?”

“I did the Christmas lecture at the university which is open to every member of staff, students or invited guests. My old prof invited him and he did the vote of thanks.”

“You got a vote of thanks from David Attenborough? That must have been exciting.”

“I knew nothing about it until he stood up and began speaking. I nearly collapsed in shock—he’s my all time hero.”

“And you got to meet him?”

“We took him to lunch.”

“I’ll bet that was fun.”

“Fun and nerve-racking. Suddenly, I got to meet this man I’d idolised ever since I was a girl and not only that but we’re having lunch together. Turns out my old prof used to be a technical expert for some of his programmes so they knew each other quite well and when he was going to be in the area, Tom asked him to come and do the vote of thanks. He was very complimentary.”

“Well you done those two programmes on mousey things, din’you?”

“Dormice and harvest mice.”

“That’s the ones. Seen any lately?”

“Only in the university, we breed them for release into the wild.”

“So some of them in the wild ain’t really wild?”

“The chances are their mothers were but were possibly too small to survive a winter hibernation.”

“How big they gotta be then?”

“At least fifteen grams, preferably more.”

“That’s like the weight of a bag of crisps.”

Funny she should know that, I didn’t. Dormice crisps—pul-ease.”

“Dormice crisps,” she tittered for a moment. Didn’t they used to have hedgehog crisps?”

“I think it was a joke by Walkers.”

“No, I saw them in the shops a few years ago.”

“They weren’t flavoured with hedgehog, that was just a publicity stunt cum hoax.”

“Thank goodness for that, I wouldn’t have been able to look myself in the eye if I had eaten hedgehog—they’re such lovely, cuddly creatures.”

“They’re covered in spines and full of fleas and ticks.”

“Oh don’t say that, I’ll never think of Mrs Tiggywinkle in quite the same light again.”

Beatrix Potter has a lot to answer for, she was however a serious botanical illustrator and i have a book at home she did the illustrations for, on fungi. She lived up in the Lake District near Keswick.

“Sorry to shatter your illusions.”

“I had a soft toy one when I was a youngster, used to take it everywhere until I dropped it in the road and it got flattened.”

How I kept a straight face I’ll never know, but it just struck me on the funny bone that motor vehicles are one of the biggest causes of hedgehog mortality and she had a toy one that got flattened by a car.

“When I was in school I did a survey of road casualties in our part of Bristol, that was mainly hedgehogs, badgers and foxes.”

“Badgers in a city?”

“Yes, parts of Bristol are quite suitable habitats for badgers. In some of the bigger houses there are small woodlands in the gardens, the gardens are that big.”

“In the city?”

“Not in the city centre but in places like Clifton and Whitchurch.”

“Coo, better than Portsmouth then?”

“Let’s face it, Pompey is limited by being an island, so land is at a premium.”

“And Bristol is a quite a size with several large parks and communal areas, sports areas and that sort of thing, plus it has three or four motorways running through or around it, their banks are untouched by man and badgers and foxes, even deer inhabit them.”

“You’re so clever.” I suppose I was compared to her, then so was Kiki. Thankfully, we arrived at London before things got any further down the cringeworthy scale and I was able to escape as the hordes struggled to get off the platforms and we were separated. I grabbed a cab and headed for the hotel which is in Park Lane and overlooks part of Hyde Park. It’s one of the most prestigious in the world and owned by the Sultan of Brunei, it’s also one of the most expensive and I was very glad Simon didn’t suggest we went dutch.

(photo courtesy of Wikipedia)

I entered the main door and went to reception, the case was getting heavy but no one seemed in a hurry to help a damsel in distress. I finally got the attention of the receptionist who looked at me with some disgust. I was wearing jeans and trainers with a Barbour coat over the top. “Yes, can I help you, modom?” she said with a plum in her voice.

“Yes, my husband booked a room here for tonight.”

She looked at me with incredulity, I obviously didn’t look well enough upholstered to be able to afford a room there.

“What name?”

“Cameron.”

“Are you sure it was Cameron, I can’t find see anything on the register?”

I sighed, I was all for getting the cab back to Waterloo and the train home. “Try Stanebury, as in Viscount.”

She did a double take. “You’re Lady Stanebury?”

“One of them, yes.”

“One? How many are there then?” This was bordering upon insolence and I felt like saying, ‘What business of yours is it?’

Instead, I actually said, “Three, my mother in law who is the Countess, my sister in law who is the Lady Stella and I’m Catherine. Satisfied?”

“Yes of course, Lady Catherine, sorry for any misunderstanding, your family have a suite booked for this evening, I’ll get you a porter.”

The rooms were very nice, a bit quaint but comfortable and after a cup of tea I went and bathed before starting to get ready. It was seven and we were due to be down in the basement for eight. Simon dashed in with Henry and Monica as I was doing my makeup. I was sitting in a wrap at the dressing table when Simon walked over pecked me on the cheek and began disrobing on the way to the shower. Henry and Monica called hello and went into their room.

“So where’s this five thousand pound gown?” said Simon as he emerged from the bathroom with a towel round his waist.

“I’m not sitting round in it, so wait and see.”

He shook his head, “It had better be worth it.”

“Why, what are you going to do about it?”

“Take that bloody card off Stella.”

“You said that before.”

“Did I, make us a cuppa, there’s a good girl,” and he disappeared into the bathroom to shave or I assumed that was what I could hear buzzing away. I filled the kettle and switched it on, then went across to Henry and Monica to see if they wanted a cuppa. They did.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2824 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****
I made the teas and waited for them to come to get them. Henry appeared from their room, thanked me and disappeared back with the teas. Simon eventually emerged and sipping his tea said, “Where’s this dress that cost half my bonus, then?”

“Just wait,” I retorted hoping the redness in my face would be seen as caused by drinking hot tea, “I mean, if I got tea all down it before the off...”

“All right, point taken, just don’t forget to take your slippers off before you go, eh?”

Having once turned up at work in slippers I was aware it could happen—but not tonight. I’d wear the same sandals as on Wednesday with same dress. A bit of wickedness crossed my mind—yes, serve him right.

The two men were having a glass of wine and had offered me one but I’d declined, Henry looked at his watch and said, “Ten minutes.” I nodded and went to put my dress on.

Simon came in as I was finishing. “You’re wearing that again, I thought there was a second dress?”

“There is, this is it.” I was lying.

“Looks the same to me.”

“Well it doesn’t to me. It’s similar I’ll grant you but it is a different dress.”

“You bought two almost identical dresses, why? Why not just get it cleaned in between events?”

“You told me to get two dresses.”

“I don’t remember that, I just said get something nice for this one.”

“Oh so the university doesn’t matter then?”

“Yes but it’s not quite on the same level as this one—this will be full of very rich men with exquisitely coutured women.”

“So what am I doing here then?” I suddenly felt very inadequate.

“Because you’re my wife and the most beautiful real woman there.”

“What d’you mean, real woman?”

“Well half of them will have size zero stick insects on their arms, with IQs in the same sort of numbers as their wrist measurements, you’re a director in your own right, you’re a university professor and mothers of thousands and still more beautiful than all of them put together.”

“Oh, Si,” I hugged and kissed him.

“It’s the same dress isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“See, I’m not as stupid as you think.”

Damn, he was thinking for himself—have to stop that before it becomes a habit. “Well, I didn’t see the point of buying two and besides I didn’t see two I really liked.”

“So how much was it then?”

“I think with the other bits and pieces about fifteen hundred. Sorry.”

“Sorry? Babes, I got off light, it looks lovely but you could have spent a bit more if you needed to.”

Whatever I do is wrong. I touched up my lippy checked my hair and misted myself in Coco. Simon coughed and then sneezed. Serve him right he should have stood further away.

The dinner was okay but I’ve had better at home. The speeches were tedious—was mine the other night?—I hope not. I did get a mention in Henry’s boasting that High St was the only bank with a director of ecological and environmental matters and that my films had raised the bank’s profile amongst people who valued their environment, usually youngsters and new account holders. So my contribution was valuable.

It was during the dance part of the evening that people came up to us and hanging on to their arms were these waif like creatures who looked in need of a good meal not having just had one. The gowns were beautiful and I wondered if at one time I might have wanted to look like that but many of them were there as arm candy, I was there because I was one of the family and for my brain—at least I hoped so or Simon would be entitled to a refund.

Henry managed to persuade me to have a couple of dances with him and he dances very well—I’m sure he’d give a good account of himself on Strictly, not that I watch it. Simon as if jealous of his dad grabbed me as we returned to the table and I had to do three dances with him. “Look, I’m already wearing your mark of ownership, so stop worrying.”

“What d’ya mean, mark of ownership?”

“This,” I lifted my ring finger with its wedding and engagement rings.

“It doesn’t mean that—does it?”

“It’s a sign to other men that I’m not available, I’m already owned by someone.”

“Yeah, me and I’m so proud of it and you and you look a million dollars in that dress, you did the other night.”

“It’s funny that you should quote the original selling price.”

“What a million dollars?”

I nodded sweetly trying to look guilty to confuse him.

“How much was it?”

“I’m not discussing that here, you don’t know who’s listening.” Suddenly he turned back into sweetness and light, “Of course dear.”

Later back in our room he asked me again. “I don’t remember, I just saw the dress and knew I had to have it regardless of price.”

“It does look lovely on you, so I suppose the cost is irrelevant.”

I popped out to make some tea and Henry was doing the same. “You looked simply delicious this evening, my dear. That dress was beautiful.”

“Thank you, Henry, you looked pretty dapper yourself and you dance wonderfully.”

“Yes, not a bad rug-cutter if I say so meself.”

I smiled and leant over to pour my tea, “I’m so glad you married my idiot son, it’s the best thing that happened to him. Normally when he comes to these sorts of things he sits there looking uncomfortable but tonight, he was so different. Several people commented on it. So thank you for coming, it made a big difference.” He went back to their room before I could say anything and I wasn’t sure if what he’d said had been a compliment, a thank you or an observation on Simon.

When I got back Si was undressing, his cummerbund over the back of a chair and his trousers and jacket draped over the seat of the chair. In contrast, my dress was on its hanger and in the wardrobe.

“I’m bushed,” he said and lay back on the bed and by the time I’d pulled on my nightdress, the grey silken one that Stella gave me for special occasions, he was zonked, one leg still on the floor. So much for, ‘No children tonight,’ which he said with a gleam in his eye—looks like his battery failed.

I sat in the easy chair on my side of the bed and read my book for a while. Donna Leon writes such curious and quirky characters for Brunetti to investigate, this time the sudden death of a man who was a deaf mute who probably also had a learning difficulty—was it murder? I don’t know, I’m only about a quarter the way into the book.

Simon snored himself awake, he sat up pulled his other leg under the bedclothes and turned over on his side. He looked straight at me but didn’t see me sitting by the bed. I cleaned my teeth and got in beside him. For all his failings I love him to bits and I know he does me as well. Just as well because he woke me an hour later with his snoring...

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2825 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Breakfast was okay, I mean just how many things do you need to eat just to get started on the day. Simon tucked into his full English with gusto, I used a knife and fork as I forced down the poached eggs on toast he’d ordered for me. He was full of the joys of spring—okay a few months late, but you get the picture. I was like someone who’d been woken several times in the night, twice with someone testing a RR Merlin engine in the bed alongside me—is that why they call it a test bed? Once I woke because Si went to the loo—could I plead provocation if I killed him?

We packed—right, I mean I packed while Si chatted with his dad. I suspect Monica was doing the same—nice to know we have a purpose in life. I checked around to see if we’d left anything and we hadn’t so Simon called for a porter and asked them to arrange a cab to Waterloo.

We were waiting on the platform minding our own business when I spotted someone who looked suspiciously like they were going to jump in front of the train. They were decidedly not right, twitchy and pacing to and fro. I said this to Simon who looked at him and shook his head, “He’s probably just impatient, perhaps he’s late for a meeting.”

“It’s Saturday, Si.”

“So? I sometimes go to meetings on weekends.”

“Yeah, I’d noticed.”

He glared back his response. “They paid for your dress.” At this I all but threw him under a train. I stepped away from him with a massive pout and to my horror saw our twitchy man move behind an elderly one as the train drew into the station, he wasn’t going to jump he was going to push someone else.

I charged through the waiting passengers and as the guy went to push the old man, I dived onto him knocking him backwards. Someone else also saw what was happening and came to assist me. Turns out he was from Special Branch. Si made the trip alone but did take the all the luggage with him, I got escorted to New Scotland Yard to make a statement. I know, I can’t resist keeping a low profile.

After the interview a statement was drafted and I signed it after reading it, I hadn’t confessed to anything like the Whitechapel murders, mind you they were over a hundred years ago, just to stopping an assault or attempted murder.

“So who was the old chap, he looked quite shaken by the experience?”

“He’s one of the Israeli negotiators.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not telling you this but there are teams of Arabs and Israelis here much of the time negotiating through the Quaker Peace Movement, trying to lay ground rules for release of captives or visiting rights between the state of Israel and the Palestinians. It’s all hush-hush but it’s been going on for years.”

“So who was his would be killer?”

“We think he’s from one of the fundamentalist Jewish groups who want to stop the Palestinians from getting a separate state.”

I shook my head.

“You have a problem with that?”

“No, not at all I just can’t believe the trouble there and how a book of fairy stories is the basis for the founding of a state, I mean the Romans destroyed it two thousand years ago.”

“Careful now you’re beginning to sound anti-semitic.”

“No, I’m not but if the Gauls wanted to reclaim Normandy as their spiritual home, would you support it?”

“Lady Cameron, I’m not getting involved.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see why two lots of people can’t live in harmony and share the land between them.”

“Is that what you do up on the family estate?”

“I don’t have much to do with that but I know my husband spends a lot of time and money trying to keep everyone up there in full employment, plus trying to balance the ecology of the place.”

“Isn’t that your specialty?”

“In all fairness he was trying to do that with the estate manager before he knew me. Yes, they have shooting parties but at least the natural predators are protected even if things like harriers take the odd grouse. I’d like to run nature holidays up there if I retire, watching eagles or black cocks—capercaillies, pine martens, red squirrels and so on.”

“Wouldn’t that interfere with the shooting?”

“I’m sure it would be possible to work out some sort of accommodation.”

“Perhaps you should be a negotiator too, Lady Cameron.”

“Not if idiots like the one I helped apprehend are about. I might be his next target.”

“I doubt it, I suspect he’s going to be in a cell for several years to come.”

“I hope so.”

I thought his effort was pretty crass showing he was an amateur, probably his first go at a solo run. A professional would have killed the man without anyone seeing him. Neither looked especially Middle Eastern, but lots of Israelis are from European stock. Had he done so, looked swarthy like a Middle Easterner, might I have thought—suicide bomber? He had a coat on. Perhaps I’ll drive next time.

I got a lift in a police car back to Waterloo and was escorted to the train which they were holding for me after the policeman who phoned the station explained, “Look, just two minutes, she’s on her way—if she hadn’t stopped the assassination attempt your trains wouldn’t be running for a day or two from that platform.” It did the trick.

I got stared at by some passengers as I was escorted on to first class and no sooner had the door shut than the guard blew his whistle and off we went. I ignored the stares and switched on my iPad to read my book.

Some bloke stood in front of me, “Thanks to you I’ll probably miss my connection. Who the hell d’you think you are?”

“I’m sorry?” I checked not apologising.

“This train, two or three hundred people held up because of one—some stupid woman.”

“If you insist on standing there, which you’re free to do, at least do me the courtesy of being quiet, I’m trying to read.” It probably wasn’t the right thing to say.

“How dare you, you stupid cow.”

“That’s twice you’ve called me stupid and a cow is a large quadruped of the family Bovidae, sub family Bovinae, genus Bos, species Bos taurus. They’re quite large animals but we do have one thing in common, we get assertive in self-defence or protection of our young—so be a good lad and piss off before I call the guard and have you put off the train.”

“Why you, you bitch,” he drew back his hand to slap me and a rather tall and good-looking man grabbed his hand.

“Why don’t you do like the lady asked?” said my rescuer in an American-sounding accent. My would-be attacker went red in the face and stormed off muttering to himself.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Any time.”

Just then the refreshments trolley came into the carriage.

“Allow me to buy you a coffee,” I offered.

“How could I resist a lovely lady?”

Oops, I hope he doesn’t get the wrong idea but it’s probably going to be more fun than the journey up was.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2826 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“So where are you going?” I asked as we sipped our coffees. These days it’s all in paper or plastic cups, most of which are made in Gosport, so I try not to take too much notice especially as the coffee is actually quite good now.

“Oh anywhere you are,” he said smiling.

“I’m not sure my husband would agree.”

“Do we need to tell him?”

“I tell him everything,” I want him to know.

“Everything? You are an unusual lady.”

“Quite.”

“I love your English understatement.”

“I’m not English actually.”

“So, you’re still beautiful.”

“I’m actually Scottish and married to a Scottish nobleman.”

“So?”

What do I say in response to that?

“Tell me about yourself,” I threw back at him.

“Nothing much to tell, I’m American and like my ancestors, over here.”

That silly song went through my mind, ’Over here, over here, the Yanks are coming...’

“I’d worked that much out myself, where in the States are you from?”

“Have you been there?”

“No, have you been to Scotland?”

“Yes, didn’t see anything except Edinburgh Castle because of the rain and scotch mist.”

“Pity, Edinburgh’s a fine city given the right weather.”

“You’ll have to give me the guided tour.”

Damn I’m blushing again.

“I will if you tell me the real reason why you’re chatting me up.”

“Ooh direct eh? Okay, you’re a beautiful woman who was being harassed by some piece of trash and I can’t bear to see that happen, so here I am.”

“Just pure coincidence?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you expect me to believe it?”

“Absolutely.” His smile was doing things to my tummy but he was still lying to me.

“You must think I’m stupid.”

“You don’t look stupid to me and the lecture you gave that guy about cattle means you’re either, a veterinarian, a farmer or some sort of scientist.”

“And you expect me to believe you?”

“Absolutely,” his grin broadened.

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

“Yeah, you just told me a beautiful woman who’s married to a Scottish nobleman.”

“And you’re what CIA or FBI?”

“I love your imagination.”

“Who’s Jason Brown?” I asked and for a moment his facade slipped.

“I have no idea.”

“You sure about that?”

“Absolutely.”

“My sources say he’s a CIA field officer.”

“He might well be, my name’s Jack, not Jason.”

“Pity, I’ve never met a spy before, do the Home Office know you’re here?”

“Why should they, I’m just a tourist come to see where my ancestors originated.”

“Where was that?”

“One was Edinburgh and the other Yorkshire.”

“I think you got on the wrong train.”

“Why?”

“Yorkshire’s north of here we’re heading south and west.”

“I’m coming to see the Mary Rose and Nelson’s ship.”

“HMS Victory.”

“That’s the one.”

“Don’t tell me one of your grandmothers sailed in her.”

“Not that I’m aware of—do I sense a certain hostility?”

I smiled back as vacuously as he had at me, “No, but I find it easier to talk with people who tell me the truth.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“That’s for you to answer not I.”

“I guess you’re right—okay, I’m a US spy called what was it, Jason Bourne, and I’m following you because I fancy you and I’ve never made love to a Scottish noblewoman before—that any better?”

“Oh your acting is very good, but you’re still lying to me.”

“Okay, I’ve got a wife called Charlene and a baby boy called Rich, now you know all about me.”

“Do I?”

“So does Charlene know about Ellen?”

His smile slipped for a split second before he came back with, “Why should she?”

“Because she’s your wife.”

“I just told you my wife’s name is Charlene.”

I touched my left ear as if listening to a microphone. “Not according to my sources. Anyway, what’s it like working for the company, isn’t that how you lot refer to it, the CIA?”

“I don’t, I’m with Exxon or whatever you call it over here.”

“Esso.”

“I shoulda known that.”

“Yes, even the CIA would have known that.”

“See—some spy I’d have been.”

I rolled my eyes—let’s face it it’s so easy to pretend not to be something, you just fluff one or two things while issuing denials, which is what he did, but I’d picked up his thoughts and he was a company man, all right. Now, the Americans are supposed to be on the same side as us, except we both spy on each other—they have Jason Bourne, we have James Bond—sure we do, and all our MI6 officers drive round in Aston Martins and wear Armani suits, course they do, makes it easier for the bumbling Russians to spot them—duh.

“So what d’you do for Exxon?”

“I sell their high grade lubricating oils half of which are synthetic and never seen an oil well.”

“So are you an engineer or chemist?”

“Engineer. You a veterinarian or a scientist?”

“Farmer’s wife.”

“A Scottish nobleman farmer—right?”

“Absolutely,” I lied back.

“So what’s he doing down here in Hamp-shire, shouldn’t he up farming haggis in the highlands?”

“Don’t get haggis in the highlands, too cold, they can’t breed if it gets too cold.”

“You don’t say?”

“We have huge sheds of baby haggis waiting to be fattened up for Burn’s night.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What about the sheep’s stomach and oatmeal stuff then?”

“Oh that’s just what we tell the Sassenachs and Americans so they don’t get the genuine thing. Real haggis, especially the young ones, we call them kittens, are so succulent, there’d be none for we Scots.”

“You should be an actress.”

“I am, but then you know that don’t you?”

“Oh yeah, course we CIA know everything about you down to the haggis farming, are they as big as dormice or bigger.”

“Why compare them to some obscure hedgerow creature, why not a rabbit?”

“I had a hunch you’d know about dormice, because there’s some woman like you on a picture in my bank holding one.”

“There’s a picture of some woman selling mortgages in mine but I wouldn’t recognise her if she stood next to it. So the CIA think I’m into dormice. Okay, I modelled for the poster, got a few quid for it but farming is our mainstay, especially...”

“...fattening haggis.”

“See, you knew it all along.”

He shook his head, “Pity you’re not in industry, I coulda got you a competitive price for all your lubricants.”

“We’ll just have to make do with three in one, won’t we? The haggis won’t mind, though I sometimes get upset when they go off to market, it’s such a long way for them to go up to Scotland.”

“You don’t make them walk all the way, do ya?”

“No, we fly them up there. Only the best for my haggis.”

“Naturally—you know you’ve almost convinced me I should try one.”

“Go ahead but not one of mine, they’re all sold already.”

“Really?”

“Really, House of Fraser, Sauchiehall Street. Ask them if you don’t believe me.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Oops, this is my station.” I stood up and left the train knowing he was following me.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2827 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I walked to the taxi rank knowing that I was being followed but wasn’t sure why, though as the CIA hadn’t taken much notice in me before I had to assume it was to do with my assistance in preventing the assassination at Waterloo of the Israeli negotiator. But weren’t the CIA in favour of those talks? So just what was he doing and how did he know which train I’d be going for? A mole in Special Branch or did they simply tell them and for what purpose?

If the films I’d seen and articles I’d read were to be believed, the Company pretty well did what it liked until something went wrong and it came to wider notice, then someone would say mea culpa and it would all carry on as before, usually once someone had metaphorically fallen on his sword. I didn’t know if this was true or not but it was likely to be so at least some of the time. At the same time it was probably true that some were genuine and worked for their country through their office, not the other way round. As Jack Kennedy said, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country.’

How much of a patriot would I be? I don’t know and I suppose it depend upon the cause. Would I risk my life for the UK government? Probably not. For the land I live in? Maybe. For the people I know? Yes. For my family and friends—absolutely. I suspect most people would be similar, the closer the threat comes the more likely it is to get a positive reaction.

Those who sign up to protect their country—our armed services, law and order services, including intelligence and police and even fire and rescue services such as fire and lifeboats, rescue helicopters and so on, sign a contract or even pledge to serve their country, usually the reigning monarch but in effect means the government. However, I have heard servicemen and ex servicemen say they pledged to serve the Queen not some dozy politician, then because she’s head of the armed services, if the government and monarchy came into conflict—the armed services are all pledged to serve the monarch. Could cause problems. If it was a case of Queen or Parliament, though I have no credence in any of the current politicians, save possibly Nick Clegg—who seems quite a balanced sort of chap—my support would be for the democratic process over an hereditary monarch. I’m sure she’d understand, if not it’d be off to the tower and removal of my head—with a sword, not an axe—it’s supposed to be cleaner and quicker—just because I’m now a noblewoman by my marriage to Simon.

All these ideas went through my head as I travelled in my taxi and I was being followed by another. I asked mine to take a roundabout route and still we were followed, so I asked if there was some way he could lose the other cab which contained my ex husband who was trying to find out where I lived now despite a restraining order for assault. I know, the lies get bigger.

“Why don’t you just call the cops?”

“Last time his lawyer got it dismissed.”

“Okay, wotcha want me t’ do?”

“Can you lose him enough to drop me nearby where I can hide until he goes past and I can walk home.”

“Not on the address you gave me, can I take you some place else?”

“To the university campus.”

“Okay, here we go.”

I closed my eyes as ‘Lewis Hamilton’ did some suicidal driving but we lost our tail. I got to the university and found that Daddy was in doing some paperwork. I got him to take me home and we had no tail—that I saw.

An hour later, I’d just finished dinner and the doorbell rang. As we weren’t expecting anyone, Simon went to answer it and called me. My man from Exxon was standing in the hall, “Lady Cameron, we meet again.”

“What are you doing here, Mr Brown?”

“It was my job to protect you so you got here.”

“You obviously did a good job, as you can see.”

“So who are you?” Simon asked our visitor.

“This, darling, is Mr Jason Brown of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“Is that related to the CIA?” asked Simon and Brown and I looked at each other and raised eyebrows—our own, naturally. Well he is an hereditary nobleman, inbreeding and so must take their toll.

“It is the CIA,” I sighed.

“I wanted to see if Mr Brown knew the answer.” Duh? Simon does a very good upper class twit—sometimes I do wonder if it’s an act though.

“I do, sir,” said our visitor politely.

“Would you care for some coffee, Mr Brown, it is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am, though I wasn’t aware they’d briefed you.”

“Nor I you.”

“Si, would you show Mr Brown into the sitting room while I make some coffee.”

My husband was surprised by my request but agreed to do so and stayed with him. I made a cafetiere with three cups in it and carried it through with cups, milk and sugar and some biscuits.

I poured the coffees and then asked Mr Brown if I needed protecting, why was an American agency assigned to it not our own Special Branch or MI5?

“Good point.”

“I hope I’m going to get a true answer this time or I shall call Commander Strong and have you arrested.”

“Whoa there, you don’t pull punches do you? I thought you academics were supposed to bumble through life in your ivory towers, not leap into action like Wonder Woman.”

“I’m on holiday, I do what I like then.”

“Oh, okay.” He sipped his black coffee. “Here’s my ID.” He handed me an identity card with the logo of the CIA on it. I wouldn’t know if it was genuine but I suspected it was. “You were involved in the prevention of an assassination at Water-loo station...”

Do all Americans pause on multi-syllabled words?

“...the guy you protected was Mr Iacov Levi, a senior diplomat, though he’s not supposed to be on the official radar, so how the radical Zionists knew who he was, is a matter we’re hoping to identify in consultation with the Israeli government. Looks like they could have a spy in their camp.

“We spotted the gang, four of them coming in through Spain on scheduled flights to Gatwick. We knew they were here for no good reasons and that they could be an assassination squad. Somehow they slipped our tail and got to their target, or one of them did and you happened to be there, saw what was gonna happen and stopped it.”

I shrugged.

“How the hell did you spot it?”

“I told the police what I saw, he was looking anxious. At first I wondered if he was a claustrophobe but it wasn’t typical and he kept looking at the chap he tried to kill. As he moved with some purpose instead of pacing about I knew something was afoot and moved to try and stop whatever it was.” I didn’t tell him that I thought he might be about to commit suicide. “So why you and not MI5 protecting me?”

“I know all the members of the gang. Your guys don’t, so they asked me to watch over you. That guy on the train, presumably that was just a little local difficulty?”

“What guy on the train, Cathy?”

“The police got the train held for me, just two or three minutes and some bloke took umbrage and called me names. I told him to go away or I call the guard and have him taken off the train. He went to get physical and Mr Brown interceded and the man went away.”

“Thank you for that, Mr Brown,” offered Simon, “though I suspect he might have been safer with you stopping it going any further, Cathy tends to defend herself when under threat. The other guy always comes off worse.”

“So I hear. But that’s why I was there, we knew which train because Scotland Yard told us which one they’d get you on. Slipping my tail on the way home wasn’t a good idea, you could have been in danger.”

“Oh come off it, I did a bit of derring-do, I’m not involved in the political shenanigans, so why would I be at risk?”

“They think you are, and the press have got hold of the story.”

“What d’you mean?” I gasped.

“Someone captured it on a smart phone and it’s on the news and presumably youtube.”

Oh poo.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2828 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“Mummy, you’re on the news,” called Danielle from the kitchen.

I rushed out to see and it showed the whole incident on the internet, “Security services foiled an attempt to assassinate an Israeli peace negotiator at Waterloo Station. The unidentified male and female officers prevented the attempt to push negotiator Iacov Levi in front of a train and detained the attacker who is thought to be a member of a right wing Zionist group opposed to any form of Palestinian state.”

It was from ITN news, so far so good, had it been the BBC they could have recognised me. For most of the action I was facing away from the camera. Why do people have to film everything? I suppose they then sell it for a quick buck. We live in a society which is incredibly sick as far as money is concerned, a large percentage of them would do almost anything for money.

The other two arrived. “At least they haven’t identified me,” I said with relief.

“Don’t bet on it,” said Brown.

I felt a coldness run down my spine. “Why should my name come up—they thought it was two Special Branch officers.”

“Because sooner or later someone will recognise you and sell it to the tabloids. Let’s face it, ‘Scottish noblewoman and haggis farmer foils international assassin,’ has a nice ring about it.”

“Haggis farmer?” said Simon with eyebrows looking to go into orbit round his head.

“I’ll tell you later,” I blushed. Brown laughed, the bastard.

“So what do we do?”

“Lie low for a few days, don’t talk to strangers, that sort of thing.”

“But it’s Christmas in a week’s time,” I complained.

“Shouldn’t have got involved then, should you?”

“What and let some poor old chap be pushed to his death?”

He shrugged. “Everything has consequences.”

They seem to for me. “So how long before you identify the other members of the gang and arrest them?”

“How long’s a piece of string?”

“You’re a lot of help.”

“Sorry, just doing my job and it’s not like they’ll be stood around waiting for us to grab them.”

Trust my luck, I do something good, or I thought so as doubtless did Mr Levi, and now I’m being punished for it.

“Won’t they be looking for me in London, not Portsmouth?”

“If your real iden’ity comes up, they won’t.”

“But why should they be looking to hunt her down? This is Great Britain, we don’t go round murdering each other every five minutes and most of us would intervene if we saw someone about to push someone else in front of a train. A bunch of fanatics can’t kill sixty million of us.”

Simon was doing his best to make things sound less horrible.

“They don’t need to Mist—um—Lord Cameron, just your wife.”

“But if they think she’s a policewoman they won’t will they?”

“I thought we just considered that, if someone from the university recognises her and sees a chance to make some money; who knows what could happen.”

“Bloody hell, can’t you control anything?” said Simon loudly. “Most powerful nation on earth can’t stop...”

“We’re operating here with the courtesy of your government so can only do certain things—there are protocols for these things ya know.”

“I’m sure there are, Mr Brown, useless but there all the same.”

“Hey, this a free country...”

I fell about laughing.

“What’s so funny?” asked our visitor.

“Free country—compared to Saudi Arabia, it probably is, but nowhere is free, Mr Brown.”

“That’s the price of having a secure freedom, you have to make sacrifices.”

“I don’t see that as a trade off for surrendering our rights, it may not be as bad as America, but these days most places are like police states.”

“Lady Cameron, the price of freedom is eternal vigilance.”

“Platitudes by eighteenth century Irish politicians mean very little.”

“Hang on, Thomas Jefferson said it.”

“No he didn’t, it was said by every Tom, Dick and Harry but the original is based on something by some Irishman called John Philpott Curran about 1790.”

“I think I’m more likely to know about US history than you, with respect.”

“With or without respect, you’d still be wrong.” Mind you, the only reason I knew it was because it came up in one of Danielle’s homework exercises and I had to help her find it. She didn’t realise you could do searches for quotations. You can google just about anything.

He glared at me. “Danielle, d’you remember the quotation about liberty and eternal vigilance?”

She stopped and thought for a moment, “Some Irish politician yonks ago, can’t like, remember his name.

“Philpott Curran or something similar.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Brown glared again. I should have put some money on it but all that would do would be to embarrass him further and although he shouldn’t be operating at all in what is a foreign country, he might be the only chance of catching the rest of the gang. So I need to keep him on board. I hope his spying activities are better than his history studies.

“So what do we do next?” I said appearing to hand the initiative back to him.

“You sure you’ve not had any training in this business?”

“No, course not.” I blushed again.

“She’s a natural born killer,” threw in Simon.

“I’d have said she saves more lives than takes them, Mr Levi being the latest in a long line of them.” He didn’t find Simon’s comment very helpful. Then again, neither did I.

“You’re gonna need to be extra vigilant about everyone who comes near here, especially if you don’t know them.”

“It’s Christmas, half of Amazon’s worldwide output will be coming here in the next week, plus Tesco, Waitrose and various other supermarket deliveries. I have twelve children, Mr Brown.”

“Don’t do anything by halves do ya?”

“Meaning?”

“Well one or two kids are enough for most people.”

“All of mine needed homes or help or both.”

“You’re a regular girl scout, ain’tcha?”

“Is that a criticism?”

“Hell no, it’s a compliment, shows you’re ready for anything.”

“I have things to do Mr Brown, so if you don’t mind I’d like to get on with them.”

“Okay, I’ll be in touch if we apprehend any of them.”

“Mummy, they know it’s you—the papers,” Danni called again.

“It’s hit the environmental oscillator, has it?” said Brown.

“Looks like.”

“Okay, keep a low profile and consider a hidey hole if you have one.”

“A castle in Scotland any good?” I replied as a throwaway, it was the last place I’d want to go in December.”

“Didn’t you have some trouble there before?”

“That was against someone more organised than few loonies from the Middle East.”

“Don’t underestimate them, they call themselves the Siqariqim after the first century fanatics who carried daggers and stabbed Romans or their friends when they got a chance. These days they carry more than daggers in their cloaks.”

“I’ll be careful.” I promised thinking to forget it as soon as he’s gone.

We stood talking at the door for a few moments I saw a flash in the distance and Brown fell back into the house bleeding from the chest.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2829 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Simon grabbed the injured man and I slammed the door shut as something banged hard against it. After the troubles with various Russian criminal gangs we’d had the door strengthened by addition of a half inch of toughened steel added to the already thick oak.

“What happened?” asked Brown.

“Lie still, you’ve been shot.”

“I often wondered what it felt like,” he groaned. “It hurts.”

“Get Stella,” I told Simon, “And keep down. Do the shutters.”

Stella arrived and almost fell over when I told her to get down. I could hear Simon and the older girls shutting the shutters none too quietly. Stella pulled open his coat and then his shirt. “Ambulance,” she mimed at me.

“Yeah, we’ve got at least one shooter, they’ve hit a visitor who may or may not have been the target. Okay, we’ll await your arrival.” Simon looked at me, “How’s he doing?”

“He’s still alive, don’t know if they hit anything important, but in the chest there’s quite a chance of it. Stella’s with him, Can you check all the windows upstairs?”

“Okay, you going to blue light him?”

“I held his hand and nothing happened.”

“Oh, is that normal—you know—usual?”

“Not really. Most people who’ve been shot will take help from wherever they can get it.”

I heard Stella calling instructions and Sammi ran to her with a pack of sanitary towels. Stella snatched a couple from the bag and held them against the wound. Brown was lying on his back with his eyes closed. I looked at Stella who shook her head.

“Help is on its way,” I said loudly enough for Danielle to hear it in the lounge, ‘Good,’ I heard her call back.

The problem in being stuck inside is you can’t see what’s happening outside, especially at night. Trish was wanting to use my image intensifier to look for the villains but Simon went off to find it and see what he could see. I asked Trish to help me and she understood, albeit reluctantly.

We both grabbed one of Brown’s hands, they were flaccid suggesting he was either unconscious or in deep shock, Stella kept saying to him to stay with her but he wasn’t responding. She knelt over him pushing hard on the pads over the wound.

“Hello Jason, it’s Cathy Cameron here, try and listen to my voice it will help you feel better and recover quicker.” As I spoke a helicopter sounded close by presumably doing a sweep with thermal imaging and infra red cameras, once it was safe the police and ambulance would be here very quickly.

“Jason, just cooperate with what I tell you and you’ll be okay. In case you aren’t aware you’ve been shot, Stella who is a trained nurse is helping control the bleeding and the ambulance is on its way, so hang in there. I want you to watch out for a blue light, you can’t miss it and follow it. Once you see it, stay with it, it will lead you back to safety. I’m just going to see if I can stop some of the bleeding, I’m sorry if it hurts.” I placed my right hand over the wound and Stella’s hand, she withdrew hers and I took over the pressure at the same time powering energy into the wound.

“Cor,” said Stella pulling back and grimacing at the smell of burning. It was pretty gross.

I continued my energy assault upon the wound and knew the bleed was much reduced as was the hole. The helicopter was very close now and I hoped that meant our attackers had fled. Things were starting to look as if we might just save Jason Brown—then his heart stopped. How did I know? I know these things, especially when I have an energy bond with the person. Oh shit—just what we didn’t need, CPR is going to add to the bleeding but if we don’t do it, he’s dead.

I looked up and saw Brown standing by his body looking down at it. “What are you doing?” I said angrily to him, “Get back in there.” He looked at me in horror, suddenly realising what was happening. While he did so, Trish who’d also seen him stood up and pushed his ethereal body and it fell upon his corporeal one and was absorbed again. “And stay there,” I said loudly.

I began CPR shoving in the energy while pumping on his chest. Some minutes later I was aware of a different sort of blue lights as emergency vehicles filled our driveway and the banging on the door accompanied by shouts of, ‘Police,’ tended to confirm it.

Simon opened the door and two police and a couple of paramedics ran in and we shut the door again. “Keep going,” said the senior paramedic as they unzipped green bags and pulled out their equipment.

“No pulse, how long d’you reckon?” he asked.

“Couple of minutes, I’ve been doing the compressions.”

“Okay, we’ll defib.” He began shaving Brown’s chest to stick the electrodes to the skin. “Why are they always so effing hairy?” he muttered to himself. His mate kept up the pressure on the wound.

‘Analysing’ said the machine, followed by ‘defibrillation starting, stand clear.’ It did this three times before the flat line changed to one of peaks and troughs and the machine printed this off, presumably for the hospital to see. A stretcher was brought and to my astonishment, they closed the main road and landed the air ambulance, the police chopper keeping an eye on things from above.

“He going to make it?” I asked the paramedic quietly.

“Lady Cameron, if he hadn’t met you, he’d be a body bag case. After your help, I expect so.” He winked and they ran down the drive the stretcher being carried by the two paramedics and two policemen. I watched as they loaded the helicopter and one of the paramedics got in and moments later the rotors increased their speed and the machine left the ground. A minute or two later, the police let the traffic start again and I came in.

We sat in the kitchen drinking tea. “Special Branch are on their way.”

“Did you catch the sniper?”

“No, he probably ran off as soon as he fired at you. The problem is all of these nutters have been trained by the Israeli army, so they know what they’re doing with weapons.”

“That’s great consolation to know they won’t shoot themselves by mistake.”

“How d’you think it feels for us, we’re the poor buggers who have to go and look for them.”

“Sorry, I hadn’t thought of that, but standing next to the guy who was shot tends to focus the mind on your own safety.”

“Understandable,” he said as senior officer I’d seen up in London walked into my kitchen. After making him some tea, we went to my study for him to take a statement. Then he spoke to Simon, Stella and finally Sammi who handed him a DVD—the result of the cameras outside the house some of which are infra red.

“He shoots twice and legs it. Motorbike down by the end of the drive.”

“I don’t suppose you got the number?”

“Of course I did, it’s on there too. Here,” she handed him a slip of paper.

“How did you do that—the number plate thing?”

“It’s all computerised, I devised a software to focus in on number plates which it recognises and also faces. It should have sent an email to your incident room as well.”

He looked astonished which made her smirk just a little—smart arse.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2830 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I expected the motorbike to be stolen or fitted with false plates but the face of the sniper was uncovered. That they might identify or at least confirm it with what the Americans had. I felt indignant that these days people who can’t get their own way turn to violence at the slightest provocation or opportunity. That seems to apply to governments as well as individuals or groups and I wondered if we were all so impulsive these days that we crave instant gratification for everything, including changing the status quo. On the other hand, half the regimes in the world seem run by criminals who use whatever methods they deem legal to keep down dissent. I’m sure China would be horrified to be compared to Saudi Arabia, but their human rights record is not much better.

I found it ironic that despite the advances in education and science, that we know so much more about the world and how it and we work, that we still have significant numbers of people who are driven by religious restraint—usually of other people. I don’t mean Tibetan monks who sit meditating on prayer wheels but idiots like the ones who had attacked us, because we got involved in trying to stop them murdering someone who disagreed with them. The lunatics in Syria who use religious dogma to justify anything they do from torture to rape and murder. It isn’t religion, it’s simply a political dogma pretending to be from their god via some bloke who sat in a cave six hundred years ago and had visions—probably caused by temporal lobe epilepsy.

The truth is, monsters will use anything they wish to justify their activities until others stop them. Sadly that means usually by being just as ruthless and killing them. Christmas was a couple of days away and there were sure to be rumours of all sorts of terrorism, true or specious, just to keep the security services twitchy.

I asked our friendly Special Branch officer if the target had been Brown all along and not me. Unless the sniper was cross-eyed or otherwise optically challenged, or simply inept, why had they shot Brown when they could have hit me just as easily? He knew what they looked like, I didn’t. I’d helped stop the attack on the negotiator but that was all. The police had someone in custody, he knew who his friends were and what their plans were, but presumably weren’t allowed to extract information except by methods allowed by various human rights agreements. I didn’t have a problem with that, but I did have something up my sleeve that the government didn’t, I could get into people’s heads and make them see things that weren’t actually there. I was about to say something when in response to a phone call, the circus of police, Special and ordinary, suddenly upped and left us.

“What do we do to prevent another attack?” I asked as they packed up and decamped.

“Keep your heads down.”

Bugger that, I had Christmas shopping to finish and no lunatic with a gun was going to stop me. He had loads of stuff to do at the bank before the holiday and we agreed he should go and stay in London until the holiday. He’d be back at some point during Christmas eve. He packed and left, which disgusted Stella, who thought he was doing a runner.

“We don’t know if we’re at risk or if it was Brown who was the target?” I said over a cuppa, to the assembled group which now included David and Amanda.

“Well you can be the one to find out, seeing as you’re the one who got involved with them. I don’t see why I should make my children orphans because of your sense of justice.” I accepted what Stella said and asked if she wanted to go and stay somewhere else until it was over.

“Oh so now I’m being thrown out for dissent am I?”

“No, I’m simply saying if you want to go somewhere else until this is all over, feel free to do so. If I’m the target, I don’t have that option.”

“Yes you do, you could move out and the rest of us would be safe.”

“Would you? If they wanted to punish me, they could hurt you or the others, especially if they couldn’t find me.”

“When are you going to call in your boyfriend?” asked Julie trying and succeeding in embarrassing me.

“Oh, who’s that?” asked Amanda who’d sat quietly listening to the discussion.

“You mean James?”

“Oh, who’s he?” she said.

“Oh this ex-soldier guy that we use from time to time, he’s like a sort of private investigator cum bodyguard.” Julie was now having a separate conversation with Amanda, though the rest of us were listening as they discovered when they looked round. They both went quiet and very red.

“He is good looking,” admitted Danielle but it’s Mum he fancies.

I blushed again and denied it.

“You only have to see the way he looks at her.”

“I thought he was gay?” suggested Sammi.

“Nah, opportunist, like most men.”

“I’ve already spoken to him and he’ll be here tomorrow with a couple of friends. He’s busy trying to find out what he can about this business and who are the targets and who aren’t.”

“That wid be guid,” said Daddy who’d joined the group without me noticing.

“Anyway, those who want to disappear for a few days until we know it’s safe, can go without us thinking anything less of you.”

“I’m staying,” said Danielle, “someone needs to look after you when James is busy.”

I thanked her.

“This is more exciting than where I was before,” offered Amanda, “and you said I’d be on a bonus for Christmas.”

“If you work over Christmas you will get a bonus.”

“Count me in then.”

“And me, no nutter with a gun is going to stop me making you a super Christmas dinner,” said David. Within a few seconds they all said they would stay, except Sammi felt vulnerable commuting to London.

“You could always go and stay at Simon’s flat and come back on Christmas eve.”

“I’d rather be here, besides you’ll need my help running the surveillance system.”

“That’s very brave of you, darling, but what about the bank?”

“I can run that from here unless we get another attack, on the bank, that is, in which case they’ll have to come and get me.”

“Better tell your dad and Henry.”

“Okay, well if no one needs me, I’ll go and check the systems.” She went off back to her room, which as I’ve said before is half boudoir, half electronics workshop.

Amanda and David went back to their cottages and I told Danielle it was time for her to go to bed. “Muuuum, I’m not some little kid.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I was also aware that the other girls were still awake judging by the noise from upstairs. “C’mon up you go and I’ll sort out the rabble. QUIET YOU LOT,” I said loudly walking up the stairs which was met by hoots of laughter. Why ever did I think I was in charge of this place?

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2831 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

James arrived the following day. I ordered piles of stuff on the click and collect basis, so theoretically I only had to queue not fight my way through crowds as well in choosing various presents. He had one of his friends check over all the cars, none had been interfered with in any way nor were they carrying trackers.

We’d had a bit of worry with the story being that of, ‘Woman helps police prevent murder on the Enfield Express.’ Fortunately the police didn’t give my identity, just saying that a public spirited member of the public had foreseen what was going to happen and intervened to save the man’s life. The perpetrator was arrested by a Special Branch officer moments after the attack.

Otherwise the story was so ill reported with all sorts of inaccuracies it was verging on farcical and thankfully the film clip from somebody’s iPhone was rather blurry in the action, so my face wasn’t seen clearly. I suppose if the local press had thought about it they might have put two and two together but then I suspect their maths is worse than mine.

I took Danielle with me to collect the shopping. James was watching at home and I half asked who was going to protect him from Amanda? The rest of them just laughed. It was obviously going to be the cabaret, though neither of them knew it.

Most of the shopping was in John Lewis, who are so helpful. I’d managed to park fairly close and they had someone help me carry the presents to the car, there were just too many for Danni and I to cope with on our own. I’d paid a little extra to have everything gift wrapped, so apart from the list of stuff I’d printed off from my computer, none of them would know what I’d bought. Mind you the bill probably paid for most of their staff wages for the week.

Next, we did the same in Marks and Spencer plus a few things from their food hall and then proceeded to House of Fraser. Danielle was very good and amazingly uncomplaining, so when she admired some fancy tights I bought them for her. I must admit I loathe the things as my feet get cold and the rest of me stews. If you wear them with boots you need something to stop them ending up round your knees and your crotch gets even hotter and sweatier. I prefer longer skirts with boots and just socks, my feet stay warm and my legs are comfortable as is the bit where they bifurcate.

Waitrose was crazy, rephrase that, Waitrose was filled with shoppers who were crazy. I only needed a few things but fighting my way round the shop and then to the checkout made me wonder if it was all worth it. Danielle was brilliant as we split up and she did one side and she did the other, we met at the checkout and it took us far less time than it would have done had we been together. It still took too long and at this stage I was buying food for tomorrow not Christmas. It was Wednesday, tomorrow, Christmas eve, I’d be doing that—the bits we needed that we hadn’t ordered on line.

I left Danielle to unload the car of presents while I took the food into the kitchen, David switched on the kettle as I dumped the food on the worktop. Then it was back to help Danni finish with the presents which we secreted around the Christmas tree. As we were doing this I asked if she remembered her first Christmas with us at this house.

“Cor, was I really a boy back then? Had to be my best Christmas ever well until this one.”

“D’you wish you were still a boy?”

“Sometimes, but gotta make the best of things, so bein’ a vixen ain’t too bad.”

I shook my head, she really was turning into quite a stunner, mind you all of my girls were, even those who didn’t necessarily start off as one. People kept saying they could see the resemblance whenever I was out with one or more of them—apart from the usual numbers of arms, legs and heads, we looked nothing like each other—did we?

Danni and I were waiting at the counter in John Lewis, well she’d gone to look at something and I was talking to the assistant at the counter. I explained that my daughter would help me carry it. She looked up as Danni came towards us and said, “Here she is, I can see the family resemblance.”

I have red/blonde hair with various highlights, Danni has ash blonde hair with pink streaks in it. I had on very little makeup, she looked as if she was going clubbing with enough paint on her face to do a full size portrait. Do people just say these things or was she just searching for a bored looking teenage girl?

Back in the kitchen and David was killing himself laughing telling us about Amanda practically throwing herself at James. “Well he is pretty good lookin’,” observed my foxy daughter. That set David off again and he nearly choked on his tea. I glowered at Danielle who asked, “What’d I do?”

Trish was helping Sammi with the computers, Hannah and Livvie were playing tennis on the Wii and Meems was supervising the little ones who were all playing with their dolls. After my cuppa I went to check the list of clothing Julie and Phoebe were taking away with them. It took me an hour but I managed to find it all and it was all clean and ironed; they only had to pack it. I also left them two hundred euros each as their Christmas presents. Simon had got it for me through the bank. Tomorrow, as soon as they closed the shop they were off on holiday. I don’t especially like snow but I think I might have liked skiing, so I was perhaps a little envious of them.

James was apparently looking for me. The bedroom would have been private but hardly the place for us to talk, so we went down to my study where I closed the door, we wouldn’t be disturbed.

“It’s beginning to look as if Brown was the target not you.”

After a huge sigh of relief, I asked how he knew. “His team have been tracking this outfit for a couple of years and usually manage to thwart anything major they do. I reckon they thought he caused the attack to go wrong last week and decided to kill him.”

“Nice friends he has.”

“You should see his enemies.”

“I think I’ll pass on that.”

“Wise move.”

“How is he?”

“He’s up at the embassy waiting to go home for Christmas.”

“But he so nearly died.”

“Nah, not with the queen of self raising bodies around.”

“Self raising bodies?”

“Yeah it’s like flour only more miraculous.”

“So is the worry over?”

“For here, I think so. For everywhere else, it’s high alert as the terrorists play games with the security services.”

“What about this team of killers lose in this country?”

“Are they?”

“They’ve been caught?” I said almost gleefully.

“Uh not quite.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Shall we say they’ve been intercepted.”

“Killed you mean?”

He shrugged, “If it works don’t knock it.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2832 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I won’t give too much detail of our Christmas except to say it was busy, hectic, frantic, bustling and completely mad. I missed having Julie and Phoebe here but they had arrived safely at their ski resort. Simon had paid for them to be kitted out in jackets and salopettes as their Christmas present, so between us they did quite well.

The lists of presents and food consumed embarrassed me when I consider the number of people sleeping rough or not eating well. We sent the various charities a hundred pounds each to help ease someone’s Christmas but it would be a drop in the ocean.

According to the latest research, youngsters are not half as compassionate as older folk when it comes to supporting charities, especially for the homeless. They seem to think people should sort themselves out without the handouts. I don’t know what the answer is but my kids are more likely to vote Conservative than I am.

I finally managed to get some time for me while the others were either sleeping off too much food, watching telly or fiddling with the latest gadget they got. I settled down with a book I’ve had for ages but hadn’t had time to read. I hoped it wasn’t going to be too demanding of my small brain. It’s called Beyond Belief by Elaine Pagels and it’s about the history of Christianity. She’s a professor of the history of religion at an American university and I’ve heard she writes very well as well as knowing her onions or whatever the religious equivalent is.

It appears to be a comparison of two gospels, that of John which is one of the canonical ones and that of Thomas, one of the Gnostic gospels found at Nag Hammadi. I read the gospel of Thomas when I was a student partly because it’s quite short, really just a collection of sayings attributed to Jesus, some of which seem timeless and universal, others I’m not so sure about, like any woman who becomes male can enter the Kingdom. Looks like I missed out then, so will half the earth’s population.

The gospel of John is the only one which states categorically that Jesus was god and Prof Pagels seems to think it might have been written to counter the influence of Thomas’ gospel which was gathering supporters.

The times were even more dangerous than now, especially for Christians, though they seemed to be queuing up to be martyred—sounds familiar with a different group in the Middle East this time round. While I find it astonishing that people are prepared to kill because of religion, part of me feels humbled that there are those who are prepared to die for their beliefs. No wonder we still fight wars.

Seems like a guy called Irenaeus who became bishop of what is now Lyons in France was one of the people responsible for the canonical gospels and what is actually in the New Testament, rejecting loads like the gospels of Thomas, Philip and Mary Magdalene. The early church was beset by factions all squabbling over all sorts of things and Irenaeus wanted to take control and follow the same beliefs. Apparently, it’s what the mainstream church follows now, the virgin birth, the resurrection and the son of god is god. As I can’t accept any of them, I’ll never be a Christian. It seems loads of modern Christians don’t believe them either but keep quiet about it, unlike the Gnostics who challenged many of these core beliefs and suggested they were allegories or psychical things—the resurrection being what happened when you were baptised you were reborn.

The book was fascinating and I was irritated to have to put it down but apparently it was time to eat again—I was still full from my Christmas dinner—which was absolutely delicious, David excelled himself and I enjoyed the prosecco we had as well, I was half waiting for Commissario Brunetti to enter demanding a glass.

To keep the peace I had a cuppa and mince pie but the girls tucked into sandwiches and salad. Simon was noticeable by his absence, I think the port did for him, either that or the brandy he and Tom had to finish off their dinners. I left them to it and travelled back to the second century in the Mediterranean area, I wanted nothing more than a couple of hours more reading about it. At the first opportunity I escaped back to my study and found my page.

I felt someone watching me and glanced up, it was Trish but she was looking at something the other side of the room. I couldn’t see anything. “What are you watching?” I asked her and for a moment she shuddered then recovered. “You okay?”

“Yes thank you, Mummy. I was watching the golden lady who visits us from time to time.”

“What does she want?” I was never quite sure how I felt about the Shekinah.

“She’s pleased about the book you’re reading but to her it’s modern history and she says not to believe all you read.”

I snorted, “Modern history—it’s up to sixteen hundred years ago. As for believing anything, who said I did?”

“She didn’t say you did just to be careful what you do believe. What are you reading, Mummy?”

I showed her the book. “Looks interesting can I read it later.”

I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for a ten year old especially as she’d probably use it to outmanoeuvre the nuns in religious lessons. “We’ll see.”

“Okay, be like that.”

“Trish, don’t be so cheeky.”

“You started it, I only wanted to borrow your stupid book to read.”

“There are lots of big words you might not understand.”

“So, I’ll use the dictionary.”

This child has an answer for everything.

“If you promise not to use what you read in it to upset the nuns at school.”

“Course I will, I don’t anyway unless they’re being too slow for the rest of us.”

“Trish, you need to show them some respect for these ladies, they might not be as clever as you undoubtedly are, but they have knocked about it a bit and deserve some respect for it.”

“It makes me laugh,” she said grinning, “the nuns say they have a vocation but are less knowledgeable than you about lots of things.Some are dumber than the turkey we just ate.”

“I doubt it, I’m sure they know lots of things.”

“Yeah about the bible, couldn’t tell you which way was North nor how to find it on an old tree.”

“What the moss?”

“Yeah, you showed us something useful not some old fashioned crap about religion, which is mostly what they know.”

“Did you know we celebrate Christmas now because it was originally the birthday of a pagan god Mithras.”

“Happy Birthday, Mithras,” she called. “See, they wouldn’t have told us that in case we all began wanting to know more about him rather than Jesus.”

“Okay, you can borrow this book after I finish it but be prepared to look up lots of words.”

“That’s okay, Mummy, I enjoy looking up words.”

She ran off saying out loud, “Who’s birthday is it today?”

I heard Livvie answer, “Jesus—duh.”

“No it isn’t, it was Mithras’ birthday, the Christians moved Jesus’ one there to convert the pagans. I’m gonna make him a birthday card, coming?”

What have I unleashed on the world

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2833 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

In the UK, the day after Christmas day is Boxing day, not because everyone dons big gloves and bashes each other but from the days when many working people had jobs working for wealthy families and had their Christmas on the twenty sixth and were given their Christmas boxes. These days things are so different. My two staff David and Amanda are accepted as members of our household, almost family and invited to take part in our celebrations. Neither seemed to have anywhere better to go and they were both on double pay, so they possibly got more out of Christmas than I did, other than having a chance to read and contemplate what I was reading.

I won’t dwell on the origins of Christianity again, it fascinates me but bores or angers some others who had a different take on it. I let Trish make her birthday card for Mithras but told her on no account was she to take it to school. She grumbled as she wanted to show it to Sister Virginia or Sister Vagina, as the girls all call her. I forbade it and also if they were asked to tell what they did at Christmas, she wasn’t to say she’d been making a card for Mithras as she was likely to be labelled a devil worshipper.

That did the trick, she began to look quite worried, “He’s not the devil is he?”

“There is no devil, though the early Christians labelled anyone who believed anything they didn’t or didn’t like as devil worshippers. They even called Gnostic Christians it and then persecuted them. So no, Mithras is not the devil but that needn’t stop other people accusing you of such things, if you get my drift.”

“So I can be accused of something I’m not because they don’t understand what I’m saying? That’s like when I was a boy and said I was a girl really, people didn’t understand and called me all sorts of horrible things.”

“Did you look Mithras up on the internet?”

“No, I was too busy doing him a card.”

“Why don’t you go and do it now and at least you’ll be able to say you know what you’re talking about if the subject arises.” It won’t as long as you don’t start it, kiddo. She went off to her laptop. As she is quite capable of researching by herself I wandered along a little later and found she’d printed off an entire series of articles and pictures about Mithras and his cult and of the temple or Mithraneum they found in London in 1954 or thereabouts, while they were building some office block. I believe they moved and reconstructed the whole thing somewhere else in London. Can’t say for certain because I haven’t been to see it.

When I saw her she was punching holes in her collected articles to fit them in a ring binder which had previously held her collection of Hello Kitty drawings. This looks serious. She showed it to me with great enthusiasm and said she was going to worship Mithras instead of becoming a Jedi. I told her in no uncertain terms that, while I had no problems with her ambitions, that she’d have to wait until she left the convent and also until she grew up as a man.

She was horrified. “I’m not going to grow into a man, am I? I want to be a lady like you.”

“As things are you’ll grow up to be a woman but the bad news is that if I recall correctly, the Roman Mithraic mystery religion was a male thing. Women couldn’t join it as worshippers.”

“What? That’s like the bloody Catholic church,” she said throwing her ring binder backwards over her head where it nearly hit Cate who was wandering past.

“Women can become nuns,” I said though in reality I shared her disgust.

“Who wants to be a freaking nun?” she declared loudly, “An’ end up like Sister Vagina—not me, that’s for sure.” I should have taken her to task but couldn’t move for laughing, suppression of which would surely have caused a hernia.

Trish was therefore, probably the briefest convert and adherent to the cult of Mithraism in history. Now if she’d turned cannibal, she could always become a confirmed member of the established Christian churches and gone every week to eat the body and drink the blood of Jesus, which is what they celebrate at mass/ communion.

Returning to Boxing day, I gave Amanda and David some time off and I think she might have gone to see family, David borrowed some DVDs and went back to his cottage. I also told both of them if they could cope with my catering they were welcome to come for tea at six in the evening. Other than that, the only thing to report was rain. We had plenty of it but thankfully with different consequences to York and parts of Cumbria where they had more flooding.

According to the internet and papers, there were the usual disasters and murders. Various places became locked down as they perceived threats from Islamic militants and the post Christmas sales started—not something of which I partook despite emails and adverts on my computer.

I longed for dry weather and shorter nights but both looked to be some distance away at the moment. I also had to consider what the priorities would be back at the university and what the vice chancellor had been up to in my absence. There were times when if the opportunity arose, I’d take Sussex if it was offered but Herbert was likely to be there for a few more years yet.

The problem was my extra responsibilities were locked into the university as well, such as Billie’s visitor centre. If I left I wasn’t sure what would happen to those and at the moment I felt too close to things to even want to think about it. I have a feeling that the bank owns them but the university administers them, or something like that.

Life always has complications. James phoned to say that Brown had gone back to the States so was well enough to fly. As far as he was able to ascertain, the three other members of the gang hadn’t been found but the police and security services were still looking. I suspected they’d gone back to Israel. Sadly that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try to undermine any peace talks again wherever they were being held.

I got the tea ready, I did a huge pot of turkey stew which the locusts devoured as quickly as I could ladle it out. David came back in time for some and just in case I saved a dish of it for Amanda should she want some when she came back.

David helped me clear up. “That was pretty good you know,” he said, which I presumed was about my stew.

“Daddy complained it wasn’t curry,” I replied as I loaded the dishwasher.

“You can’t please everyone all the time.”

“I know, but you can piss off everyone at the same time.”

“That would take some doing, even for you.” He chuckled dirtily.

“Watch this,” I replied, “Right, I’m off duty now, if anyone wants anything else tonight they can get it themselves.” This was followed by moans and groans and muttered complaints. “See?” I said and he laughed.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2834 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Suddenly it was Monday morning, New Year had come and gone and Julie and Phoebe were back though exhausted from having been out on the piste. I woke them as I did the girls who were back to school and now had the extra seats in the boot of my estate car—or shooting brakes as they call them if they’re Jaguars—as Cate was going to school for the first time. She had done nursery which Jacquie took her to most days and was now in the infants at the convent. At least she’d come from Catholic parents and I had tried to tell her about all this as she grew up.

She was so excited and Danielle was very good with her getting her into the child seat in the back. I began to think I needed to make some other arrangement for them going to school and home again. On the one hand it was nice being allowed to finish at three at work, although I often worked at home after that, sometimes up until bedtime—not good practice as we all need some rest and relaxation and separating squabbling ten year olds is not the best way to relax. Last night Hannah and Livvie were at it, accusing each other of taking the other’s pencil case. When I checked Cate’s backpack, she had three pencil cases.

Trish had collected her notes on Mithras again and was taking them to show Sister Vagina—I must stop calling her that or one day it’s going to slip out in front of someone who won’t find it very funny. Stella nearly wet herself when she heard the girls’ nickname for the blighted nun, she laughed so hard.

It struck me as strange that with all mine going to the convent that Stella refused to send hers there, she took them to a school near the hospital, which I suspect was a pain if she wasn’t working. She said she wouldn’t send hers to a religious school. However, her school only took them until they were eleven, so she’d have to find another by then. For all my misgivings about the religious element, the general education they received was good and better than many schools, plus of course, I supplemented Trish’s maths and physics by using a private tutor who just happens to be a senior lecturer in physics at our university.

At half-past eight, or just before, we all marched into the convent, Danielle with sports bag in one hand and Cate holding her other, Trish and Livvie, Hannah and Meems in a bunch laughing and joking, and me walking behind feeling very anxious for little Cate. Danielle had volunteered if there was a problem with her younger sister she would try and deal with it before they contacted me. Cate was also happy with this arrangement or to send for Meems if Danielle wasn't easily available.

Despite Danni saying that she sometimes wished she was a boy again, she seemed to fill the role of big sister with the others, really well. Even Trish admitted it was nice having a big sister in the school even if they rarely had contact on the premises, Danni having got several more friends in recent months, whereas Trish, Livvie, Hannah and Meems had each other so didn’t need many friends. That worried me at times.

The nice thing about Danni, was she managed to include Cindy in her group, so Cindy had more friends now as well, Danni suspecting that one or two knew of Cindy’s little anomaly, hoping that they didn’t know of her previous one.

I was never sure what the current take on being transgender was, in that some people were very supportive and others seemed to think it was being in league with the devil that caused it. The school's official policy was that of supporting all pupils regardless of age, sex, gender, sexual orientation, religion or race, offering a nurturing environment for the girls to grow and explore who they were. So far my experience was positive under the regime of Sister Maria, so apart from huge school fees, and we got discount for bulk purchase, I was largely happy with their schooling and so were they, despite Trish always whining about something or other, usually the religious stuff.

I also had personal links with the school through the fundraising and other things I’d done for them, I also knew that if I said I was available to stand as a school governor that I’d be grabbed before I could change my mind; so my own standing was very good with them. I’m aware that could be a two-edged sword in that my presence carries a lot of weight for the reasons I just mentioned and also because of the title and being a professor at the local university, not to mention the influence of the Cameron family as bankers, aristocrats and being very wealthy, plus the contacts they have, or Henry does.

It could be seen as two-edged because if my children were outted as transgender and it was then applied to me, it could backfire in a big way in a personal sense. I’m fireproof in work because they know and support me, but socially and the effect it would have on my children could be devastating as they’re all about to move into or are in, adolescence and all the vulnerability that brings with it.

Sometimes I wonder how I sleep at night, but mostly I do with no bigger problem than Simon’s snoring, when he’s at home. But then, so far none of the girls have had problems in being accepted as female because they all look the part having transitioned relatively young.

I left the school with a heavy heart having handed Cate over to the Inquisition, I mean reception class, and she went along quite happily. Trish, Livvie, Hannah and Meems have been teaching her to read and to write a little, so she should be off to a flying start. All the same, I found it distracted me all morning, thinking about how she’d cope in a classroom not a nursery. I was really glad to go and collect them at three and drove hurriedly to the school only to find she was tired but had enjoyed herself immensely. So much for all that wasted emotion.

I was exhausted but did some records for the mammal survey on either side of dinner when Sammi came down. When Sammi comes into my study it’s usually for more reason than a social call. She’s busy and lives her life at a zillion miles an hour. I hoped she didn’t have a problem that needed a shoulder to cry on or advice from an older woman or other crisis because I felt emotionally sucked dry.

She had a CD or DVD in her hand so possibly she wanted to update my software in some way or other—that I was fine with. “Hello, darling,” I greeted her, “what can I do for you?”

“Apart from Ben Wishaw’s home phone number, you mean?”

“Ha ha, besides with your skills on the internet, I’m sure you could find it without too much trouble.”

“Yeah, probably—take a look at this.” She handed me the DVD disc.

“What is it?”

“Look and see.”

“Will it play on this?” I meant my laptop.

“Should do.”

I popped open the DVD drive tray and placed the disc in it and pushed it closed. “What is it?”

“Wait and see.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2835 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I ran the DVD and waited as it booted up then gasped. “Which camera took these?”

“The one that points up towards the orchard.”

“Remarkable—oh look, she’s got him.”

“How long will she have him?”

“Three or four hours it can last.”

“How come they’re not extinct, ’cos it must hurt.”

“The urge to procreate is very strong in most species. He should be very grateful he’s a red fox not a praying mantis.”

“Is that the one that eats her mate while they do it?”

“Yes.”

“Gross.”

“From a human perspective, but chewing his head off makes him copulate even more powerfully and the protein he provides gives her eggs a better start. A total sacrifice to the continuation of the species.”

“So any male mantis walking about is either a virgin or gay?”

“I’d never thought of it like that.”

Sammi chuckled to herself, “Goodness I’ve made a professor see something differently.”

“Hey, I’m your mother not just any old know it all.”

“Oh, that’s different then.”

“I need a cuppa, have you put this on youtube yet?”

“Is it worth it?”

“Who knows, they have loads of very stupid ones, so this should be a bit more watchable by ordinary people.”

“Watch explicit, live sex on camera,” she said in an excited voice.

“Don’t say it too loud you’ll have Trish wanting to watch it.”

“Is she always obsessed with sex?”

“Only while she’s awake, why?”

“I just wondered.”

“She’s coming into puberty and was also abused at the home, she has some things to put into perspective before they can be integrated.”

“Sounds difficult.”

“She still sees Stephanie and I think she’s made quite a bit of progress.”

“Good.”

We reached the kitchen and I filled the kettle, because no one else ever seems to, and switched it on.

“So what happens with the foxes?” asked Sammi as we sat at the kitchen table sipping our teas.

“Once the preliminaries are over and copulation begins she goes into vaginal spasm which locks him inside her for a couple of hours or more.”

“So do all sexually experienced male foxes have scrotums that drag along the ground?” she asked laughing, “Poor little buggers.”

“It seems to work as fox populations appear to be quite high.”

“What with no hunting, you mean?”

“Most of the hunts ignore the ban and carry on regardless. Remember the law is there to protect the over-privileged at the expense of the poor.”

“So which category d’you come into?” she asked.

“Me? I’m a champagne socialist but not a backer of Mr Corbyn.”

“What was that about women in Germany being sexually harassed or assaulted on New Year’s Eve?”

“I only heard about it on the radio this morning, all I heard was they appeared to all be immigrant men who were the perpetrators and they seemed to be coordinating it across several German cities. I’m not sure what it was all about but I can’t believe it was done for positive reasons.”

“It’s quite frightening.”

“Yes it is, I presume these migrants must know European laws are different to Islamic law and should learn to adapt to their new homeland’s laws.”

“When in Rome?”

“Quite.”

“They certainly seem to think we should obey their laws when we go there.”

I decided I wasn’t going to get drawn into an argument on religion, my position was clear—I did not believe in any goddess or gods so wouldn’t countenance support for laws to enforce those fantasies.

“I don’t have a problem with that except they tend to protect their own people over visitors according to one or two folks I’ve met who’ve lived there.”

“Do we do the same?”

“I hope not.”

“Did you see those piccies on the internet about that trans woman in Italy who’s had loads of surgery.”

“No I haven’t.”

“She’s now got lips that take up half her face.”

“I think I’ll pass on looking at those.”

“She hasn’t had her dangly bits sorted but had her bum enhanced and boob jobs and so on, spent a fortune.”

“I suppose if you have the money, how you spend it is up to you.”

“Yeah, but she looks like a caricature, and a pretty bad one at that. I wondered if her plastic surgeon is blind.”

“Sounds like she has a real problem in accepting herself, in which case no amount of surgery will make her acceptable—sad—I think they call it dysmorphobia or something similar.”

“Sounds pretty gruesome. You’ve never felt anything like that?”

“All women have problems with some part of their bodies.”

“Do they? What is your one then?”

“Apart from the plumbing problem which has been sorted as best as they can, I suppose it’s lack of the internal bits and I could wish I was better looking.”

“What? You are beautiful.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well I do, and you’ve got a drop dead gorgeous figure, unlike me.”

I thought the opposite, I thought she was more beautiful than I and with a better figure. “Looks like we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

She shook her head, “You are really good looking, Mummy. Just accept it and use it more like you did in the films you made.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well in those two films you seduced every male and any lesbians watching, you were professional but sexy—I wish I could do it.”

So do I, I had no idea what she was talking about, I just stood in front of the camera and said what we’d agreed I’d say. Alan made the odd suggestion but most of it was my ideas or how I thought I should do it. So how was that sexy? I didn’t understand, I really didn’t.

She went off to finish playing with her computers leaving me feeling more inadequate than ever. I got the younger girls off to bed and read them a short story. Then it was a question of chasing Danielle up to bed, except when I looked she’d already gone and was asleep when I checked her room. I hoped she wasn’t going down with something. Finally, I announced I was going to bed to read another chapter of my Brunetti story, this one was very complex and about his efforts to determine whether a deaf mute was murdered or died accidentally.

I didn’t read for long, I couldn’t concentrate and put down my book and switched off the light. I don’t remember Simon coming to bed let alone him getting up again. But all too soon it was back to the grindstone and the daily chore of getting a handful of girls up and ready for school or work. It was bad enough now with the squabbles over the bathrooms what it would be like in a few years time I hated to contemplate, but at the moment there was nowhere else available to build extra bathrooms. Oh the joys of motherhood—and they were relatively well behaved for monsters.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2836 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

At work the next day I surfed the Guardian website and was horrified to see the government were probably going to cut the funding to support the special wildlife police unit. This is a specialised unit who train police officers to deal with wildlife crime which is a type of crime that is growing rather steeply with thugs and sadists doing things like hare coursing and badger digging/baiting. Poaching and shooting deer was also increasing not to mention the illegal killing of birds of prey on shooting estates.

As it is, few of these are ever properly investigated as the police aren’t really too interested with the increasing burdens upon them and the cuts to funding generally, so those who have a mind to it, usually of the small and perverted sort, seem to get away with the torture and killing of wild animals and birds, destroying sites of special scientific interest and anything else they fancy.

I was really depressed when I read about it, I knew that illegal hunting goes on but the police are more interested in prosecuting the protestors than the hunters who are actually breaking the law. The establishment protects itself and with a sympathetic government who couldn’t run a bath let alone a country, wildlife has no one at the top who is protecting it and as several of them have large grouse moors or other shooting interests. There’s even a lobby group fronted by ex-cricketer Ian Botham who try to undermine charities like the RSPB and their investigation of poisoned raptors and other crimes against birds of prey. Botham has interests in a large country shoot.

“What the matter, boss?” asked Diane when she brought in a cuppa. I showed her the article and she made disgusted noises at the photo of the dead and bloodied hare. “How can people do things like that? It’s not even killing to eat.”

“No, it’s killing for fun—it’s what psychopaths do, or sadists either might get a sexual thrill from it, it’s why fox hunting was so popular with women riders—one long orgasm.”

She looked at me in total incredulity. “I’ve got some typing to do,” and slipped out the door while I was in mid slurp.

I switched off the internet, it was either about cruelty to humans in Syria, shootings in Manchester, people being flooded in Scotland or the north of England or the wildlife story I’d just read and despaired over. The world was going more stupid than ever and the people who had increasingly sophisticated technology had the moral turpitude of the forty thieves. “How can I save the world if no one wants to help or seems to care?” I asked the bookshelf before me, but if it said anything it was too quietly for me to hear it—mind you if I had, I’m not sure what I’d have said or done.

At lunch with Tom I moaned about my dissatisfaction with everything and everyone and he listened patiently. “Ye’re no thae only one wha cares, and ye’re surroonded by decent folk, includin’ yer ain bairns. Ye cannae stop it a’ anyway, but ye can speak oot aboot it whenever ye can and teach yer children whit’s right and wrang. There’ll allus be despicable types wha seem tae prosper at thae expense o’ everything else, all ye can hope is when it comes tae their time to receive it, they’ll be paid back in spades.”

“It never seems to happen to them though, does it? The devil really does seem to look after his own.”

“D’ye really believe that?”

“As I don’t believe in devils, I suppose I don’t. The only evil comes from the hearts of men.”

“Aye an’ women.”

I snorted and he asked me why. I told him about what I said to Diane about women fox hunting just as he sipped his Guinness. It wasn’t a pretty sight as he choked and coughed the stuff everywhere. Once he’d recovered and he gave me a filthy look as if I’d do such a thing on purpose, he then said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing. Edmund Burke.”

“Are you suggesting I’m not doing anything? About the wildlife crime?”

“No, not at all. It’s others wha need tae dae somethin’ a’ ye hae tae dae is tell them aboot it.”

“Ye’re thae communicator, think o’ somethin’.”

“Without implicating the university, I presume?”

“Naturally, but ye shud get roond that, ye’re a clever girl, ye’ll find away tae use yer position withoot embarrassing yer friend thae vice chancellor.”

“Him—I’d love to embarrass but only if it was terminal for him.”

“Watch whit ye’re sayin’ or it cud be terminal for ye.”

“Message received loud and clear. Sorry if I’ve irritated you today, Daddy, but I needed to talk about it, it distresses me that much. The world is a beautiful if dangerous place, full of wondrous things and it seems that those we can’t eat or sell we destroy, never appreciating the value of anything until it’s gone. Extinction is forever, why can’t people see that?”

“They dinnae hae yer interest or compassion, lassie, they’re mair interested in their ain shallow an’ materialist lives. If there’s nothin’ in it f’ them they dinna care.”

I held onto his arm as we walked back to my car and thanked him. He gave a little chuckle. “Sae there’s still a need f’ this auld git, is there?”

“I can’t imagine a world without your wisdom being there.”

“Aye weel mak’ thae most o’ it, it won’t there f’ ever.”

“Don’t say such things, Daddy, it’s unthinkable.”

He stopped and turned to face me taking my hands said, “Look, Cathy, I’m an auld man, my time is limited.”

The figure of ninety four came into my head. “You’ve got twenty years yet.”

“Whit? How can ye tell that?”

“I have my sources,” I smiled.

“Twenty years, eh? I suppose I’d better think aboot a pension then.” He said this dead pan and I nearly collapsed with laughter.

“Whit’s so funny?”

“What you just said about a pension.”

“Aye, I’ll hae tae see aboot it, I’ve been deferring it until noo.”

“Well I’d seriously think about at least claiming your state pension, you must have at least five years eligibility.”

“Oh aye, at least.”

“They won’t thank you for deferring it.” Although I knew they did, they give you a thousand pounds extra for each year of deferment. Mind you I expect they take most of it back in tax.

“Aye, I will.”

We arrived back at the university and I decided to write to all the great and the good who might take up the cause of keeping the wildlife police unit open, including a certain astrophysicist I once met who likes to play guitar and a charming old man who makes documentaries. I copied the Guardian blog and sent it as attachments to several folk asking if they had any ideas to support the unit against government cuts.

I hadn’t done much but I’d done something, so perhaps this time evil won’t triumph.

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/jan/08/nationa...

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2837 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

It was Saturday again, good, I needed a lie in, however what I needed and what a certain psychopathic moggie needed was obviously different because One of the girls opened my bedroom door and this frenzied flash of feline fur shot through, bounced off my head onto Simon’s groin and back out the door again before I could work out what happened.

A moment later it happened again and I just had time to pull the duvet over my head before the clomp of cat clogs careered off me and onto Simon’s groin, he immediately sat up swearing and then went off to the bathroom.

“Could you feed her while you’re up, darling?”

“Feed her, I’ll wring her bloody neck if she comes within catching distance.”

She did but he couldn’t lay a finger on her, she’d got up to full speed and gave a good impression of a wall of death rider as she appeared to be running round the walls, knocking things off the dressing table and the bedside cupboards. After the DAB radio alarm went flying I decided I needed to sort the problem myself as Simon’s attempt at intervention only appeared to make her worse.

So at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning I was feeding her and waiting for the kettle to boil. Simon came down yawning, wearing jeans and a pullover—so it really must be the weekend. “There she is, little sod.”

“Without language she has to let us know in other ways that she wants her breakfast.”

“I’d have thought learning to talk took less energy than the blitzkrieg that just happened upstairs.”

“It might but that was her workout for the day, she’ll sleep for hours after eating.” I noticed the tip of her tail quivering as if she could understand what I’d just said and was agreeing. “They do have some form of language.”

“Yeah, bloody meow.”

“That’s an attempt to communicate with humans, they apparently don’t do to other cats.”

“Well if it’s meant to mean something to me, how come it doesn’t?”

I shrugged, “She presumably thinks that’s your problem.”

“She’ll have one of her own in a moment, I’m going to put her out in the rain, see how she communicates then.” So saying he lumbered towards her but before he could bend to grab her she was off, straight through his legs and up the stairs.

“Make some tea, darling, I need a wee.” His grumbles were lost as I relieved myself and washed my hands, when I got back to the kitchen Julie and Phoebe were standing by the toaster waiting for it to char their bread. “Where’s my tea, didn’t you make any?”

“Ask Julie, she nabbed yours.”

“Feed the workers first,” she said and took another gulp of my tea.

“Cheeky sod,” I said switching the kettle back on. All she did was laugh.

“Could you make me one, too, Mummy?” asked Phoebe juggling with her pieces of cremated bread.

“Anybody else?” I asked rhetorically.

“Ooh yes please,” asked Danielle who just seemed to have materialised in her winter nightdress.

“What are you doing up?” I asked her as I poured another cup of tea.

“Away game,” she yawned.

“In all this rain?”

“Fraid so. There’ll be a pitch inspection but if we’re not there and the ref decides it’s playable we forfeit the game and the points.” She poured herself some cereal and took it and the mug of tea to the table.

The two older girls finished their toast, gulped down their drinks and pulling on coats walked towards the door. “You’re going early,” I remarked wondering if they thought the time was later than it actually was.

“Yeah, privilege of owning the business—cleaner’s off sick.”

“Would you like me to do you a sandwich?”

“Nah, we’ll grab one later.”

“I’ve got some shopping to do, I’ll try and drop one in for you.”

“That’s great, thanks, Mum.”

“Yeah thanks,” called Phoebe pulling her hood up over her head.

“Byeee,” they both shouted and the door slammed shut.

“You’ve really got to admire those two, they really get stuck in, don’t they?”

“I do admire both of them, neither is work shy and they seem to be building up quite a profitable business with regular clientele.”

“How many stylists have they got now?” he asked.

“Two I think,” I replied deciding the toast smelt so good I’d have a piece myself.

“Three,” corrected Danni, “Jade comes in most weeks.”

“How come she knows and you don’t?” asked Simon.

“She talks with her sisters more than I have time to.”

“Isn’t that telling you something?”

“If it is why isn’t it also telling you that you spend even less time with them than I do?”

“I’m the big bad bloke who goes off to work to keep my wife and daughters in the luxurious manner to which they’ve become accustomed.”

“Don’t make excuses, I work just as hard as you, dear.”

“Sure you do, I’m practically in the office when you’re getting up and I don’t finish until five most nights sometimes later.”

“It’s not my fault that you can’t work as fast as I do.” I said chuckling and inhaled a crumb of toast which then had me coughing.

Simon laughed, “Serves you right, see even god is on my side.”

“Yeah, well tell your imaginary friend if he does it again I’ll choke him.”

“Isn’t that, like blasphemy—to threaten God?” asked Danielle.

“Just because you go to a convent doesn’t mean you have to believe in fairies,” I replied.

“Oh dear, another one just died,” offered Simon.

“What?” I looked at him as if he was crazy—well he is but I only point it out when it’s to my advantage.

“A fairy.”

“Who is?” I felt my ire rising.

“What Peter Pan said, when you say you don’t believe in fairies another one dies.”

“I don’t.”

“There you just killed another one.”

“So it’s tough being a fairy, does it work for gods too, I wonder?”

“That is definitely blasphemy, Mummy. According to Sister Virginia...”

“According to Sister Vagina, what?” Danni roared with laughter so did Simon.

“What’s so funny—another fairy die?”

“No you called Sister Virginia, Sister Vagina.”

“Oh did I? Well it’s what you lot call her,” if you can’t win an argument by logic try bombast.

“No I didn’t,” Danni blushed.

“No matter, silly old twat,” I said and boiled the kettle for more tea. Danielle picked up my insult and was laughing like a drain, Oddly Simon had missed it. He probably wasn’t listening, he usually doesn’t unless he thinks I’m talking about him.

At this point down the stairs clomped the family equivalent of a SWAT team, Trish, Livvie, Hannah and Meems followed by Cate and Lizzie. What was nice was that Danielle didn’t need to be told to moderate her language in front of her younger sisters, she seemed to do it automatically just like an older girl would. She’s a real puzzle at times.

“Why are you all up?” asked Trish.

“Your flaming moggie, that’s why,” shot back Simon.

“She’s fast asleep on my bed, you sure it was her?”

Well if it was the dog, I’d have concussion now.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2838 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Danielle repaired to her room to apply two tons of mascara before going to her football match, I offered to give her a lift and trotted up to mine to change and apply just a few micrograms of the eyelash darkening stuff along with some brown eyeliner, some lipstick and I was ready. Clothes? Oh yes, I had some of those on, Waitrose haven’t yet got around to allowing nude shoppers, besides I’m a naturalist not a naturist.

Trish invited herself along as did Hannah, even though I told them I was doing mainly food shopping. Amongst the trolley load of stuff I bought, remember that David does most of the food orders online, including most of the meat and fish. We have two butchers and one fishmonger. Apparently, David was going to show the others how to make their own bread crumbs—I’m not exactly sure when they’ll need them but I suppose it pays to be prepared.

We dropped Danielle off at the football ground and small coach was parked there, presumably the one that would take the ladies team to wherever they were playing. Danielle had made herself a sandwich—or talked David into doing it for her, more likely—so she grabbed her bag, gave me a peck on the cheek, high fived the other two and went into the players entrance. It was barely nine o’clock.

We were able to park in the Waitrose car park and set off to do our food shop. Despite being fairly early the place was quite busy and I looked at the list David had given me. Fifteen minutes later we were waiting at the checkout. Trish spotted Mrs Brown-Cow and her darling Petunia, but fortunately they didn’t see us and we escaped before they did, Trish telling Hannah all about her in a greatly exaggerated form. As Hannah had actually seen them come in she ignored Trish’s description of her as being like the ogress in Shrek.

We did a quick flit over to John Lewis as well and I got them each a new pair of socks, getting some for Danielle, Meems and Cate as well. Danni doesn’t always seem to feel the cold, not that it’s been that cold yet, but they say that’s going to change over the coming week as the wind turns towards the north—great, just what we need.

If that meant dry and cold I’d accept it better than wet and cold which it looks like being, how the dormice will survive the excessively wet early winter, is hard to say. It looked rather as if numbers had dropped this last summer. Fortunately, the ones we’re breeding seem to be doing reasonably well in their temperature and moisture controlled tanks.

One of the things I’ve been trying to do is vary the genetic mix of our captive bred animals by making different males available to the females. It’s a fact that female dormice are real floozies and their litters often contain babies by different fathers, which improves the survival of some of them by increasing the gene pool. We’ve also tried to mix things further by introducing mice from outside their immediate area and which they’d never normally meet, purely to increase the genetic variability. So far, we haven’t noticed any adverse effects although that could take time to show.

The morning had been relatively bright and stayed dry but the wet stuff started as we were driving home with Trish reading my New Scientist as we went. I don’t know how much she understands of it because I don’t some of the more esoteric, but I’m trying not to underestimate that amazing brain she possesses.

We had to run in with the groceries and David came out to help unload the car. “I didn’t order these or those,” he said glaring at me.

“No, I decided to buy them because I like them.” I defended my purchase of clementines instead of ordinary oranges. He was about to say something and remembered that it was actually my kitchen in which we were standing and that lay inside my house.

“Fine, you’re the boss,” he said and I said nothing but the look I gave him told him not to forget it.

Another thing that had happened was when we took the rolls into the salon, Phoebe nabbed me and shoved a cup of latte coffee in my hand then dragged me off to sort out my nails. She reshaped them and filled in the gap at the base of the nail then repainted them with some stuff that required ultraviolet to dry it.

“You’ll need to come into the salon to get any chips repaired, Mummy.”

“Why?”

“This is special nail varnish, it’s extra tough and doesn’t come off with ordinary remover.” I glanced at my now, dark blue, metallic talons—she hadn’t given me a choice of colour. “Come in again next week and I’ll tidy them up for you again, Mummy.”

“Why did you do them blue?”

“You wear so much denim and besides we thought it would rejuvenate your image as a dowdy old professor.”

Jeez, I’m thirty two not seventy two. So less of the old. I didn’t think I was dowdy either, perhaps I’m wrong. Oh well, looks like I’m stuck with them for another week.

“You do like them, Mummy?” her face fell just a little and I couldn’t really tell her the truth now could I?

“They’re lovely, Phoebe, it’s just a little different from last time.”

She smiled, “Good I’m glad you like them.”

“Huh,” sighed Trish, looking at her pink painted nails, “I couldn’t do mine blue like yours in case I couldn’t get it off before school on Monday—s’not fair.” But then for Trish, it never is.

Hannah had pink nails too, but then the idea there was to try and stop her biting them because they looked so awful. But then she lives in fear of Ingrid wanting to have her back. I try to tell her it’s unlikely as she’d have to go through the courts and that costs money, besides, I’d removed an obstacle from her hedonist lifestyle which I’m not sure she’ll be in too big a hurry to curtail.

Stella noticed my nails and liked them. “I can’t do anything like that?” She continued complaining, “I’m a nurse remember, and they reckon it’s unhygienic. Seeing as I rarely actually touch anyone except wearing nitrile gloves, which are purple, I can’t see the problem but rules are rules and they say no nail varnish or nail extensions.”

“You could paint them over a weekend, like the girls did,” I pointed out to her and the girls wiggled their fingers practically up her nose.

“Can’t be bothered, besides those acrylic things you’ve got on your fingers will weaken the nails after a few days.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, well known fact, didn’t the girls tell you?” with that parting shot she took her washing up to her rooms.

“Is that true?” I asked no one in particular.

“Oh yes, read about it somewhere on the internet,” said David and did I see a smirk?

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2839 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“Don’t those nails uh—complicate things?” said Diane as I took the file of mail from her.”

“At first but I’ve adapted, I’ll need to be shot of them when the dormouse season starts...”

“Why?”

“Because we actually handle the little darlings.”

“Ah—I could see a difficulty there.”

“Quite, but if you have two daughters who have a beauty salon, you have to encourage them occasionally.”

“Oh absolutely.”

I flipped open the folder and started to read my mail and she left closing the door behind her. It was nice that I didn’t have any meeting this week so I do things like scheduling supervision of the few people I look after, reply to my letters or do some of the survey work while I was in work not at home. If I’m not careful, I could quite easily become a seeming workaholic like Daddy, who leaves before me most days and returns home quite a bit later than I do, but then the university were so glad to have me act up as professor, that they agreed to me only working the same hours I was before because I have young children and because my husband works away from home most weekdays.

It was Monday, yet again—how is it that time goes twice as quickly at weekends than it does during the week—unless you’re trying to finish something to a deadline. The young first year who’d walked out of my lecture after I put him down from his heckling was making great progress and since he’d started to actually think about what he was doing and enjoy it, his work had improved beyond recognition.

When I told him so he replied, “That’s all due to you, Professor, you’re the first one who’s seen through my act and got to the real me but instead of deriding me, you encouraged me. It’s hard work but I’m enjoying it.”

“Good, keep it up and make something of your life—you never get a chance to repeat or relive this time, enjoy it but also work hard, at your age you usually have the energy to do both. It starts to wane in your thirties as other pressures take over, so enjoy it while you can.”

“I will, thank you.” He went off to make another date with my diary the keeper of which was Diane and my phone rang.

“Hello, Cathy Watts,” I said into the handset.

“Hi, Babes, can we do a dinner party at short notice?”

“How short?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Like to tell me the whys and wherefores?”

“Can I tell you tonight?”

“Why the secrecy?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Any dietary requirements of our guests and how many?”

“Not that I know of, there will be two.”

“Is this a family thing or do we need to feed the children separately?”

“No, they can be there, may help, but I’ll need to borrow your study afterwards.”

“Okay. Are they foreign or British—simply from a menu point of view?”

“That should be fine whatever you want to have.”

“Is this a bone china and silver cutlery affair?”

“No, good everyday is fine. No—put out the nice stuff.”

“Okay, I’ll speak with David.”

“Thanks, Babes—see you later.”

“Love you,” I said thinking he’d put his phone down but he replied with the same.

I had another cuppa and called David. He was quite pleased to do something more challenging and if he did a good job, Simon was usually generous in his bonus and his car needed re-taxing at the end of the month. His major query was what did I want on the menu and did I want Amanda to wait on table. I told him I’d speak to him when I got home but I didn’t think I’d need Amanda to serve but it would be good if she could do some extra cleaning so it didn’t look like a pigsty. He told me he’d pass on the message.

I wondered who these two mysterious guests were and why he couldn’t tell me anything about them—that was quite unusual, so what was going on? Would we all be sworn to secrecy afterwards? Would it be a problem for Sammi or Stella, as it appeared he didn’t want anyone to know at the bank from the way he was talking. I was all very strange and I was slightly distracted when trying to dictate a letter to Diane.

“D’you want me to come back later?”

“Uh no, let’s do it now.”

“You seem somewhat distracted, Prof.”

“Simon wants me to host a dinner party tomorrow night for two guests but couldn’t tell me who they were or why he was being so secretive.”

“Secret deals behind closed doors—shouldn’t that be beer and sarnies?”

“Diane, this is not a union pay negotiation, nor the signing of a treaty between some foreign dictatorship and the bank.”

“How d’you know?”

“I know Simon and he wouldn’t contemplate working with some autocratic general or Middle Eastern potentate—or not in my house. I wouldn’t allow it.”

“You have that much power?”

“Not so much power as he respects my feelings on such things.”

“What a lefty Guardianista?”

“Yeah—’oy, watch it.”

She left me and chuckling went off to make more tea. She knew that would calm me down.

We did finish the letters in time for her to type them and me to sign them before I went off to collect the mouseketeers. Danielle was still limping from an injury the day before. They had foolishly tried to play on a soccer pitch, which, from her description, was more like a paddy field than Old Trafford. She’d been brought down by a late tackle while scoring the only goal and ten minutes later, the ref abandoned the match. She’d somehow twisted her knee as she fell and it resisted any attempt from Trish or me to heal it. I suggested it didn’t work on stupidity and making them play was an act of pure folly.

“I agree,” she said, “an’ it wasn’t my idea to play, but they considered it was playable.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“Mummy, it was like water polo in the shallow end.” That had both of us laughing until she moved her leg and it pained. So it was back to other methods, arnica and cold compresses. She took a stick to school with her—one of my walking poles—which I spoke to the headmistress about.

“I’m surprised you hadn’t been able to sort it—you usually do.”

“Perhaps it’s telling her to rest a bit more often.”

“Isn’t that you do when you get our ripe old ages or beyond?”

“Probably. I have mentioned before that the energy does tend to do its own thing.”

“A true act of God,” she said making the sign of a cross.

“I’m not sure about that, but in the interests of world peace will agree to differ.”

“Cathy, you should have been a diplomat.”

“Eh? I’m a Sagittarian—diplomacy doesn’t exist in our dictionaries.”

“D’you believe all that star sign nonsense? Yet not in Jesus or even God the Father.”

“Nah, it’s all mumbo jumbo—except every now and again some of the characteristics seem apposite.”

“So is gullibility a Sagittarian trait?”

“You want a diplomatic answer?” I fired back and we both went on our ways laughing.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2840 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“So who are our guests tomorrow, and how many for dinner?” asked David as I entered the house behind a horde of giggling schoolgirls. What set them off I have no idea, I don’t think they did either—one of the joys of being a kid, enjoyment isn’t conditional, it’s spontaneous and total.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. The look that accompanied my answer told him not to push it.

“Do you know how many?”

“Yes, us lot plus two. Use the best china and silverware.”

“Ooh, someone posh then?”

“If I knew I’d tell you. Last time it was some total arsehole he couldn’t stand but he got the deal he was chasing. It could be something similar, I don’t know.”

“Did you see some guy was shouting the odds about another recession caused by the drop in oil prices and the crisis in China.”

“The oil business is designed by the Saudis to destroy the US shale oil industry.”

“That’s what they imply in the Guardian.”

“Must be true then. I’m going up to change could you do me a pot of tea?”

“Certainly, modom.” He bowed and then laughed as I gave the finger as I went out the door. Bloody servants, don’t know their place anymore.

It was certainly getting a bit cooler with more cold to come—wonderful, the junior doctors are on strike tomorrow—I hope they wear warm clothes on their picket lines, I’d hate for them to become ill, they may need a doc—oh never mind. I pulled on some jeans and a thick tee shirt over which I donned a cardigan—one with pockets; so much better for leaving tissues in when putting in the washing machine; ensures a more even dispersal of the little bits.

Back downstairs I drank down a mug of tea added some more water to the pot and asked the others if they wanted any. David already had one, Stella wasn’t back yet from work or the crèche, so only Danielle came for one.

“So what’s this about a dinner party tomorrow?”

“I only know he’s invited two guests?”

“Like who?”

“Like I don’t know, darling, so don’t keep on.”

“Okay okay, what have I got to wear?”

“You know your wardrobe better than I do.”

“No—I meant, have I got to wear anything special?”

“Smart casual, I expect. Mary Berry, here,” I nodded at David, “is the only one who’ll be in fancy dress.”

“Bitch,” was muttered from behind me and Danni nearly dropped her cup laughing.

“If it’s any different, I’ll let you know.”

“I wondered if I needed a new dress or anything?”

“No, you have plenty of clothes.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she smirked.

“You tell her, girl,” David offered her support.

“Perhaps you could have a new dress,” I said pretending to have had a change of heart.

“Oh?” she said her face lighting up.

“Yeah, I get your daddy to take it out of his bonus.”

“Bah,” said Danielle sounding like a frustrated sheep.

“You leave my bonus alone, missus, if you want edible food for tomorrow.”

I glared at him and he chuckled to himself. I went off to do some survey work until dinner was ready. Simon arrived with Sammi at half past six and Daddy arrived a few minutes later.

“So who are our visitors tomorrow, Daddy?” asked Danielle.

“What visitors are these then?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, you old meany.” She was holding his arm and putting it over her shoulder—what happened to the kid who used to be my son, this was out and out flirting?

“Who said we were having visitors?” asked Simon.

“Mummy said you did.”

“When did I say that?”

“I don’t like know, do I?”

“So she could have made it all up then?”

“No, she doesn’t do things like that.”

“How d’you know that?”

“She hasn’t got enough imagination.”

Simon thought that was hilarious as did David. Someone else in the room wasn’t quite so sure of its humour value, viz. moi. However, I let her wrap Simon around her finger and con him out of forty pounds for a new dress. Serve him right, I thought. Either that or it’s just about enough to keep her in mascara for a week or two. I think she applies it with a plasterer’s float.

At dinner, Simon decided to put us out of our misery, “We’ve some guests coming for dinner tomorrow, with their little girl.”

“Who’s that?” asked Stella.

“Friends of your mother’s.”

They all suddenly looked at me as if I had the answer to the puzzle and of course I didn’t. The only friends of mine with a little girl were Siân and Kirsty or Stephanie and they’d have approached me not Simon. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“’Course you do.”

I racked my brain but unless it was Abi from Sussex I had no idea who else had a young child. “Well I can’t think of anyone.”

“We had dinner with them at the hotel.”

“Did we?” that was no use, we’ve had dinner with dozens of people at the hotel and none had a little girl as I remember.

I shook my head, I hated these guessing games, especially when it’s obvious even to a blind man, that I have no idea of who he’s talking. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do, you’ve just not thought hard enough.”

“No, well I’ve had enough. It seems obvious that you’re going to torment me and the others until we scream for mercy. Well stick your dinner party, you can host it yourself.” I stood up and stormed away from the table to go and sulk in my study.

About ten minutes later there was a tap at the door and in walked Julie with a cuppa. “Thought you might like this.” She placed it down in front of me.

“Thank you, darling. So did he say who was coming?”

“Yeah, some bloke and his wife.”

“And little girl, don’t forget her.”

“Sorry, yeah her as well.”

“Did he say who they were?”

“He said the bloke was coming to see if the bank would finance something.”

“So I’ve got to keep a young girl amused, have I?”

“I think that was being delegated to Meems and Trish.”

“Trish? Child care, she’s more Mr than Dr Spock.”

“Who?”

“Dr Spock was an American childcare specialist who used to appear on television with advice about rearing babies, Mr Spock is Leonard Nimmoy with funny ears, he who has very few feelings for anything.”

“I knew who Mr Spock was, I watched enough Star Trek, to boldly go...”

“To split infinitives.”

“What?”

“It should be, ‘To go boldly.’”

“What?” I could see boredom spreading across her face.

“So who’s coming?”

“Only some has been movie star and his supermodel wife.”

“What Matthew and Judy?”

“Yeah, I think that’s them, wasn’t he in a Bond movie?”

“I think he was, he rescues 007 and gets killed in the process.”

“Could be, can’t really remember.”

“I wish he’d said, your father that is. Oh hell, she’s coming and would look like a million dollars in a black rubbish sack, I’ve got nothing to wear.”

“You’ve got nothing—what about me, Mummy?”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2841 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

In bed that night I told Simon What I thought of his silly games at the dinner table. “You seem to have been the only one upset by it.”

“I was the one who was being teased, none of the others were expected to know who you meant.”

“It was only a bit of fun—lighten up.”

“Is that what a pack of dogs about to invade a field of sheep say?”

“I don’t recognise the comparison.”

“I hope you have a lovely evening.”

“We will.”

“Yes, I’m going up to Bristol—check over my house.”

“I want you here.”

“Should have asked me nicely then instead of humiliating me.”

“I didn’t, it was just a bit of gentle teasing.”

“Like the dogs say to the sheep.”

“Okay, you’ve made your point I’m a ruthless, heartless wolf terrifying my little baa lamb, I apologise unconditionally. Now will you stay?”

“Can I think about it?”

“This is tomorrow we’re talking about.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“So when will you give me your answer?”

“When I’ve reached one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it says, when I have reached a conclusion, I’ll inform you.”

“What sort of game are you playing—it’s easy, you either say yes or no.”

“Or perhaps, or maybe.”

“Those aren’t acceptable.”

“Better ask Julie or Sammi to act as hostess then.”

“I bloody well will. Sod you.” He turned over and I know he wasn’t asleep because neither was I. I couldn’t say when I eventually drifted off but it was between one and two and I was up again at seven feeling like piece of stale bread. How much sleep Simon had—couldn’t say. I took the girls to school and they were anxious because Si and I were squabbling.

“It’s nothing, couples do this from time to time.”

“I don’t like it when you fight,” said Livvie, “my first parents were always doing it. I lost them, I don’t want to lose you, Mummy; nor Daddy.”

“You won’t lose me or your father, kiddo.”

“You’re just punishing him for being mean to you at dinner, aren’t you?”

“Something like that. Sometimes the only way I can get him to understand is to be just as mean as he was.”

“That’s just dumb kid’s stuff.” Livvie didn’t mince her words.

“Aren’t you as bad as him?” asked Trish.

“My parents used to fight all the time, in the end they split up,” Hannah said quietly.

“This isn’t a fight...”

“What is it then apart from a giant sulk?” How old is Livvie?

“I’m letting him know he hurt me...” I insisted.

“By making him look stupid to guests—these people know you better than Daddy, if you’re not there, he’s going to look foolish.”

I was now fighting back the tears. Put in my place by a ten year old who was more mature than I was.”

“Will you be back to collect us or do we get the bus?” asked Trish.

“I’ll be here.”

“Good,” she said and they all trooped off to school without a by your leave or a kiss. They didn’t even look back at me. I felt wretched and burst into tears, driving away lest someone should see me crying.

I managed to get control of myself and called Simon’s mobile. “I’ll be here tonight,” I said to him.

“Doesn’t matter, I cancelled it.”

“What about the dinner?”

“I told David it’s off.”

“Without any consultation with me?”

“It was my only option, our guests were looking forward to seeing you again, but it appeared you didn’t particularly want to see them, so I cancelled.”

“On what grounds?”

“I told them you weren’t very well. Matt seemed okay about it.”

“Right,” I said unsure of what or how I felt. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“Doubt it, I’ve got loads of work to get through, so I’ll probably stay in town tonight and get through some of it.”

“Okay,” I said quietly, “When will I see you?”

“When I know, I’ll let you know.”

“Fine.” I rang off and felt the tears running again. I managed to stop them told Diane I wasn’t well and drove home. Inside my tummy was churning. I’d felt like telling Simon that I’d had the facts of life explained by a ten year old girl who seemed to have a better perspective on life than I did, did he want to talk to her so she could put him right as well? But I didn’t, instead I tormented myself.

I bumped into David in the kitchen. “You all right, Cathy?”

“No,” I said and brushed past him running up to my bedroom before anyone else saw me only to find Amanda had stripped the bed and was busy remaking it. In the end I ran down to my study and locked the door. I lay down on the sofa and curled up into a foetal position and fell asleep feeling like I never wanted to wake up again. My whole little world was crumbling around me, or so it felt. I no longer controlled anything—if I ever had—and felt like I was drifting away like a piece of flotsam in an ocean.

I was in that huge hall again, the one with the intense light which just seems to be there, shining in through windows on all sides—not something that happens in a normal building. I was walking, as I had before, until I realised that showing some humility was likely to get more results than striding about the place.

I knelt down carefully adjusting the long shift dress I had on so I wouldn’t fall over it when I stood up. At least part of my brain was working. I knelt there for some time looking at the floor and reflecting upon the past twelve or so hours. Neither of us came out of it very well, especially me. Now I had to deal with it, my actions and the aftermath. I wasn’t sure what I was doing here unless my desire to die had been accepted and this was some interim transit camp for migrating souls—nah, I’d be going the other way and probably at a training camp for stokers.

Wretched was the only way I could describe my mood and the odd tear escaped my eyes and dripped onto the floor where they shone like gold in that intense light. So occupied was I with my misery that I didn’t notice a pair of feet poking out from a golden dress until a familiar voice spoke to me.

“You have sought an audience with us, Catherine?”

It was so tempting to look up but I kept up the appearance of humility and stared at the ground. “I need your advice, milady.”

“This is indeed a novelty, on what would you like our advice?”

“You will be aware that both Simon and I acted like six year old last night and this morning. He started the row but I accept my response didn’t help matters and probably made it worse. I feel totally wretched about it all, my children seemed to have more idea about the reality of life than I do. I need to patch things up with Simon because my children need us both as effective parents. This morning my children parented me. I am ashamed, milady.”

“What is you want us to do, Catherine?”

“Tell me how I resolve this situation to protect my children from their parent’s folly.”

“This is an earthly matter, we do not intervene in such things.”

“But please, milady, tell me what to do—how do I apologise to Simon and my children?”

“I think you answered your own question. Whatever you do, do with a clear and open heart—it will guide you.”

I awoke feeling cold and sat up, my eyes sore and gummed up with tears. There was a knocking at the door, when I opened it, David stood there with a bouquet of flowers. For a moment I wondered if Simon had sent them, but when I saw the card it read, ‘Hope you feel better soon, Matt, Judy & Emily.’ That made me feel worse.

“Tea?” was all David said.

“Please.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2842 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

‘Call me, please. C x’ was the text I sent to Simon and just waited.

Two hours is very long time when you’re waiting to eat humble pie. When he finally called I was in the loo and hadn’t taken my phone with me—well you don’t do you, unless you’re on twatter or faceache – ‘This is me having a poo.’ Right—back to real life not some adolescent facsimile.

‘You ask me to call you, which I take it was fairly urgent, you could at least be there to take it, or is this an extended sulk?’

I counted to ten and still wanted to slap him, so I went off to get a cuppa and of course, he’d tried again.

‘Just wot r u playing at?’

Count to ten. ‘I wanted to talk to resolve this bad feeling. Cx’

‘U mean u want to apologise?’

Count to ten again—then slap him—doh.

‘Yes.’

A moment later my phone pinged and I answered it. “I’m waiting,” he said and I was feeling anything but apologetic.

“Okay, I apologise for feeling humiliated in front of the whole family and for thinking you were an arsehole. I was wrong to sulk and I’m sorry that I didn’t tear you off a strip a mile wide in front of the others instead.”

“It was just a bit of fun.”

“Not from where I was sitting.”

“Okay, I’m sorry that felt that way about it.”

“Would be nicer if you were sorry for doing it in the first place.”

“And you were sorry for thinking I was an arsehole and not tearing me up in front of the others? Strange sort of apology.”

“I had a ten year old telling me the facts of life and how her parents used to fight.”

“So she saw you were in the wrong?”

“No, what she saw was the wrongness of my retaliation to your provocation.” I couldn’t remember what Livvie had said so I was making it up as I went along.

“C’mon, Babes, the rest of them were enjoying it.”

“Like they would if I tipped a dish of boiling hot soup in your lap?”

“That doesn’t compare, that’s assault.”

“I see, so tormenting someone beyond their comfort zone isn’t—just plain abuse, it it?”

“Hang on a moment. I didn’t abuse you.”

“You may not have thought so.”

“Meaning—hang on—I don’t care who’s out there—I asked you not to disturb me. What is so important? What my call or firing you? Sorry about that, staff discipline, these women don’t know their place anymore.”

“If that’s a joke it’s in bad taste, doubly so given the nature of this call.”

“If that’s the case, I apologise.”

“Accepted, now we need to find some time to talk and I mean really talk or I really do feel our relationship is in trouble.”

“That bad, eh?”

“At least if not actually worse.”

“In which case, we’d better talk. I’ll book a table tonight, get someone to babysit.”

“Why can’t we talk at home?”

“There’s less chance of you killing me in front of witnesses.”

“Simon, are you completely stupid? Your appalling schoolboy humour has nearly sent me to a lawyer claiming mental cruelty and you do the same again. When you decide to grow up, call me back.” I switched off my phone he could stew for a few minutes, then I recognised my repeating my sulk type behaviour and switched it back on.

He called an hour later when I was talking to David about the menu only this time I had my mobile with me. “Hold on, I’m going somewhere more private.” I fairly ran to my study. “Okay, we can talk.”

“Not much to say other than I’ve been a bloody fool and I hope we still have a future together. I apologise unreservedly, you were quite right, I’m just an oversized school boy.”

“I’d rather talk face to face.”

“So you can rub it in?”

“No, so we can hold each other because at this moment there is nothing I’d rather feel that your arms around me and mine around you. I love you, Simon.”

“Jesus Christ—hold on.” There was a half a minute pause and I thought I could hear him blowing his nose, either that or he had a trumpeting elephant in his office. “Sorry about that. I love you too, Catherine Cameron, can we start again?”

“Let’s talk tonight, after dinner.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Look forward to it.”

“I’m a fool, aren’t I?”

“The nicest one I know.”

When I put the phone down tears were streaming down my face. This shouldn’t have been necessary, he should grow up and I should learn to stop feeling so hurt by his immaturity. Perhaps one day those things will happen, perhaps not. We have this recurring pattern of him abusing me, because that is what he’s doing and me retaliating because I suffered so much of that as a girl—yes dammit, I’m a woman so when I was younger, I was a girl—and my father, especially tormented me verbally, putting me down. Then I was unable to defend myself but now I’m not, only this was my husband not my father. I know he should know better but perhaps there’s something in his past that did or didn’t happen which causes him to be this overgrown public schoolboy pulling my pigtails and thinking it’s funny. Nobody else does.

I’m thinking my New Year resolution should be to try and not be so thin skinned and vulnerable, but that only works if some of the provocation drops too. We have some talking to do this evening, I hope and pray it works. Just because we love each other doesn’t mean we have to stay together, not if it doesn’t appear to be working as a relationship. I have a right to maintain my career providing I can do it and keep a home together for the children. I accept that his career is part loyalty to his family and part the size of his salary. He’s already worth a fortune but it’s in his blood—he’d rather die than leave the bank. I don’t feel that committed to my job, but I’d still fight to keep it. I think at times he’d love me to potter rather than work. At the moment, daddy needs my support and besides, someone has to stand up to the Vice Chancellor occasionally, even though it probably won’t help my career. What he doesn’t seem to appreciate is then I’d have time to think of ways to destroy him because I’m pretty sure I could get James to dig around and find things that would bring him down. You didn’t think an angel could be so spiteful? Tell that to the ancient Egyptians and how the legend of Passover originated. We angels can be quite nasty when required, believe me.

Having said that I asked David to make us the meal he was going to do for our dinner party. “Numbers?” he said.

“Just the family, unless you and Amanda would like to come.”

“No but I’ll take a bit home with me if that’s okay, don’t know about Amanda.”

“Just the family then and you take a bit home—give some to Amanda as well.”

“Okay, what time?”

“Seven.” He nodded and started pulling things out of the fridge and I left him to it.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2843 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I got home that evening telling the girls to go and do homework but to be ready to change into something tidy for dinner.

“We having visitors?” came the rejoinder.

“No, I just wanted you to look nice for once.”

Danielle disappeared. It was barely four o’clock, she might just make it by seven if she hurries and the British cosmetics industry will double their profits by the end of the week. She has lovely skin—well okay, the odd spot, but she’s adolescent it happens—but her beautiful, velvet skin will emerge under a thick layer of makeup which will take hours to apply and some time to remove and cleanse and moisturise and tone. I thought to offer her a paint scraper but I’m not sure she’d see the irony.

“Can we wear makeup?” asked Hannah.

“Just some eyeshadow and mascara and some lip gloss. Anymore than that and I’ll make you take the lot off—agreed?”

They all nodded but accepted it. “How come Danielle can use more?” asked Livvie.

“She’s twice as ugly,” quipped clever gob and, they all ran off up the stairs. I doubted much homework would be done but so what.

I decided to try and read my book for a short time to calm myself down. I was half way through Bart D Ehrman’s ‘Jesus Interrupted,’ which is about the history of Christianity and how much of the New Testament is contradictory if not nonsensical at times. It takes a bit of concentration to read but I was enjoying it. I laughed out loud at one point when he said some of his undergraduate students thought Jesus’ name was Jesus Christ, son of Joseph and Mary Christ.

I wasn’t sure why I was reading it, I don’t believe and probably never will but was I searching for something? If so what? I paused to think about that. Could it be I wanted to justify my agnosticism or rid myself of the conditioning I received as a child? I wasn’t sure, but was prepared to accept there was a man called Yeshu or Jesus as the Greeks wrote it, the New Testament was written in Greek by people who never met Jesus, many years later. There are twenty seven books in the canon, but only eight are believed to be written by the people who are given as authors, including Paul, seven of which are his, Revelation was written by someone called John but which John is not known, nor ever will be. It’s riddled with errors, contradictions and forgery and if written by God, he had a definite off-day in the office.

The Jesus of the Bible and that of reality were very different. The real man was an apocalyptic preacher who believed the world would end within very few years with the coming of the Son of Man. Paul expected the event to happen in his lifetime—it didn’t, hasn’t nor will happen. Jesus was wrong—it happens. Like many of the Jewish prophets, he paid a heavy price for his mistake or beliefs and his followers ever after have changed meaning or interpretations of his supposed sayings, even his life. In the end I felt quite sorry for him, just another deluded, religious fanatic whose followers created much of the misery in this world and still do—especially to each other.

It struck me as ironic that the Anglican church was in meeting to try and prevent schism over such things as same sex marriage and women bishops. I presumed all of those who were meeting were aware of the historicity of their religion, yet acted as if they didn’t following the party line instead of the truth—I felt little but scorn for them.

At six I went to see what the girls were doing. As expected, Danielle was waiting for the paint to dry before slapping on another layer, the younger ones were giggling but behaving themselves, helping each other with their hair or makeup. I went off to shower and change. With David cooking us up a veritable feast, I felt like we were celebrating the return of the prodigal son, in which case would I be the prodigal daughter because I felt were actually celebrating an outbreak of peace between Simon and me. I hoped we could move on after we talked, later on.

David was doing a leg of lamb—a whole one. Well, there is about ninety five of us and I like a decent slice or two of meat with my vegetables. I decided to wear a dress and because it was quite thin material, was glad we weren’t going anywhere outside. Stella had been reluctant when I mentioned it to her but eventually agreed to change into something better than jeans and an old sweater. Puddin’ and Fiona were very happy to dress up.

Julie and Phoebe rushed in and up to their rooms to change but Tom refused point blank. He had his suit on from work and that would ‘haf tae dae.’ I decided not to send him to sit on the naughty step as tonight was supposed to be a celebration of reconciliation, not a squabble.

“Whit f’ are ye a’ dressed up like ye’re gang aft somewhere?”

“Because it’s Thursday.”

“Aye, I ken’t that.”

“Well then?”

“Weel whit?”

“Celebrate.”

“Celebrate whit? It’s freezin’ cauld, dark and mid January, whit’s tae celebrate?”

“We’re all alive. Is that not grounds enough?”

“Weel, if ye wisnae, celebratin’ micht prove a wee bit difficult.”

“Suit yersel’,” I offered in broad Glaswegian and he grinned—then went and changed. And he has the nerve to suggest women are fickle—or was that Verdi?

Simon arrived with Sammi, who entered and stood shivering, skirt up round her bum and thin tights. “Go and change, darling,” I instructed her.

“How long have a got?”

“I hope many years, but to change, twenty minutes.”

She groaned and her heels clattered up the stairs despite the expensive stair carpet.

“Me as well?” said Simon looking tired.

“Yep, I laid your dress out on the bed,” I teased.

He embraced me and said quietly, “If I looked as good in one as you do in that, I’d happily wear one.”

“If you did, I’m not sure I’d be quite so pleased to see you,” I replied and we both laughed before he went up to wash and change.

I told David twenty minutes and he nodded. The kitchen was smelling delicious and as it over six hours since I’d last eaten, I was hungry.

Finally, everyone was ready and we sat at the table and ate an exquisite meal with a glass of Prosecco. After we’d finished the main course, I stood and proposed a toast. “I may not always see eye to eye with him, but I’d like everyone to toast the best husband in the world, mine and I love him as much now as I ever have. To Simon.”

From the deep shade of red he went, I think he was either very warm or embarrassed. However, it soon passed and he stood and said, “I have to respond to the toast my dear wife just made. Compared to her side of the relationship, I’m grossly inadequate as a husband and other parent. All I can say in response is, I shall try to do better—sounds like one of my school reports—like I said, I’ll try to do better but I love her even more than I did an hour ago. To my own personal angel.” He raised his glass and they all repeated his dedication. Boy, is it warm in here or what?

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2844 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Episode 237 dozen for dodecaphiles.

“That man is a genius,” said Simon as we snuggled together in bed.

“Who?” I asked for once not being linked with his train if thought.

“David, who else?”

I wasn’t going to argue. “The food was good, wasn’t it?”

“Good, it was absolutely brilliant, the meat was so succulent it just dissolved in your mouth.”

“Hmm,” I said snuggling into his chest with my arm round his tummy.

“I love my wife,” he said and stroked my back gently.

“Glad to hear it, are you going to tell her?”

“Nah, she’s not into sex unless it’s on a bicycle.”

I snorted and had to wipe his chest, serve him right saying something like that.

“Isn’t it difficult on a bike, in this cold weather?” I asked when I stopped giggling.

“It’s difficult in warm weather, especially going up hills.”

We’d had mushrooms with dinner; I began to wonder if Simon had got a funny one.

“Just as well you’ve got me then.”

“I keep telling her that, she doesn’t seem to care—you know...” he whispered, “I reckon those funny saddles she rides on give her some sort of sexual excitement.”

Now I know Specialized body geometry saddles are good but if anything after a long ride then tend to curb libido not encourage it, I’m just plain sore—mind you sex doesn’t always promote cycling afterwards, even on the Brooks saddle on my mountain bike. So this almost surreal conversation was mind boggling to say the least.

“I keep thinking I shall have tell my husband about you.” I said trying to keep the conversation almost sensible.

“Why’s that?”

“You’re such a gentle and patient lover.”

“Isn’t he then?”

“No, it’s wham, bam, thank you, mam, then he falls asleep almost immediately.”

“He doesn’t, does he?”

“Yes, sadly he does.”

“Leaving you unsatisfied?”

“Sometimes.”

“The cad.”

“Don’t be too hard on him, because he is my husband.”

“Still, he needs to put you first.”

“That’s true,” I said wondering if he was talking in his sleep or had got so deep into a role play, that he forgot who he was.

“So are you going to let me have my gentle and patient, if wicked way with you?”

“Why, what’s the alternative?”

“Your husband or the bike.”

“Uh—okay then.”

He still fell asleep before anything happened for me, except tender nipples and a tenderness elsewhere. We use lubrication—we have to, but the tissue there wasn’t exactly designed for the use it gets. Never mind, I enjoy knowing he had fun all I have to do is get him off me so I can have a little wash and go to sleep.

It was Friday when I woke, another work day. I showered and put some cream on a rather tender spot, but it was okay and I suspect I could have ridden my bike if I’d wanted to; but not with the outcome Si was suggesting last night.

Mind you I do remember doing a take-off of Meg Ryan’s diner scene, when she suggested women can and do fake orgasms, while riding over some rumble strips. He must have been with me and it possibly caused his comments last night. However, it was a joke and the vibration from them which comes up through the bike is anything but erotic.

Having said that I recall riding down a hill at speed and hit a rough patch of tarmac. The bike was vibrating so much my eyes went funny and I could barely focus enough to see where I was going, plus I discovered a butterfly was caught in my helmet and that was flapping away for all it was worth. It could have been worse, it could have been a bumble bee. I had one of those hit me on the forehead one time and it jolly well hurt—I was probably going twenty miles an hour and I suspect so was the bee—we impacted at ouch miles an hour. I suspect I was the only one to survive the collision. Had a bruise for days.

I roused the girls and got ready for work. Day two of realising the world was poorer for losing Alan Rickman. I must try and watch some of his films again, especially, ‘Truly, Madly, Deeply.’

Never really got into Jane Austen, just people wandering about in period clothes, that is frock coats and silly frocks, while being overly polite to each other. Did husbands and wives really address each other as mister and missus? I could just see us doing that. “How are you today, Lord Cameron?” “Very well thank you, Lady Cameron.”

Still I suppose it’s better than, ‘Oy mush, ’ow’s it ’angin’?’

The girls came grumbling down to breakfast. I told them to be quiet as I did them scrambled eggs on toast, having the same myself to see if it stopped me getting as hungry as cereal sometimes did. They were then squabbling over the tomato sauce. At this point I lost it and screamed at them to behave. They all looked at me as if I’d just had a funny turn. Moments later, Livvie said to Trish, “PMS I expect.” Trish agreed. It was going to be one of those days.

Life didn’t seem to improve with work as we had two staff off sick and I had to do some teaching. One was to some first years and I felt slightly uneasy to spot Delia sitting in the centre of the front row. Then I noticed Diane sitting up the back by the door—what was she doing here?

Thankfully, I had my own notes from when I used to teach taxonomy so was able to keep the mob entertained while retaining what little sanity I began the day with. After the conversations last night, I didn’t consider it was an awful lot.

I finished with ten minutes of questions, before realising I had the same lot for a lecture on evolution. Delia looked very happy before I dashed off for a quick cuppa with John the technician.

Flicking through my notes I wondered if there’d be any fundamentalists this time around. There’s usually one. What I don’t understand is why they take on a biology degree when they disagree with virtually everything we teach them. I mean, they can’t even decide whether God created man first or last and the supporters of the Gospel of John even rewrote Genesis so Jesus became the manifestation of the word at the beginning of creation. Let’s face it, these guys had far better imaginations than scientists do to be able to write such comedy classics.

Tea break over I returned to the fray and as we started I asked who understood what evolution was. I got a few opinions which were in the right direction and Darwin was mentioned, as was natural selection. I then asked if anyone had a problem with these principles and a young woman put up her hand suggesting that it was all created so faultlessly that God must have done it. Oh boy was she in for a surprise—if she allowed anything I said to penetrate her small mind. I asked about Intelligent Design and half a dozen hands went up. Delia was back in the same seat practically licking her lips. So I gave her a show while being gentle with those who were flawed in their logic. I doubt they believed me, but if there was intelligent design how come so many things became extinct? I showed them slide after slide of fossils which no longer existed or did this intelligent designer, design the mass extinctions as well?

I enjoyed being at the chalk face again but my own work was backing up and I had to excuse myself from Delia’s congratulations, I now had two hours rather than six to sort out my paperwork and I felt shattered.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2845 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“Ah, Lady Cameron, just the person said a familiar voice. I turned to face her hoping I didn’t flinch too much. “You look tired.”

“Had to do some teaching as well as my admin, got two staff off sick.”

“I still enjoy teaching when I have to do it, not that I do very much these days.”

“Yes, an hour and half each of evolution and taxonomy.”

“Which d’you prefer?”

“Well evolution sort of develops itself and taxonomy, well that’s classified.”

She looked at me for a moment before the penny dropped. She chuckled for a moment then added, “You’re too sophisticated for me. I prefer simple jokes like the Catholic priest and the rabbi...”

“I never tell jokes, I always get the punchline wrong if I remember it at all. So I do word plays and puns.”

“Some of which are too clever for a non scientist like me.”

“Those weren’t, surely?”

“No, well it took me a moment to remember that taxonomy was about classification.”

“Okay, I’d better find my girls and get them home.”

“Ah could I have a word about...?” She led me into her office. “Trish has been quoting Professor Pagels and Professor Ehrhard.” Oh dear, was it me or was the room getting hot? “She took Sister Virginia to task about the virgin birth asking why it was mentioned in some gospels and not others.”

“She’s a prolific reader.”

“Yes, but is she reading age appropriate material?”

“Well apart from the crucifixion and the virgin birth, there’s relatively little sex and violence in either of those authors—unless it’s what happened to some of the early Christians or what they did to others when they got the chance.”

“It was a long time ago, things are different today.”

“Not that different or the church wouldn’t oppose same sex marriage.”

“They follow the biblical tradition.”

“But the bible has been changed so many times.”

“It was divinely inspired.”

“Was it, or carefully edited to toe the official line?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you do because I suspect you know your bible and also would know that Paul sent women missionaries to represent him, yet in Acts he’s supposed to have suggested that women should remain silent and have babies or some such thing.”

“I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“Rubbish, he didn’t write Acts, somebody else did and used his name.”

“I’m sure the ancient fathers of the church had reasons for their selection.”

“Exactly, controlling women to the extent of virtually writing them out of the hierarchy and portraying what they wanted to of some poor Palestinian Jew who was killed for annoying the establishment, which he thought would be destroyed within a generation. He was wrong.”

“People misunderstand God’s sense of time.”

“Or change their interpretation when they appear to be wrong, to the extent that if viewed rationally it’s ludicrous.”

“To some. Anyway, back to Trish.”

“I thought we agreed my children wouldn’t have to do scripture.”

“They don’t but she and Livvie turn up every time and she either undermines the teacher or confuses them.”

“She is ten years old, how can that happen?”

“Some of our teachers are getting older and lose that cutting edge element of teaching. Trish has possibly the fastest mind in the school, she’s two steps ahead and lays traps for them, then walks them into her traps. They can’t cope with her.”

“You want me to remove her?”

“I hope that won’t be necessary but please have a word with her and she is barred from scripture lessons from now on. If she attends them again I’ll have no alternative but to punish her with detention.”

“I’ll give her the message.”

“Thank you. Look, I’m sorry that it’s come to this.”

“So am I, the others are doing quite well in the more academic subjects.”

“You don’t think study of the holy scriptures is academic?”

“Not from what you’re telling me. It looks like it’s devotional rather than objective or historical.”

“We give an introduction to the history of the New Testament.”

“I suspect Trish has done that herself and more fully than you are comfortable with, isn’t that the truth?”

“Sister Virginia has gone sick since her lesson with Trish, she has a broken heart and that ten year old has caused her to have a crisis of faith.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean either of those things to happen; she just gets the bit between her teeth and off she goes. It happens at home sometimes.”

“But at least you are there to control her, you’re clever enough to stop her, alas Sister Virginia isn’t.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“Thank you.”

The children mysteriously appeared moments later and I took them home. Once there I took Trish to my study and closed the door. “Why are you attending scripture classes?”

“I enjoy them.”

“I don’t believe you, you said the nun who taught them was so ill informed you often had to put her right.”

Trish went rather red. “I didn’t—not always.”

“Did you know that Sister Virginia has gone sick after your humiliation of her this morning and she’s also having a crisis of faith.”

“Good, not that she’s ill, but maybe she’ll think about what she teaches in future.”

“What if she has a stroke and dies? Will you feel so superior then?”

“She won’t will she?”

“I have no idea. You are banned from scripture classes from now on, go to the library instead.”

“But I was likely to get a good GCSE in it.”

“You can study it by yourself if you want to do it that much.”

“Won’t be so much fun.”

“Without humiliating the nuns you mean?”

“Uh,” she grinned and blushed a deep crimson.

“But they talk such crap.”

“They might, but they’re still your teachers and as such should be treated with respect.”

“I’d respect them if they knew what they were doing.”

“Perhaps they say the same about you.”

“Eh?”

“Knowledge isn’t wisdom.”

“It is.”

“No it isn’t. Knowledge is simply being aware of a set of facts. Wisdom comes from understanding the context of the facts, of that knowledge and knowing how to interpret or evaluate or apply those facts.”

“What about the Gnostics—they knew, that’s what it means, they knew.”

“I’m well aware of what it means.”

“Weren’t they wise as well?”

“Not necessarily. What they termed knowledge was having had a profound experience and being able to use that to further their understanding, except that it doesn’t. Profound experiences can show insight but they can also spoil things for later when the desire is more about repeating the experience than applying the knowledge.”

“I don’t understand the difference.”

“Now you’re showing a degree of knowing.”

“I am?”

“Yes, the limitations of your knowledge. It’s the foundation of wisdom.”

“Oh great.”

“Before you do your homework tonight you will write a draft of a letter to Sister Virginia apologising for making her ill and hoping she is better soon.”

“Can’t I just stop going to her classes?”

“You aren’t going back to her classes but you’re still going to write that letter of apology and if it isn’t good enough you’ll keep writing them until it is good enough. Off you go.”

She rose from the chair. “I didn’t mean to make her ill, it was just a bit of fun to lighten up the lesson.”

“Go and write that letter, let me see the draft before you write it properly.”

She slunk off looking very sorry for herself. It wasn’t what she did that annoyed me it was how she did it. She could have shown her knowledge more gently not brutally like she did. She has to learn how to balance her huge intellect with compassion. I hope I’m up to helping her.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2846 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“That’s better.” I said reading the letter that Trish had typed on her computer. “Right you can go and write that on a card—use your fountain pen.”

“Why can’t I just print it off?”

“Because I told you to handwrite it.”

“Why?”

“Why did I tell you?”

“Yes, why did you tell me to go and write it with a pen?”

“Because it becomes more personalised and therefore has more value to the recipient.”

“What you mean if she can’t read it, it becomes more valuable?”

“No. It takes longer to write a letter by hand than it does to type one these days, because you have to take care not to make mistakes.”

“That’s dumb.”

“Is it? There is nothing nicer to receive than a neatly written card or letter especially in this age of texting and twitter or whatever they call it. Your teacher will know it took time to do and appreciate it.”

“But that’s so dumb.”

“It isn’t. People of your age are losing the skill to write, they have electronic gadgets for everything which is fine providing you can function without them. They all have a habit of breaking down when it’s least convenient.”

“Mine don’t.”

“Are you going to disagree with everything I say?”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“What did I do now?” she said loudly.

“What did I say to you?”

“You asked if I’d disagree with what you said.”

“And?”

“I said no I wouldn’t.”

“That might have been implied but you actually said, ‘No’. Thereby disagreeing with me.”

“You’re always doing that to me, trapping me.”

“Now you know how Sister Virginia feels.”

“Grrr,” she said and went off to write her note, grumbling because I told her I wanted to see it before she sealed it. I knew she had some notelets because I got them all some at Christmas.

She may have a bigger IQ than Einstein but I’m more experienced and sneakier at outmanoeuvring people—it’s part of being a woman when dealing with people who are otherwise going to oppose me or could possibly use physical force to win their arguments. It just means thinking sideways and keeping one step ahead. I was also a better chess player than I made out so if made to play, I have an element of surprise to use. Normally I refuse to play, now you can see why.

This might all sound Machiavellian but I have a houseful of young women who I’m here to guide into adulthood, I have to stay one step ahead or they’ll run rings around me. If it happens once, it’ll happen all the time. My role is as the alpha female and I intend on keeping it that way not because of ego but because they need me to be there until they’re independent. Trish might be super bright, a real supernova, but it’s my job to help her control that intelligence and remain human, because our humanity is our greatest possession. It enables us to empathise and to feel compassion. It has negatives like anger, jealousy and greed but in learning to control those negatives we mature as people, as men and women and I hope realise what the good things in life are really about. The best things in life are free but sometimes they need a bit of effort to develop them.

Trish’s effort with her pen was good and I told her so. I also announced that all of them had to practice writing every day, so suggested they should keep a journal. They all grumbled but agreed, so I ordered a box load of diaries and pens online. It might sound a bit double standards, but my own writing is nothing special—just about legible but quite rounded—I was accused of it being girly when I was in school, so I started adding hearts instead of the dot over an i. I got sent to old Murray because of it. He insisted I should write like it all the time so people could see what a deviant I was. Thankfully it died a death, mainly because it took too long to keep up.

The next day after more teaching and cramming my own stuff into a couple of hours I was tired when I arrived at the school to collect my tribe of amazons. Sister Maria nabbed me and we snuck off to her office where like two conspirators she looked outside before quickly closing the door.

“I don’t know what you said to Trish last night but Sister Virginia is delighted with the card she received.”

I shrugged. “I simply told her a few facts of life that she wouldn’t eat again until she wrote a decent card in her own handwriting apologising to her teacher.”

“Wouldn’t eat—come now, I know starving her into submission would never work because you’re too kind a person to do that. So what did you say to her?”

“I explained the difference between knowledge and wisdom, not that I have much of either, but as long as she thinks I’m cleverer than her, she’ll toe the line.”

“Lady Cameron, people don’t get PhDs for being stupid and most professors I know are extremely bright.”

“I’m only an acting professor, remember, not the real thing and every rule have exceptions that prove it.”

“Okay, I accept that you’re the exception—I’d say exceptional in every way. Please don’t deprecate yourself, you’re one of the nicest and cleverest women I know. Thank you for what you did with Trish, we all appreciate it—on the teaching staff, that is.”

“I dread her becoming a teenager.”

“Sadly it’s the pupa before the butterfly emerges, it has to happen.”

“I know, even I, one of the most compliant girls on the planet chose at times to stand up to my father or just be plain awkward.”

“You were also a creditable Lady Macbeth—remember I’ve seen the write up in the Bristol paper. I’m glad to hear you talk about your girlhood—you’re actually owning who you are including your past.”

“Yes, I’m acknowledging it a little more easily. Oh, I’ve told the girls that they will each keep a journal every day to practice their handwriting.”

“What a good idea—some of these girls hardly ever pick up a pen, doing their homework on a computer or iPad thing.”

“I tried to explain to Trish that a handwritten letter is the most effective personal communication there is—for most of us, anyway.” Okay so Sibelius got an orchestra to play for his wife to wish her happy birthday first thing in the morning. I’ll stick to handwritten notes—of the word not treble clef sort.

I found Danielle and she rounded up the rest of the gang and we went home. When we got there I took Trish aside and said that Sister Virginia was pleased with her card.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Who told you?” I asked.

“Sister Maria, she said it was a lovely gift and she was sure it would help in Sister Vagina’s recovery. She also said it was neatly written.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Okay, I guess—can I go now?”

“Uh yes, of course you can. Looked like I still had some work to do with her—perhaps when she gets to thirteen, I can get Oxford or Cambridge to take her for seven or eight years. Fat chance.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2847 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

So Laura Trott got a gold in the omnium in a world cup competition. She’s a prodigious talent. It didn’t say what happened to Cavendish, I think he was competing in the men’s one. The only think he hasn’t got is an Olympic medal and he’d really like one, oh and a TdF yellow jersey, so he’s after one of those as well. He’s the most successful British male rider of all time with the most wins, a green jersey, a British champion’s jersey, a world champion’s jersey and so on. Nice to know he still has ambitions though he’s getting a little old to be the best sprinter—it tends to be a young man’s game. I hope he still has it in his legs to win a few more races and hopefully his Olympic medal and yellow jersey.

After the discussions with Sister Maria about Trish and their apparent delight at the card she wrote, today seems rather flat. At various times I’ve bought the girls nice pens and they’ve lost them or broken them. So this time I’ve bought some cheap ones which they can use to keep their journals, hopefully it will keep their writing from disappearing altogether in favour of texts or computers. While I was ordering the pens I got a huge bag of a hundred cartridges in washable blue ink. Generally, I use black ink but thinking of getting stains out of clothing, the washable blue is better for the girls.

My Lady Sheaffer skripsert VI clipless pen, one of my proudest possessions, still writes like a dream, I use it for signing letters and occasionally for generally writing things, is a step or two up from those the girls will be using, to start with, it’s a vintage pen which I believe goes back to the nineteen sixties, it’s paisley gold on blue enamel with a stainless steel nib. I don’t think is especially valuable, except in sentimental terms as I think I saw one advertised for sale at fifty or sixty pounds recently. But it’s really beautiful. The genuine ink cartridges for Sheaffer pens are quite expensive so I cheat – I buy bottles of ink and refill the cartridges with a syringe—one of the advantages of having a laboratory at hand.

Like so many things today, all the different manufacturers make different disposables so while there is a generic cartridge for mostly cheaper fountain pens, the majority of the more expensive pens, Parker, Sheaffer, Cross, Waterman all have their own fitting cartridges aren’t interchangeable. While I accept the ink might be better than in the generic cartridges that I get for the girl’s pens, I use a branded ink like Parker Quink or Sheaffer to refill my own cartridges. The only problem is keeping the pen upright in a handbag that gets thrown into the car or dropped on the floor of my office, otherwise they can get ink running or leaking. I usually use a pen box, which fits in an upright pocket in the bag in the same sort of way a mobile phone pocket keeps them upright. Occasionally, I have the odd mishap and have to wipe it off or wash out the pen top, but generally it works.

If my study at home or my office in the university was searched and syringes with needles found strange assumptions could be made, but the only residues found in them would be ink.

I told Diane what I was doing with the girls regarding journals and pens, using my own to sign my letters. She thought it was a good idea although she said she hadn’t used a fountain pen since she left school—the same one I went to (only the girls’ one, if you can remember that far back I went to the boys’ one—yeah it was a mistake).

“You didn’t have that one in school did you?” she asked indicating the pen I had in my hand. “It would have raised a few eyebrows.”

“No, I had a Parker, quite a nice one—I still have it at home somewhere and used it regularly at university.”

She looked at me. “How old are you—thirty one or two?”

“Two,” I sighed.

“That’s right, about a year or so after me.”

“The relevance of which is...?”

“You are up to date in all sorts of things yet at the same time old fashioned.”

I gave her a curious look to indicate I wanted more information.

“Well, the fountain pens and handwriting are the most obvious ones. You seem to prefer mostly classical music to modern pop from the stuff you play on your MP3. Your dress sense is modern classical, so your clothes can last years, which probably isn’t bad because most of them are suitably expensive for an aristocrat’s wife. The bikes you tell me about are pretty up to date as far as I can gather as is you car but there’s something about you which harkens back to an earlier generation, isn’t there?”

“Is there?”

“Yes, a sort of old fashioned values: honesty, decency, hard working, close-knit family. I’ll bet you all have dinner together, don’t you and that digital phones are banned from the table?”

I blushed. “Have you been to dinner at my house?”

“No, is that an invite?”

“Possibly when life is a little less hectic.”

“I’ll bet you iron your knickers too, don’t you?”

“Goodness, is that the time?” I said trying to deflect her attention from my blush or my laundry intimacies. Yes I did iron them—when I have time—it’s supposed to help kill any bugs in the lining in the gusset, because so many machines wash at such low temperatures, I also wash them by hand sometimes like I do tights or stockings or bras—but I don’t iron those.

I did two hours teaching on ecology today and quite enjoyed it at the same time I’ll be glad to get my staff back so I can concentrate on my own job of running the department and supervising research. Apparently the government want professors to spend more time teaching and less time researching or publishing research which shows how little they understand what universities are for. Research and publication of papers is what makes our reputations not the numbers of bums on seats. Sometimes I think they confuse us with theatres or bus services. Now they’re talking about ending student grants yet they claim to want more of Britain’s young adults to have degrees, preferably in something other than media studies. They say one thing and do the other.

Going off to collect the girls I decided I might just ask Diane and her husband to dinner one night, if only to expose her to the talent and skills of our resident chef—doesn’t everyone have one? But not until I feel less stressed by staff shortages. At the moment, I’m just happy to get home and relax a little—okay sometimes I do it with my eyes shut (I try not to snore) and sometimes I just read or listen to music or spend time with the younger children—it helps them remember who is designated as their mother—though I haven’t got to the stage of needing a badge or sash to help them identify me—nah, I’m home more than that. It’s Simon they ask questions about, like—‘Who’s he?’

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2848 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I was reading a whodunit while Mendelssohn’s violin concerto was gently playing in the background, it had taken the whole of Bruch’s one for me to relax, so while Nigel Kennedy worked his elbow I sat half listening to the music and my other brain cell dealt with the words on the page. It could be seen as pure indulgence especially as I also had a cup of freshly brewed gnat’s pee alongside me, nothing could be better, thingy was in his heaven and all’s right with the world—so watch some bar-steward go and spoil it.

Simon had stayed in town because he said things were happening that needed his attention. I know there’s plenty of worry about China’s growth dropping to six or seven per cent and various other foreigners causing problems, like the Saudi’s trying to bankrupt the US shale industry, there was also a glut of oil with Iran now having lost its pariah status for the moment, so the price of a barrel of crude was now equivalent to a bag of chips with mushy peas, or some such thing. Apparently this isn’t a good thing. I suppose from the point of view of the pension funds investing in BP it probably isn’t, it will also cause the chancellor—him in No 11 Downing Street, to throw a wobbly and cut everything but MP’s salaries or pensions.

I heard the phone ringing in the distance but tried to screen it out, it was probably someone wanting one or other of the girls. I tried to get back into my book but there were footsteps and a knock on the door, Danni poked her head round the door. “It’s Daddy for you,” she then held out the phone—a cordless handset.

“Hello, darling,” I said quietly down the phone.

“Hi, babes, things are looking worse than we thought and the bank is trying to assess where that will take us and how to respond to it, so I might be up here or elsewhere for the next few days. I’ll try and keep in touch.”

“Is this because of China’s slowdown?”

“Partly, but it’s also to do with oil prices and mining and metal prices have gone through the floor.”

“What even gold?”

“No, gold holds its value in uncertain times.”

“I can’t believe the cost of housing, it’s absurd.”

“I know but if it were to fall there’d be millions who’d find themselves in Queer Street with negative equity.”

“So will you need Gordie Broon to save the day again?”

“That would be nice but I expect we’ll find a way out of things without his help. Mind you some idiot from RBS telling everyone to sell everything the other day didn’t help.”

“I s’pose not.”

“I’ll call again tomorrow when I can.”

“Okay, darling, look after yourself.”

“Oh I will don’t worry about that.”

He rang off and I abandoned my book until I went to bed. I mused on two stories I’d read in the Guardian, one of a massacre some ten thousand years ago in Kenya where a group of mainly women and children were murdered mainly by bludgeoning but also by stabbing and drowning. A very pregnant woman was apparently trussed up and dumped in the mud of a lake and probably drowned taking her precious cargo with her. So internecine warfare is nothing new if these Stone Age bodies are anything to go on. The murder of children is nothing new but it still brings a chill to my tummy as it’s never necessary except to show how brutal and cruel you are.

Another act of barbarism, only ten thousand years more recent than the Kenya massacre was one in Pakistan where the Taliban killed dozens of students and teachers, because as barbarians, they fear education—it helps people think for themselves and diminishes the power of things like religion and gangsters like the Taliban or their friends in Syria who it appears have massacred hundreds in recent weeks. I try not to rise to the bait and wish that someone really got round to eliminating them by sending in armies not just dropping high explosives on them. The Russians are doing their bit and a conservative estimate suggests their bombing has killed somewhere around a thousand civilians. Must make Vlad really glad.

Elsewhere Donald Duck, I mean trump has been endorsed by Sarah Palin. This is like Laurel and Hardy standing for President, only they had some talent and were actually quite clever. Can Americans really be stupid enough to vote for the worst hairstyle on the planet supported by the most stupid politician ever to skin a moose—horrible woman.

So 2016 was not getting off to a very auspicious start and there was little or nothing I could do to help it. At least the sun had shone recently but at the price of some nasty frosts which according to loads of people will kill of all the bugs.

Being a biologist I ask them which bugs they mean and they usually mean viruses and other disease causes. When I suggest it would need to be a hundred degrees colder to even start to kill them, they usually change their mind and go for garden pests—some of those it might kill but it will also kill the birds and mammals which hunt them.

I missed the planetary line up. I woke an hour or so before they suggested it would best to see and did think about getting up to see it but fell asleep while deciding what I’d do. While I was sad to miss it, I think the sleep might have been more useful. Thankfully, Einstein didn’t seem to have heard about it or she’d have nagged me to go and watch it. It would also have been jolly cold standing about outside waiting for everything to align themselves. I’ve seen all of these inner planets on telescopes and the rings of Saturn have to be best thing to look at. Unfortunately, my telescope is only powerful enough to show a bulge at the centre of the large planet, but it does show the big red spot on Jupiter when it’s visible, which is some immense electrical storm which is bigger than planet earth. Jupiter is absolutely huge but now it looks like we have a possible new planet out beyond Neptune which it’s been calculated causes unexpected deviations in the orbits of various other things according to Caltech and the most likely thing is a planet of a size larger than the earth but smaller than Neptune. They also suggest it takes twenty thousand years to orbit the sun, about the same amount of time it takes one of my students to get the basics of evolution. Sometimes I wonder if human evolution peaked a few years ago and is now regressing at a rate of knots.

We hadn’t been home long when Danielle came hurtling into my study, “It’s England, Mummy...”

“What don’t tell me it’s voted to become an American State or even been sold to China for half a dozen cheap steel imports?”

“What are you on about?”

“You said something about England.”

“Yeah, they want me to attend a training camp at the weekend.”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2849 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“Where have you got to go?”

“Reading again.”

“Have you told Portsmouth?”

“The FA usually do that, request permission for me to be released.”

“Sounds like you’re in prison.”

“Yeah, St Claire’s for noxious nuns.”

“Who’s been noxious to you?” I joked but was quite serious in my question.

“No one, it’s what we call it.”

“Who’s we—the girls you mean?”

“Yeah, I’m one of the girls if you remember?”

“Are you, goodness I’d forgotten that.”

She rolled her eyes, “You get like that when you’re old,” was the rejoinder which I half expected.

“You’d better watch out then in case I get so old I forget to give you your pocket money.”

“You already have forgotten.”

“Oh no you don’t, Missy, you’re not going to catch me with that old one.”

“Oh well worth a try.”

“I thought you played soccer not rugby?”

“Yeah, what’s that got to do with the price of tampons?”

“You what?”

She roared with laughter, “That’ll teach ya,” she said and laughed some more.

“How are you getting to Reading?”

“Thought I’d ask you or Dad.”

“He’s up in town, not sure when he’ll be back.”

“Will you take me then?”

“I really don’t know what I have to do this weekend. If I have time, I will.”

“Gee thanks, I get a chance to get back into the England squad and you might not be able to take me.”

“Danielle, I said I would if I could. It just so happens I have other children to look after as well as you.”

“Duh, as if I’m not aware of that.”

“You’re beginning to sound as if that might be the case. I try to treat you all the same, but when you go away on these jaunts it means you get more than your usual amount of my attention.”

“Well I can’t help it if I’m the only one with any talent.

“I beg your pardon.”

She nearly doubled up with laughter. “Works every time with you.”

“What does?”

“Winding you up. You’re always so worried one of us is going to have a gram more than the others.”

“Is that a positive or negative gram?”

“What?”

“The gram is it positive or negative?”

“I dunno what you’re on about.”

“So is it positive or negative?”

“I told you, I don’t flippin’ know, all right?” she screeched at me.

“I think you’re even easier than I am to wind up, don’t you?”

“So it was a load of rubbish?”

“Uh no, gram is a type of stain used in microscopy and most bacteria are either positive or negative to it, meaning they do or don’t take up the stain. It’s one way of classifying bacteria.”

“Like I need to know that.”

“You never know when you might need to know something.”

“I think I can be quite categorical about this one.”

“You dropping biology, then?

“No, why?”

“Well if you go on to do A level biology, you might need to think about Hans Christian Gram.”

“I thought that was Hans Christian Anderson.”

“Another Dane, but this one was a biologist not a story teller.”

“That sounds a bit Grimm.”

“Very good.” She beamed at my compliment which was sincerely meant. Danni is not the quickest mind and she lacks a lot of confidence in such things compared with Trish and Livvie who are like greased lightning and brimming with confidence in things like word games, Livvie even more so than Trish.

“So are you gonna be able to take me?”

“When have you got to be there?”

She handed me the letter, “Friday evening to Sunday afternoon.”

“Tomorrow. Okay but I might have to ask Julie to come and get you.”

“If you let her drive your car she probably will.”

“Auntie Stella might.”

“Uh forget it, I’ll cycle up there.”

“That sounds like you’ve travelled with Auntie Stella?”

“Twice, I don’t want to go a third time even wearing cycle clips.”

This time I roared with laughter. The expression in this family is taken to mean the wearer is expecting a bout of diarrhoea. In this case, fright induced variety.

“What’s Daddy doing up in town?”

“There’s a problem with stocks and shares, the Dow Jones and Footsie have dropped very badly.”

“Wassat mean?”

“The Dow Jones is the index of shares at the New York stock exchange and the Footsie is actually the Financial Times share index at the London stock exchange. These are based on the amount the price of shares go up or down. The top listed hundred companies in London are called the Footsie one hundred and it’s these which are used to calculate the rise and fall.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means people who buy or sell shares have got chicken livered and sold at the first sign of trouble and will probably hope to buy back when the shares are much cheaper. Sometimes they even start these things deliberately because all the people involved are so anal, so if one sells they all do hoping to get rid of their shares before the price drops too low. The bears, as they call them, then wait until the shares are at a lowest price and buy up huge quantities which when things recover, they can sell at huge profits.”

“That sounds disgusting.”

“It is but people do it and they destroy companies sometimes even currencies or the economies of troubled governments.”

“Why isn’t it illegal?”

“Because the people who profit the most are the sort who make the laws.”

“Typical,” she said dismissively sounding like a typical teen.

“Daddy doesn’t do that does he?”

“No, he used to sort of do things with the price of commodities but now he just runs the high street sort of bank.”

“I thought it was High Street Banks?”

“It is, partly called because the sort of bank they are is a high street type of bank, one of the London clearing banks.”

“Is that something different again?”

“No, it was just a name for the bigger banks because they act as distributors for the pound on behalf of the Bank of England.”

“Isn’t that a high street type of bank then?”

“No, the Bank of England, is the national bank which runs the value of currency in this country and manages the level of inflation.”

“So you can’t like go in there to cash a cheque?”

“No, you can’t have an account there.”

“I don’t understand why it has to be so complicated.”

“It wouldn’t be if it happened today but it didn’t, it all happened hundreds of years ago, and in those days there weren’t pound notes they had hand written notes signed by the secretary of the Bank of England. They were promissory notes rather than what we call bank notes these days and were notes of credit, so the bearer or person carrying it was worthy of credit up to the amount of the note. In Dickens’ day, a pound was a great deal of money probably worth hundreds now.”

Danni shook her head, “I think I’ve had enough history for today, thanks Mummy.”

“For what?”

“Saying you’ll take me tomorrow.”

“But I didn’t...” she was gone before I finished—cheeky little maggot.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2850 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I left a little early on Friday and collected the girls; Danni was itching to get home. Once there she dashed upstairs and came almost hurtling down with a case and her sports bag.

“Did you do a list?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“Let me see.” She sighed and ran back up to her bedroom to get it. I scanned it and couldn’t see knickers or football boots on it. “You packed clean panties?”

“Uh—can’t remember.” We unlocked the case, she hadn’t. I reminded her to bring another tee shirt as well as another bra and her football boots. “Oops,” she said blushing. I’m convinced one day I’ll take her to school and find she left her head in bed.

While David made us a sandwich each and a snack for her to take with her—she is a growing girl—we went through her case and sports bag. She’d forgotten her toilet bag with antiperspirant and cleanser, not to mention toothbrush and paste. By the time we’d finished David had done our snacks and we ate them with a cup of tea, then she loaded the bags into the boot while i ran upstairs and changed into jeans and top with my fleece jacket. I wondered if the planets were still in any sort of alignment as the sky seemed to be clearing since the morning rain.

The drive up was uneventful except for traffic congestion but then it was the rush hour. Trish was going to come with us until Livvie challenged her to wii tennis. During the drive Danni said she thought it was unlikely she’d get into the squad because she hadn’t played very often so didn’t consider herself fully fit or match fit. But it was good to be recalled to the squad.

“Are you happier being a girl now?”

“Sometimes,” she said checking her eye makeup in the vanity mirror of the car.

“Like now?”

“Oh yeah, I doubt I’d have got into the boys’ squad, too small.”

“You never know, you’re pretty good...”

“Against other girls—look, Mummy, I’m trying to adapt to what is, not what mighta been. I’m grateful that I have you and the others as my family and that I’m such a modest but hot fox.” At this point I choked and nearly drove into a bus as we entered Reading. She was turning into a very lovely looking young woman and a talented footballer.

I asked her some while ago would she have liked to have got a men’s England cap and she looked me in the eye and said, “I wasn’t good enough.”

“But you are to get a women’s one.”

“Not as much competition so I have a better chance an’ a England cap is a England cap.” I hoped that was really the case and that she was as philosophical as she sounded. I dropped her off and after a cuddle and kiss, gave her twenty pounds in case she needed to buy emergency supplies of mascara.

“Thanks, Mummy—you’re the best.”

I blushed and asked if she’d forgotten anything. She said no. “What happens if you need to phone us?”

“I’ll use my mobile,” she sighed and was about to walk away.

“Are you sure?”

“Course I’m sure.”

“Absolutely?”

“Yes,” to prove her point she opened her handbag and searched around, the search getting more frantic by the second. “But it’s gotta be here.” I knew it wasn’t as I'd just seen it on the car seat where it had fallen from her pocket. “I can’t find it...” she declared almost in tears.

“Could it have fallen from your bag or pocket?”

“Oh no, it’s obviously in the drive, ring Trish get her to go an’ look for it before Julie gets home.”

I glanced at my watch, “Julie and phoebe are already home.”

“Get Trish to go out an’ look for it.”

“Could it have fallen out in the car?”

“No, just ring Trish will you?”

“Why don’t you just look?”

She sighed rolled her eyes and then squealed with joy. “You knew it was there didn’t you?” I shrugged. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Danielle, you’re a big girl now you have to take some responsibility for your actions and your property.”

She blushed, “Oh okay, sorry,” she said blushing, “An’ thanks for bringing me.” We hugged and kissed again and she strolled off with her bag over her shoulder pulling her case behind. She paused at the entrance, turned and waved before going in. I had to sniff back a tear—I loved her to bits but she was a teenager and they just don’t listen.

The drive home was quicker despite the darkness and I couldn’t see any planets unless I counted the moon which was just about full so its light just about hid everything else near it.

I’d watched an interview between George Monbiot and St Attenborough, the latter saying he was interested in space but in the things on this planet and he regretted the way man was reducing biodiversity year on year. I think on that one I had to agree with him and I’ve said before, that, as far as the natural world is concerned, humans are like a disease which is spreading everywhere and destroying everything.

I listened to Radio 4 on the way home and to ‘Any Questions’ which came this week from Pembroke Dock—it was a long time since I’d been there. It passed an hour.

When I arrived home Simon was there. “What are you doing home?” I asked delighted to see him.

“Well it’s like this, George Osborne said he wasn’t worried about the global collapse of stocks and shares; so I thought, sod it, if he isn’t why should I worry? So here I am.”

“I’m really glad, darling, that you’re home, though I suspect the chancellor is two levels beneath moron.”

He laughed. “Yeah, if he was twice as bright he wouldn’t make a halfwit.” I threw myself at him and he caught me and hugged me. “I’ve missed you, babes, let’s go to bed.”

Then we both looked down at something tapping our thighs, “Mummy, Mummy, Mummeeee,” squealed Lizzie and I’m sure damaged my hearing.

“Make me a cuppa will you and I’ll put her to bed—come on, sweetheart, let’s get you a drink of milk.” These days that meant from a bottle in the fridge the contents of which came from a cow not me. My boobs had shrunk a little but my nipples were still huge—well compared to what they were once like and have been sucked and chewed by Puddin’, Cate and Lizzie.

Lizzie wandered around sucking her bottle and even offered some to the dog before I spotted her and shouted—at the dog, that is who came meekly up to me and I gave her a biscuit. If the truth be told, she’s probably more obedient than any of the children and all of the adults.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2851 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Simon was very attentive in bed so perhaps absence does make the heart grow fonder, more likely abstinence makes the libido grow stronger, not that there was much wrong with his in the first place. I suppose because we hadn’t actually been intimate for a week or so I got sore again, but not before he’d satisfied both of us. The only problem then is having to get up and clean myself up or bask in the afterglow—in a puddle of... Quite, so I get up wash, sometimes put some antiseptic cream on and often clean knickers by which time he’s fast asleep.

Getting back into bed I lay there for a while just gazing at him in the light of the full moon—I still can’t believe I’m his wife, nor how much I love him. I’m not sure what I’d do if I lost him. I lay there just thinking about how it all happened, Stella knocking me off my bike and taking me home. Her discovery that I wasn’t quite what she thought I was—whatever that was. I’ll have to ask her sometime, not sure if she thought I was a boy or a girl, until I undid the bandage I had hiding my boobs—goodness haven’t they grown especially with breast feeding.

It didn’t faze her and she helped me develop my image there and then. What was so crazy was Simon coming home and fancying me. Effectively, I’d not even started my transition then, so was somewhat inexperienced in dealing with men—not that I’m that experienced now. If anything my attitude towards them was one of fear or despisal because of how much I’d suffered at their hands and also because the system included me as one despite my protests from childhood onwards.

I drifted into a reverie of elements of my early years when I’d known I was really a girl not a boy. I wanted dolls and tea sets not footballs and cars or worse, guns. I still can’t bear those things, cars I have got to enjoy, especially the one I have now.

Dressing up in playschool was my delight, I was always the princess—they even called my parents about it—as I sat in a long dress making picnics for dollies and teddies. I loved it, though I did have one fight with another girl about some toy or other, can’t quite remember now. Dad did everything he could to discourage me, including hitting me, humiliating me, and being generally aggressive towards me whenever I displayed any sort of unmasculine behaviour—which was often.

Then came the school nativity play and I got promoted from shepherd to BVM, how’s that for a career move? It all happened because Mollie Theobald fell ill and I knew all the lines, so I got to wear the blue dress and the headscarf. After that my acting career was limited to always being picked on to read the girl’s parts when we read plays in English in the classroom. The boys thought it was a hoot and a way to humiliate me—it did most of the time, but looking back Mr Whitehead, was always very complimentary of my reading.

I can still hear him delivering a put down to Stavros, a slimy toad of a kid who thought he was a Greek god—yeah, the god of sewage. “Mr Stavros, perhaps you’d prefer to read the part of Viola yourself if you don’t think Watts rendition is good enough? Personally, I find his rendition very good.” Yeah a boy playing a girl who’s pretending to be a boy. Or should that be a girl pretending to be a boy who’s playing a girl pretending to be a boy—no wonder I was so good at it, I’d been doing it for years.

Next, after many of Murray’s attempts to encourage me to leave, he made me play Lady Macbeth in the biggest attempt to get rid of me, making me attend the school in a dress to learn some of the subtleties of walking and talking like a female and to get used to the clothing. He went ballistic when I turned up in Siân’s old uniform, wearing almost as much mascara as Danielle does and painted nails. I’d been growing my hair for a couple of years and that drove him nuts but there was nothing in the school regulations that said I couldn’t. He’d already marked me out as different I was just agreeing with him. It also drove my dad to distraction but my mother simply told me if I wore it like a girl I had to care for it like one—music to my ears. I even got a hairdryer from her for a birthday present.

She knew more about me than she let on, encouraging me to cook and clean and sew. She taught me how to hang curtains, even how to make or alter them and about matching them to other things in the room like carpets and furnishings. So she must either have recognised what I was or assumed I was so strange I’d be on my own all my life and would need to furnish my own home. Either way it’s come in handy and I’m trying to pass it on to my daughters though none of them seem that interested in becoming domesticated. Well they have fads of it, when they pester me to do some sewing and then it isn’t mentioned for weeks unless they have a class in school and have got stuck or behind.

Julie is quite good at it, sewing that is, she does most of her own repairs including the salon overalls and so on, whereas Phoebe isn’t one bit interested. Her attitude is that she can always bring whatever to me and I’ll fix it, which probably applies to Trish and Livvie as well, Meems is a bit uncoordinated but soldiers on and Hannah has the idea but doesn’t particularly enjoy it. I do when I have time.

I had a flashback to my mother showing me how to turn the collar on a shirt—we don’t do such things now in these times of relative affluence—my dad was perturbed that I was seated at the sewing machine with my mother teaching me. I mean, even in those days we were rich enough to buy another shirt so she must have been teaching me sewing skills right under the nose of my father; skills far above any I should have needed to do running repairs at university besides I always wore tee shirts and scarves, so collars were somewhat irrelevant. But if her intention had been to show me half a dozen things in sewing that I’d need to remove, turn and replace the collar, that I could use for other things, she not only fooled Dad but me as well.

Even he approved of my being made to make repairs to his clothes and shorten his trousers on a couple of occasions. He saw it as punishment I now realise it was my needlework training right in front of him and so cleverly done he approved of it. Mum, you were a genius.

As I drifted off to sleep with these memories, I’m sure I heard her voice saying, “PhD huh, took you long enough to spot the obvious, didn’t it?”

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2852 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I woke feeling reasonable given I hadn’t slept that much but my reverie had relocated different memories into different parts of my past and whilst the bad parts didn’t feel any less bad, the good bits felt so much better that I could cope with the bad bits more easily. I’m glad I got that sorted out. It’s like if the rewards are good enough we’ll put up with the bad things to collect them, such as training for something like a bike race. You’re out putting in the miles to increase strength and endurance, coping with all winds and weathers just so you can do the same again against opponents in a race. Provided your expectations aren’t too high, it’s worth it.

I felt good that my mother had recognised something in me and reacted accordingly by training me like she would her daughter but without Dad twigging, or had he and let it ride as there were advantages in it for him. He now had two slaves running round for him doing the cooking or cleaning or mending. At the time standing there doing the ironing one weekend because I’d cheeked my mother, felt more like punishment, especially as it was a trumped up charge. But looking back, she told my dad when he threatened me that she had a better punishment, make me do the ironing and she could sit and read her book. He grumbled but agreed, then went out to do some gardening while I stood at the ironing board and learned how to work the iron, temperatures, steam, how much pressure and the order to do things in. Start at the collar, iron in from the points, then the cuffs, the sleeves and so on.

“Everyone should learn how to iron their clothes,” she told me as I burnt my finger for the second time.

“Does Dad?” I asked sarcastically.

“He’s a man, he has us to do that for him.”

I blushed but decided not to argue assuming she saw me as gay and therefore a lesser being, but looking back, I think she saw me as her daughter and I failed to pick up on the real meaning of the comment. Even if I had I doubt she’d have enlarged on it and left me to stew over it. But I learned to iron or press everything, even her underwear—why? Because I might have some of my own one day. She was far more canny than I appreciated at the time. After breakfast, I set to with the mound of ironing we had. Amanda had done some yesterday, but there’s so many of us we have the washing machine going every day which means there’s ironing everyday as well.

I’d been at it for about half an hour when Trish came up and looked at me with one of her enigmatic expressions. “You should be doing some of this, you know?”

She laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“The lady who’s watching you is nodding and smiling.”

“What lady?” I glanced around.

“Your mum I s’pose, she was watching you for several minutes and nodding at everything you did, so you musta been doing it right.”

“You saw my mother?” I said with tears filling my eyes.

“Only for a couple of minutes?”

“Did she say anything?”

“Only that it took you a long time to work it out.”

I stopped put the iron down and hugged her while laughing and crying at the same time.

“What did I do?” she asked looking totally bemused by the experience.

“C’mon, I’ll tell you.” I unplugged the iron and put it safe and we went to the kitchen and I put the kettle on. I made us each a cuppa and we sat and sipped it. “You know that when I was younger my parents didn’t like my wanting to be a girl?”

“Yes, your daddy beat you up, didn’t he?”

“Occasionally. I was never sure about my mum. I mean, in reality, even a blind man should have been able to see I was really a girl but my dad wouldn't hear of it. My mum did as he wanted most of the time and reported things to my dad who handed out the punishment, often with a cane or a belt across my bum.”

“My old mummy used to do that to me.”

“But your new one doesn’t.”

“No, she’s nice—sometimes.”

“Sometimes? You rotten ingrate.”

She giggled and showed her nice white teeth.

“Back to my story—she used to make me do things, sometimes as punishments, which was really training me to keep house for a family as a mother would. She knew my dad would have objected if he’d known what she was doing but as he was often the recipient of my new housekeeping skills, like his ironing got done or his trousers got taken up, he played along. So when I left home to go to university, I could cook a bit, clean, launder and do repairs to clothing, hang curtains or make or alter them, and match them to the rest of the house. I only just realised that she knew all along.”

“Is that why she said it?”

“I think so, it’s the best way she could tell me I was her daughter and she knew it.” I felt the tears start up again.

“Don’t cry, Mummy.”

“I can’t help it, I just wish she was still alive, sometimes I miss her so much.”

Trish got off her seat and came and hugged me. “We still love you, Mummy.”

“I know, sweetheart, I love you, too. It’s just how things might have been if only my stupid body had been the right gender in the first place.”

“But you might not have been my mummy if you’d had your own babies to look after.”

“That’s true and I couldn’t have wished for nicer children than you lot, could I?”

“No, Mummy.”

“Where’s that Trish, I’m gonna bloody murder her...?” shouted Livvie from the hallway.

“Gotta go, Mummy.” She let me go and slipped out the back door to avoid the wrath of her sister. I decided not to get involved.

After rinsing the cups, I went back my ironing feeling happier about it than I had for many a day. Actually, I quite enjoyed it when I was in my bedsit ironing my girly stuff, the few bits I had. I remembered the way my mum had directed me and still did it the same way—the proper way, she’d called it. It was just so good to have confirmation that she knew I was a girl and that she was teaching me girl things despite my dad being there. Then she had an advantage, being a woman she was able to run rings round him and her daughter by the sound of it. Nice one, Mum.

The next hour flew by as I continued my recollections, through very rose coloured lenses and I was pleased to see the mound of ironing decrease markedly without me being aware of how much I’d actually done.

Trish walked in with Livvie and they were deep in conversation about something but whatever it was the earlier animosity had gone, I was therefore, as their mum, pleased with small mercies.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2853 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Making lunch followed on from the ironing, normally this would have irked me but my new understanding of my mother gave me a good feeling and David and Amanda were entitled to have the odd day off.

I decided to do bacon and eggs a meal we rarely eat partly because we need the equivalent of three pigs and the entire output of a poultry farm. Only joking, two dozen eggs is enough. I did mushrooms, tomatoes and loads of toast—well Trish did the toast which Livvie buttered. Daddy wasn’t terribly impressed having expected a roast dinner but I resisted the temptation to invite him to cook it next time. I had planned one for our evening meal but wondered if I would do something different just to annoy him. Silly old fool just turns up eats and criticises when he doesn’t get his own way. However, criticising him or playing silly buggers wasn’t going to resolve things and improve his appreciation.

“Sorry it’s not a roast dinner but I’ve just done three hours of ironing, anyone who’d like to take over the ironing to give me time to make a nice meal would be most appreciated.” There were no takers funnily enough or complaints. Simon was in heaven he loves bacon and eggs, so he munched through his and ate a pile of toast afterwards. Trish had to go and make some more.

“Hmm,” said Trish as we cleared up, “Daddy seems to think toast grows on trees.”

“Not quite, he knows where it comes from he’s seen me making it. He’s just never done it himself that I can remember.”

She thought that was funny and then went on about the time he had to get her out of bed to show him how the washing machine worked. That was the day he destroyed my grandmother’s damask table cloth. All he had to do was pour white wine over the stain of the red one and it would have washed it out then all he had to do was rinse it or leave it to soak and I’d have washed it when I got home. Being a twit, he didn’t do either.

I played snakes and ladders with the younger girls then we had a game of dingbats. I’m sure Trish has memorised all the answers because she has the answer before I finish reading the clue. She won by miles.

Mid afternoon we had a text from Danielle to say she’d be ready in an hour. I asked Simon to go and get her. He was just settling down for a snooze so wasn’t best pleased, but he did go with Trish and Livvie going along for the ride in his F type. As soon as I mentioned I could go but he’d have cook dinner, he jumped up went for a wee and then set off with his two navigators.

Hannah jumped at my invitation to help me make dinner, she grumbled that her old mother didn’t cook very much and that they lived off take-aways or junk food that only needed to be warmed in a microwave.

“You can cook decent food in a microwave too, you know.”

“Like what?” she replied so cynically I almost wanted to cut her in half and count the rings to see if she was as young as she said she was.

“Like jacket potatoes, or scrambled eggs, or greenstuff. It’s mostly about using your imagination.”

“I know one thing you couldn’t cook in it,” she danced around as she spoke.

“What’s that?”

“Ice cream,” she said and danced around some more. There’s always one isn’t there?

We part cooked the roast potatoes in the microwave and Hannah, who was in charge of that part of the menu, did really well zapping them and then placing them on a board as I insisted on doing anything with hot fat—it’s like napalm.

We had a whole shoulder of pork which I’d put in the Aga while I was actually ironing and as Daddy would expect apple sauce I got Hannah to peel a couple of Bramley apples and to chop them after removing the core. She didn’t understand the difference between cookers and eaters or dessert apples so I let her taste a bit of Bramley. She now knew the difference.

I boiled up the apple with some sugar and cinnamon and left it to cool. Then I did potatoes for boiling, some curly kale, some mushrooms, some carrots and some whole green beans. Everyone should find something they liked in that lot.

We basted the meat, pouring some fat over it before putting it back in the oven. She’d never done that before either. I suspect we’ve got a whole generation of children, not just girls, who’ve never watched or helped their mothers or fathers cook a meal. Some don’t even appear to know where meat comes from or vegetables. Our lot do, they get called upon to help Daddy grow it and then harvest it. Danielle is his favourite, she loves to help him something I’m pleased she retained from her boyhood only now she wears gloves for everything in case she dirties her hands or breaks a nail. Sometimes she is so girly I wonder if I brought the right kid home from the hospital. The way she took to being a fulltime girl was like a duck to water so why was I so surprised by her? Why did I think she was only playing at it? So did Julie who is much closer to her age than I am, yet Trish had no doubts whatsoever. Mind you Trish thinks being a girl is such fun everyone should have a try.

“What time will this be ready, Mummy?” asked Hannah as we stopped for a tea break and I invited Julie and Phoebe to come and have some.

“I’m not hurrying it so Daddy and the girls can get back with Danielle while it’s still hot.”

“Yeah, I ’spect she’ll be a bit peckish after all that runnin’ around,” said Julie pouring the teas. “Never thought she’d be a such a girly girl though, always thought soccer players were tomboys or lezzies.”

I gave her a scornful look and then indicated Hannah behind her. She blushed and mimed ‘sorry’.

“It’s rather nice that she enjoys being a girl so much,” was my comment in reply.

“She seems to, just hope the other shoe don’t fall.”

“Drop,” I corrected, “the expression is waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Whatever—but if it does ‘drop’ she is gonna be so screwed.”

“Why’s that?” asked Phoebe.

“She ’ad a couple of dangly bits at the beginning, until that nutter decided to play Jack the Ripper on her.”

“I thought Jack the Ripper slashed women not boys.”

“I meant it was messy like one of them Whitechapel murders.”

“That is the Jack the Ripper stuff.”

“Didn’t he dissect them poor women?” Julie sought to confirm.

“Yes, pretty much. They still don’t know who it was except they started and stopped very suddenly. The latest theory I heard was that they were done to cover up one of the murders by creating this archetypal fiend who preyed on young women prostitutes. It’s very sad whatever reason he thought he had to go and kill all those poor women.”

“I don’t get why it’s so popular now, it was over a hundred years ago, f’ Pete’s sake. Even before Gramps was born.”

“Whit wis?” said the be-whiskered one.

“Jack the Ripper, Pheebs here, wondered if you knew him, like?”

“Whit? That wis a hundred yeers ago if not langer? Why wid I ken him?”

“It was a joke, Gramps,” said Julie blushing

“Weel I thocht it wis in very puir taste,” he huffed and took his tea down to his study.

“Why d’you involve me?” complained Phoebes and Julie and she went off arguing while Hannah rolled her eyes and smirked while I turned up the oven to make some the pork skin turn to crackling—a real tooth breaker.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2854 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Simon and his crew arrived as I brought the meat out of the oven and within ten minutes Daddy was slicing it and i was laying it on plates and passing them round, suffice it say a significant piece of pig and a fair crop of vegetables disappeared in very short order.

“That was brill, Mummy,” said Danielle sitting back, “food up there was all right I guess, but nothing like that. If I ate like that I’d be too fat to run round—a bit like Julie.” Danielle jumped and ran off up the stairs with Julie in hot pursuit and everyone else laughing.

Lizzie who didn’t have a clue what was going on laughed because everyone else did while Cate was trying to explain it to her in the secret language babies and toddlers use and which is unintelligible to adults.

“Did you hear about the harvest mice in Hampshire?” asked Trish.

“I have several records for them this year and a cluster of records in one area where they were trying to see if they would recolonise if conditions were suitable. They got local farmers and the lottery involved. Is that the same case you were mentioning?”

“Prolly.”

“Trish the word is probably, not prolly—that sounds like a strange kind of parrot.”

“That reminds me,” offered Simon and we all knew it was going to be some schoolboy joke being resuscitated long after the death certificate had been signed, “What d’you call a dead parrot?”

“How long’s it been dead, Daddy?”

“Recently, why?”

“Well if it died some time ago, I’d call it smelly.”

“Yeuch,” was Livvie’s contribution.

“After that when the maggots get hatched it would be smelly and wriggling.” She clapped her hands in glee. At times Trish could definitely be like a little boy at others she was very girly. Whereas, Danielle, who they all accused of being in love with sexy clothes and makeup, effectively labelling her a sort of narcissistic trannie, is mostly very girly until she gets on a soccer pitch and then she is decidedly unfeminine—a bit like the Gaby stories, only for soccer pitch, read racing bike.

She models her game on that of David Beckham, so if that means developing a brand name and earning millions a year, for a kid who had such a difficult start in life, she’ll have done very well.

“Did you hear about transgender athletes and the Olympics?” asked Stella and unsurprisingly none of us had. “They’re going to let transwomen take part even if they haven’t had surgery providing they have had less than a certain amount of testosterone in their systems for at least a year.”

“Well if they’ve been on oestrogens for hat time or longer, they won’t have many muscles left anyway.”

“So how come Danielle is so fit if she hasn’t got any muscles?” asked Phoebe.

“Don’t confuse muscle mass for strength, she’ll have no more than any girl of her age and size and possibly less. What she has is experience and expertise. She is very skilful in the way she plays making the ball do most of the work and she understands what she’s doing because she’s practiced it over and over—like Beckham did. That’s how she can curl a ball in a semicircle or even more tightly than that.”

“It’s true,” agreed Trish, “I can do it a bit but not like she does because she practices it, I’m not as interested as she is so only try doing it now and again. In the school league, there is no goalkeeper who wants to defend against one of her free kicks, because it usually ends in a goal. In fact no one wants to play against her.”

“Do they ever twig she was a boy?” asked Phoebe.

“Not anymore, they’ve seen her in the showers, so no one asks any questions, she’s obviously all girl.”

“She’s got a gorgeous figure, wish I had one like hers,” said Phoebe.

“Oh come on, Pheebs, you have a lovely figure too.” I protested.

“My legs are too fat.”

“I don’t think so,” added Simon, “I think you have good legs.”

She shook her head disagreeing with him.
“You’ll have to start playing soccer too,” suggested Stella.

“Nah, I’ll keep my fat legs,” she said and we all chuckled.

By this time Julie and Danielle came down again and were laughing and joking together—so the dispute had been forgotten—they usually are in minutes.

“Did she get you, Dan?” asked Trish.

Danielle rolled up her sleeve to show a bruise, “Yep, she got me good an’ proper.”

“Serves you right, you little toad,” said Julie.

“Reddit, reddit, reddit,” said Danni.

“I think that’s more frog than toad,” I said just adding to the confusion, it sounded like neither.

“She’s mad as a box of frogs,” said Julie.

“But not fat frogs,” said Danielle and ran off again. This time Julie let her go.

“Not gonna chase her, Ju?” asked Livvie.

“Nah, got better things to do than waste energy on twits like ’er. Besides, I’ll ’it ’er next time I see ’er.”

“I thought girls weren’t supposed to be as violent as boys,” Simon flagged up the stereotype.

“I think some of them have always been quite violent,” said Stella, “and judging by the newspapers, it seems to be on the increase. I mean that woman up in Lancashire who was stabbed the other week, they’ve arrested two women for that.”

“There’s something very strange about that case,” said Simon, “I suppose it’ll all come out in the trial.”

“You mean sex or jealousy—that sort of thing?” said Sammi who’d forgotten was still sitting there.

“Something like that, right who’s going help your mother clear up?”

“Me and Jules ’ll do it,” said Phoebe and Julie gave her a look of astonishment but they got up and started clearing away the debris. The bits of food left were scraped on to one plate and would become part of the dog’s meal unless the cat got there first. I’ve seen her take possession of Kiki’s dish while it was laden with food and the poor dog hasn’t known what to do. Spaniels don’t do too well in the cognitive/ reasoning part of life compared to cats which seem to run rings round them. I know dog owners will disagree but cats seem to have the edge in sneakiness—though I’ve seen Kiki do something she shouldn’t have but the temptation was too great so she adopted a less direct route to her action. She got told off as soon as Tom noticed—she spotted a chocolate biscuit left on a plate on a coffee table, so she wandered round the room first and then snuck up and took the biscuit. Tom discovered this because it was his biscuit she took and he chased her out to the conservatory and shut her out there. Well I thought it was funny, both his reaction to her action, and her action. She hasn’t done it since and gets quite upset if he tells her off.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2855 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Why do weekends seem to speed by even faster than weekdays? I finished the evening of Sunday doing some of the survey while Danielle sat with me doing her homework. It’s usually quicker to ask me how to spell a word than look it up, so I have my uses. But other than sharing the room, we didn’t speak very much until I’d had enough and Danni had finished her homework.

“How did the training go?”

“All right I guess.”

“Oh, so d’you not think they’ll pick you next time?”

“Dunno do I, they pick who they want and I did say I don’t think I’m match fit at the moment.”

“They could play you for a half or use you as a substitute.”

“Mummy, it’s not as easy as that, the boss has a plan and he then picks the team he thinks is going to best deliver.”

“So did he tell you his plan?”

“The outline one, yeah. He fills in the details nearer the time.”

“Right—so what about getting match fit?”

“Gotta game on Tuesday for the school and one on Sunday for Pompey Ladies.”

“Will that get you fit?”

“Nah, but I’ll do some gym work in my lunch hours. I’ll get the rest of the team in to do it as well.”

“Are they still letting you wear the Beckham shirt.”

“Yeah, in school they do an I play down the right side an’ midfield, an’ it sort of freaks out opponents.”

“But doesn’t it rather mark you out from the rest of your team?”

“I’ve got an England schools and full cap, I am different.”

I looked at her, she was quite right, the level of talent she had was far beyond anything else I’d seen in another female player, let alone a schoolgirl. She was special, I simply hoped I and the rest of the family could help her capitalise on those skills and reach her potential. At least she was talking about going to university now not just trying to exist as a footballer. She said she wanted to teach sport science and possibly geography. I tried to encourage her to do biology instead, the mammalian stuff would come in handy with the sport science and I could help her with project work.

I looked at her again. It was hard to believe this elegant and increasingly beautiful creature was actually a biological male or used to be. There wasn’t a sign of it in the way she moved or spoke and her body was quite female in shape and build. Her hips were broadening while her shoulders remained relatively small; Pia’s attack on her might have reduced her options but they certainly increased her chances of being a successful young woman insofar as appearance was concerned, her sisters and her peers seemed to be helping with the rest of the metamorphosis. I was really proud of her for the way she had handled the transition which was pretty well forced on her, for the fact that she decided to continue her football and that of the way she was mostly a very well balanced young woman with a great sense of right and wrong and of justice and fairness.

The football and the other attributes carried over from her core personality, but more than the clothing changed. After a period of shock at what Pia had done and then depression, she reassessed her life with Stephanie’s help and our support and doesn’t appear to have looked back. It was a hell of a thing to happen to her and while we all knew she enjoyed a bit of dressing up and playing with makeup, making a passable girl, we didn’t know how she’d cope by being a castrated boy or becoming a girl full time—neither were easy options.

When I see or hear people who are usually new to transitioning, they usually say it’s the same person just the wrapping is changing. How I’d like to ask them three or four years later if they still considered themselves to be the same person, because I’d challenge them if they did.

We all change with time, with age, experience, social pressures, circumstances and so on. Depending upon the period we’re looking at, the change might be subtle or huge. If the person transitioning was staying the same they’d just be a man in skirts and while one or two are more or less that, most of us who pin our colours to the mast of femaleness, change in all sorts of ways. Society treats us differently, if you don’t believe me try buying new tyres for your car or have a tradesman give you an estimate or quote for something. Everything you buy which is designed for women will be up to fifty per cent dearer than a men’s equivalent, so you have to get used to being patronised and ripped off more than men.

Your opinions will be irrelevant or might as well be because you won’t be asked for them unless you’re a high status female or are dealing with sophisticated men like Henry. He always asks and listens to women when he wants an opinion or advice. I’ve asked him several times why does he come to me for a female viewpoint and he always tells me because I’m female and often have insights he doesn’t as a mere man—ha ha. He is no mere man, he’s very special too and I’m so lucky to have him as my pa in law.

Once you’ve had hormones raging round your system you change physically and to some extent emotionally as well. I know the scientists pooh pooh it but this scientist has experienced it first hand and seen it in the others. Possibly it’s because you no longer have to suffer the constraints of pretending to be male, so can really enjoy your feelings and share them or perhaps the chemicals in the hormones alter your brain in some way. I’m sure mine did.

I know I have changed dramatically from the wimpy girly-boy who first came to do a master’s degree here and show my professor how to set up mammal surveys and analyse the data. I like to think because I don’t have to hide my femaleness any more I’m more assured and confident in being me. Also I seem to have all the lumps and bumps in the right places, so that helps me feel some confidence in myself though at times I do question it and hope that my children won’t because they’ll have had girlhoods and almost forget that they were ever boys.

Yet we can never be biological females and reproduce as such—that might change in the next fifty years but quite honestly I can’t see it as ever being a medical priority for most clinicians when there are some biological females in a similar position who aren’t getting the sort of treatment that would enable them to carry babies. Womb transplants are happening, so who knows ultimately.

I’m aware that admitting to yourself and then facing the outside world with your decision still takes a bit of bottle, though it should be easier than it was twenty or thirty years ago in the pioneer years or even longer ago when treatment was rather primitive and surgery very basic or unavailable. Some surgeons even now don’t like the idea of SRS for a number of reasons—though the reality is that most recipients of it go on to lead happier lives as a consequence of it.

How can you say you’re the same person if the area between your legs has been remodelled? It doesn’t define us a human beings but it sure helps and to me it validated how I saw myself, not to mention how Simon saw me—I know he struggled before I had surgery even though I doubt he’ll admit it.

I went and sat with Danni on the sofa and put my arm round her. “I’m really proud of you, my girl,” I said and pulled her close to me.

“Really?”

“Yes, really and not just for your soccer skills.”

“Thanks, Mum,” she said and I watched her try to blink away a small tear that clung to her lashes.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2856 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“She’s turning into a really lovely young woman,” I said to Simon as we cuddled in bed.

“Which one—there’s a few to choose from?”

“Danielle—I was just talking about her.”

“You didn’t actually say which one though.”

“I’m sure I did.”

“Well I’m sorry but I didn’t hear it.”

“Right, well I’m talking about Danielle, okay?”

“Sure, fire away.”

“She’s turning into a really lovely young woman.”

“You already said that.”

“Well it’s worth repeating because she has come on so much in the last year or so.”

“The soccer makes a difference.”

“How d’you mean?”

“It gives her a focus outside the family or school.”

“That’s very insightful, dear.”

“She’s my daughter, we talked on the way back from Reading.”

“What with Trish and Livvie in the car?”

“They were sitting in the back playing with their iPods or whatever they are, singing along to music, I think, it might have been someone neutering cats without an anaesthetic.”

“I know Trish is a bit off perfect pitch...”

“Perfect pitch? If she was a tent she’d be pitched half way up a bloody tree.”

“She’s not that bad.”

“You didn’t have to suffer her singing for two hours each way.”

She can make a journey seem rather longer than the actual mileage.

“Anyway, what did you talk to Danni about?”

“Lots of things including her situation, what she’d like to do as a career and so forth.”

“What did she say about a career?”

“Well obviously if she gets a few more caps she should be a bit more saleable in terms playing for a club side. At the same time she realises she needs something else as a proper job as soccer won’t pay her a living for many years or she could get an injury and it stop suddenly.”

“Did she say what she’d like to do other than play for England?”

“Yeah, play for Reading or one of the big clubs—they pay more and teach sports science.”

“I told her biology would go well with sports science.”

“I’m sure it would and she said you’d suggested it but she’d rather do geography.”

“That’s up to her, biology would mean less work but if she wants to do geography, so be it.”

“Don’t be so dismissive just because she doesn’t want to do your precious biology.”

“I’m not, I don’t mind what she does as long as she does her best and preferably gets a degree because there’ll be so many graduates out there by the time she’s competing for jobs.”

“You don’t rate sports science, do you?”

“Can’t say I know that much about it but it’s a relatively modern course.”

“Which doesn’t count for much academically?”

“I really don’t know, Simon, because I don’t know what it involves.”

“You think it’s like media studies, don’t you?”

“I don’t know but then I teach ecology and some feel that’s a pseudoscience teaching the bleeding obvious to girlies who haven’t got the brains to do physics or maths.”

“Is it true?”

“What?”

“Ecology is a pseudoscience?”

“I don’t think so and they only say it because the course has twice as many girls as boys on it.”

“Is it easy?”

“Not if you do it properly.”

“You seem to find it so.”

“Sometimes.”

“Come off it, Cathy, you are extremely good at it—the mammal survey shows that.”

“Surveying is important but it’s only one aspect of ecology if you’re trying to understand the relationship of an organism to its environment. You have to understand populations and for that you need base numbers.”

“And you have to find ways of counting them.”

“Or things which represent them if you have some sort of benchmark for that.”

“Like what?”

“Well sometimes the subject species is very hard to see—like otters. So you look for spraints and if you have the facilities you can do DNA tests on those to see how many actual animals you have.”

“I hate to ask but is a spraint what I think it is?”

“It’s poo.”

“I thought it might be, so you go round counting otter poo to say how many are in the area?”

“More or less, yes. Otters are mustelids, the badger family and they have special scent glands near the anus and they’re effectively leaving a scent marker to declare a territory.”

“That must smell lovely, fishy and badger—delicious.”

“The ones I smelt weren’t too bad.”

“You’ve actually gone around sniffing otter poop?”

“Yes, why?”

“Don’t tell me all in the name of science.”

“Yes in both senses.”

“Both senses? I’d have thought only one sense was involved, that of smell.”

“You usually find them by sight then sniff them to see how fresh they are. The smell has been described variously as ranging from fresh mown hay to fishy and musky. The age of it is obviously a factor in that. I remember years ago listening to a chap from the Vincent Trust talking about sniffing spraints and he got a fish bone stuck up his nose—ended up at hospital who were intrigued about how it got there.”

“I’ll bet the average casualty officer has seen stranger things stuck in human orifices than a fish bone.”

“That sounds interesting, do tell more.”

I could feel him blushing even with the lights out. “I think it’s pretty obvious, don’t you?”

“Uh no, that’s why I’m asking.”

“I think you’re winding me up.”

“Would I do a thing like that?”

“Yes.”

“Oh ye of so little faith.”

“Look here, Missus, just ‘cos you’re married to an aristocrat and spot dormice at a thousand yards or sniff otter poo at a closer range, don’t mean you aren’t into taking the piss on occasion.”

“But I’d have thought that anyone who was daft enough to marry an aristocrat wouldn’t have a clue about casualty officers because their imagination wasn’t up to it.”

“According to Stella, her wot is my sister, like; she said stupid people stick carrots up their bums or fannies and the stalks tear off and because they’re lubricated with all sorts of things they can’t grip them to pull them out.”

“Ugh—I hope they don’t try to eat the carrot afterwards,” I screwed up my face as there is only one thing I allow to probe my newest orifice, which is attached to about fourteen stone of human, it’s not likely to get stuck especially as I’m not a vixen.

“I doubt they’d want to eat them after they’d been up...” he gave a slight cough which made me want to giggle.

“Might give it more body,” I suggested and he groaned.

Our conversation had deviated somewhat from Danielle but it had been a bit of fun. I think Stella told me of her time as a nurse in A&E and the strange things they encountered, from men having car accidents and found to be wearing stockings and suspenders under their suit trousers to those who had candles in strange places which had broken and they were frightened to pull on them just in case. Humans are strange creatures at the best of times.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2857 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Tuesday came and went. I did manage to watch Danielle play soccer and she scored a hat trick against another school who had no idea of how to contain her. She could have scored more but shared the glory with her team mates who scored another three between them, winning six nil. Once it became known she was an England schools international the opposition faded completely.

I suppose it must be disheartening to have someone with far greater skills appear on the opposing side to you, but then again it inspires some to try harder or to get the most they can out of the encounter. I remember some years ago I went to badminton with Siân, we used to go every week for a about six months, and Siân wasn’t able to come for some reason. In fact the class was short of several regulars that night so the tutor set up a group of four to play amongst themselves and told me to play opposite him—he had a match at the weekend and wanted a work out. He was umpteen levels above my level of skill but I tried to give the best I could and after an hour was playing shots instinctively I’d never thought of before. I got stuffed but I did win one or two points and I enjoyed the work out enormously. Different people have different reactions to situations and mine isn’t always as positive.

Trish and Livvie played in the week and they won as well with Trish scoring the winner. As all the girls use the name Cameron as their surname, the local rag mentioned ‘The Cameron girls strike again.’

‘St Claire’s won their second match this week in the Portsmouth and South Hants schools football league with both games being won by goals scored by two of the Cameron sisters, three or four of whom play soccer.

Danielle (14) is a very talented player who has England schools caps and one England Ladies cap to her credit, scored a hat trick on Tuesday to lead her team to a six nil drubbing of St Mary’s, which puts St Claire’s at the top of the under-fifteens league.

‘Not to be outdone by her older sister, Tricia Cameron scored the winning goal against Fratton Juniors to take them to second place in the under-elevens league. So far this season the Cameron girls have scored twenty seven goals between them making them the most prolific soccer family in the area. Must be something in their genes as their sister Olivia has also scored three of the above mentioned goals. So far younger sister Jemima has yet to open her account.’

I showed the story to Tom who chuckled at it however when Stella read it she laughed so hard she nearly fell off the chair. “Must run in the genes—my arse.”

“Well you must have got your bum from somewhere,” I replied teasing her.

“Not my arse, god you always take things so literally, Cameron. I meant the adopted sisters—how can it run in their genes.”

“Possibly one or other of their parents or siblings are or were good players,” I offered as a working response although it completely ignored, quite deliberately, the point she was making.

Her eyes narrowed, “Don’t obfuscate with me, you—you obfuscator,” she snapped at me then went off to change from her working clothes. She usually wears green or blue scrubs at the hospital—I always tease her that she goes to work in her pyjamas—but obviously she wears clothes to and from work which are smarter than the ones she sits about in at home. I bought her a velour leisure suit for Christmas which she wears quite regularly. I usually slop about in an old and comfortable pair of jeans I got in M&Co a few years ago. I got them in the sale just after I transitioned as my previous pair were becoming too tight in the seat. They’re softer cotton than Levi’s or the blue jeans brands but so comfortable and still a reasonable fit.

The week seemed to have gone by very quickly. Simon was still involved in making contingencies against a financial melt-down caused by China having reduced growth. It makes me laugh, if all the investors acted together to promise they wouldn’t sell their shares but tough things out, the crises would pass but most of them have shit for brains and yellow streaks running right through them or are predators hoping to make fortunes at everyone else’s expense. I also find it amusing that China is a single party communist state but its actions are every bit as capitalist as Europe or America.

The Saudi’s continue to try and destroy America’s shale industry by holding oil prices down and the Iranians are now selling oil so the price is even cheaper. I bought diesel at less than a pound a litre the other day, a while ago it was half as dear again. The big loser appears to be Russia—but then my feeling towards things Russian are far from benign. The whole system there is corrupt with little respect for justice or human life.

In the UK we recently had the finding of an enquiry which suggested a former Soviet intelligence officer who defected to the British was murdered by Polonium poisoning by some Russian agents. It has been suggested that such a high level murder and its method would require sanction from very high up, so very likely that it was approved by the chief crook otherwise known as the President, who might be even richer than Bill Gates but doesn’t do charitable works with his wealth.

Anyway, we all somehow got through to Friday evening and were eating dinner when Simon and Sammi were talking about a sustained cyber attack against HSBC one of the big clearing banks. Apparently they’d had to close down online banking and enquiries presumably while they fortified their system. I remembered the weekend that High St came under that attack and how Sammi directed the defence against it.

In the old days, banks only had to deal with physical attempts to rob them, robbers at the tills or trying to tunnel into vaults, a la Brinks Mat or perpetrating paper frauds with checks or cards. Nowadays, all those options still happen but also hackers and cyber crime which costs billions. I’ve never understood why people turn to crime unless they’re desperate for food or shelter, which doesn’t excuse it but does seem more understandable than they’re too lazy to work at a regular job, or don’t want to pay tax on their income, or enjoy the buzz of stealing things from other people ignoring the effects it has on their victims, especially as these criminals are often far away in foreign countries with no extradition treaties with the UK, so there is little or no comeback. They may be clever hacking into banks or other big commercial sites but they little old ladies they defraud or whose money they take are victims who will never get redress from these faceless cowards, like the scum who create viruses and enjoy watching people’s systems destroyed by their malicious cleverness. I’d give them virus—a large injection of live ebola.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2858 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

“I’m going to find out who they are and have them boiled alive,” I said loudly to the computer.

“Who?” demanded Simon.

“The bastards who wrote this stupid program.”

“Which one is that?”

“Spider solitaire, most of the games are almost impossible to win.”

“That might say more about your playing skills than the game.”

“But I’m sure I used to do better, I’m sure it’s got worse since the last download thing.”

“What download thing?”

“From Microshit.”

He gave me an old fashioned look, “Better let Sammi take a look at your computer. You still running Windows 7?”

“Yes, eight is for eight year olds with smart phones or tablets and ten can’t be any good as they’re giving it away.”

“Why don’t you get a Mac, then?”

“They’re as bad, besides they don’t have half as many programs for Apple stuff.”

“How many do you use?”

“Uh, Word and a couple that Sammi wrote for me. I also use Internet explorer as a browser.”

“It’s rubbish and they’re going to stop supporting it sometime soon.”

“Yeah well I don’t like, Google or Firefox or Safari or whatever Apple sell.”

“I’ll bet you watch BBC iPlayer?”

“So what?”

“That’s an Apple program.”

“Is that why it’s so slow—gives me the pip.”

“Very funny—what are we doing today? It’s not actually raining—yet.”

“It’s supposed to be dry today, rain again tomorrow. I’m waiting for the girls to come down for breakfast.”

“We could go and—you know—while we wait...”

“Si we did that last night and the night before—not to put too fine a point on it—I’m shagged out.”

“So that’s what we could hear, bedsprings—I’m glad someone is getting some,” Julie smirked. “Aaahh,” she squealed and dropped her dish of cereal.

We both jumped up and went to see what the problem was. “There,” she pointed.

I looked, it was one of Bramble’s toys and I told her so.

“But it moved, I’m sure it did.”

“I doubt it,” and went to pick up the quite lifelike creature and it did move, boy did I jump as it scuttled across the kitchen floor and a moment later a flurry of fur hit it and the end didn’t take long.

“I didn’t know dogs killed mice,” said Si shaking his head at Kiki’s sudden charge. She was currently wagging her tail and scoffing the spilt cereal and milk.

“Yes, they can’t help themselves and I suspect Tom has encouraged it.” He appeared a few moments later as I swept up the remaining mess of broken crockery and cereal particles. Thankfully the dog didn’t pick any of those up. Of course the milk went everywhere and so did the rumour. ‘Your mother can’t tell the difference between a cat’s toy and the real thing. It was dark down by the side of the fridge where it had lurked. I suppose the spoon landing behind had caused it to run for it only its bid for safety was short lived, as was the mouse. Kiki who’d come to cash in on the free breakfast spotted the rodent and...

“Some bloody biologist,” said Trish and the rest of the mouseketeers guffawed. I was just about to slap her one, really hard when the sound of a man’s voice stopped me. It was the clock radio. Why don’t we switch it off on Friday night? Jim Naughtie was yakking on about some Presidential campaign and it took me a moment to realise this was the American one. How come we have to wait five years to get rid of a Prime Minister they only have to wait four? Plus I remembered reading that a British PM has much more power and authority than a US president. The fact that the current one, PM that is, doesn’t do very much is because they’ve cut the armed services until we only have a Royal Navy of two rowing boats and canoe. An army with smaller numbers than the Girl Guides and an airforce who can’t afford the fuel for their two remaining Sopwith Camels—see I have read some Biggles. So declaring war on Russia isn’t an option until the airforce gets a delivery of fuel sometime in 2050—or something like that. I heard an admiral saying it was embarrassing that the Royal Navy needed to refit several ships because they keep breaking down. They have Rolls Royce engines, so I believe the correct phraseology is, ‘Rolls Royce don’t break down, they simply fail to proceed.’ Lot of good if you have cruise missiles as incoming.

I suddenly sat up, switched off the radio and said to the inert Simon, “Why do cruise liners carry missiles,” lay back down and went off to sleep again. At least I wasn’t dreaming about mice again—I don’t really like them, but if I’m expecting them I can cope, even handling them and of course dormice and harvest mice don’t count—do wood mice with their kingsize scrotums? How do I know, I’m asleep.

I woke up with a cat sitting on my chest and gently patting my face. “What d’you want?” I asked yawning just in time for her paw to end up in my mouth and I sat up spitting and coughing. I ran to the bathroom and washed my mouth out—you never know where those paws have been.

Stella was sitting at the breakfast table reading my Guardian. “Afternoon,” she said as I switched on the kettle.

“So, I fell asleep again.”

“Keep your hair on.”

“Where is everybody?”

“They’ve gone out with Si and Tom and the dog.”

I glanced at the clock—it was nearly ten. I went to get myself sorted and dressed, if I hurried I could be out before they came back. I quickly made my tea, sipped at it, grabbed a banana and biting off a mouthful—after peeling it—duh; ran back upstairs holding my impromptu breakfast.

In half an hour I was dressed and out hoping they didn’t see my car flying down the road. I didn’t want help with this bit of shopping, I wanted to be alone when I did it. I knew exactly what I wanted and roughly where to get it. The only reason I hadn’t bought it online was I wanted to see and touch it for real rather than accept a poor description on Amazon or some other website. I could probably have paid less online, but I’m supposed to be comfortably wealthy, so decided I could afford it.

Unfortunately, as the weather was fine today, the sun blinding everyone trying to drive towards it, the prols were out in force. Most have the driving skills of a drunken housefly and the parking skills of a ferret with Parkinson’s. I beeped loudly at someone who nearly reversed into me. Stupid man. He had a Jack Russell or some other small terrier thing bouncing about in the back seat and I wondered if he should let the dog drive, then I remembered the incident where the thug who nearly hit me off my bike and who chased me in his car when I gave him the finger, got run over by his dog who knocked the car into gear and released the handbrake at the same time. I chuckled to myself as I recalled the silly incident because to everyone but the man himself, it was so funny.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2859 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I eventually managed to get parked—at the rate things were going—the days passing faster than the oiks out in cars, I’d be a year older and still nowhere near the shops. I don’t dislike shopping, just having to do it amidst a collection of brain vacated zombies who always seem to get there first.

If I had told anyone that i wanted to come shopping on my own because I wanted to touch something first rather than buy it online, they’d assume I was buying a bike or a book—those that knew me. Those who didn’t, would probably suggest it was clothing or a personal item, like jewellery or a watch, even a bag.

It was a personal item, but not for me. I found my way into the nicest stationers we have in Portsmouth and spoke with the lady behind the desk. She showed me several items and I chose one. It cost me more than the internet would have done but I felt happy with it. While I was there I bought a new ballpoint pen for all the girls and I got ten per cent discount for buying a dozen. I would have bought fountain pens but they already had them and they didn’t use them very often—I did more than them and I tended to use pencil except for signing letters.

In the jewellers I bought Danielle a nice silver charm bracelet and had them add a ball and boot to it. If she got picked for England, I’d give it to her to celebrate the fact, if she was passed over, I would give it to her as a consolation. It came with a nice presentation box. The girls could all buy her another charm for her birthday and with so many sisters, it would probably be too heavy in a couple of years to lift her arm up. I chuckled at my silliness and some woman walking alongside me gave me a very peculiar look.

I looked back smiling and said, “It’s the voices you know, one of them just told me a dirty joke—wanna hear it?”

“Certainly not,” she said and dived into a shop. I chuckled some more and continued my shopping.

It was lunchtime when I got home and Simon seemed less than pleased. “You could have told us you were going out—where have you been?”

“I went shopping.”

“What for?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not especially but it’s unusual for you to go without an escort.”

“This isn’t Saudi Arabia, women are still free to come and go by themselves—for the moment at least.”

“I know that, I meant you usually have a gaggle of girls with you.”

“Which was why I decided to go shopping when I saw they were all out with you.”

“That’s fine, did you enjoy yourself?”

“Immensely.” That felt strange. I’d always preferred to go with someone but today I wanted my own space.

“Good, I’m glad. You’ll be pleased to learn that we went to feed the ducks.”

“What with?”

“Tom found some stale bread, we took that.” My expression changed. “Did we do something wrong?”

“Possibly not, but I suspect you might have used the bread David was going to use for either stuffing or breadcrumbs.”

“Damn,” he said and shrugged.

“I’m sure he’ll calm down eventually.”

Simon disappeared I suspect to get a bottle of wine to placate our wonder cook. I know David did drink it from time to time. I heard him bashing about in the kitchen and after explaining what had happened he simply shook his head in disbelief. I told him to look as if he was sulking when either Tom or Simon were about and he’d get a better offer to compensate him. Serve them right, they rarely ever look in the fridge, except to get the milk out for tea or coffee, so why did they do so that morning? I wasn’t sure Simon actually recognised which of the appliances it was.

After lunch was over, David told me he’d grumbled to Simon that the girls had pinched his bread for stuffing, and Simon said he’d have words with the girls and presented him with a very nice bottle of burgundy. David was more than happy. Tom who’d actually taken the bread, told you Simon wouldn’t recognise a fridge, also coughed up a nice bottle of wine when I told him what he’d done. David was well pleased with his haul as it would start his wine collection.

During the afternoon, I wrote the card I’d purchased and wrapped the present, then put them together in a paper bag and slipped them into my computer bag. I also wrapped Danielle’s bracelet and popped that in the drawer of my desk. I had to buy to cards for her, a congrats one in case she was picked, plus a commiserations one in case she wasn’t.

Then picking up the bag of pens, I went round the girls distributing them. I’d spent quite a lot of money that morning and was pleased to see the girls appreciated what I’d got them.

The next day it was back to work and normality, whatever the latter was. Although I was earlier than usual, quite deliberately, Diane was there before me—I still had the school run to do and it took time. “Tea?” called Diane as I wandered in and I nodded and went to my office.

I noticed my door said, ‘Professor Catherine Watts,’ the sign was new. I’d ask Diane about that when she brought the tea in and meanwhile took the card and wrapped gift from my computer bag.

“Tea,” she announced coming through the door with a mug in one hand and a pile of post in the other.

“Is that sign new,” I nodded towards the door.

“Yeah, they did it last thing on Friday, orders from the Vice Chancellor.”

“Since when did he get involved in naming offices.”

“I think this was a one off.”

“Really?”

“Yes—the message I got was he confirmed your appointment as you hadn’t caused any ripples like you both agreed.”

“I didn’t promise him anything.”

“He seemed to think you had.”

“The fact is, we’ve been so busy since the beginning of term I haven’t had the time or energy to challenge him on anything, nor opportunity. But we’ll let him confirm my appointment and then see what happens. If I’m a contracted professor it makes it harder to get rid of me.”

“Uh, I think the letter is in this lot. She plonked the pile of paper on my desk.”

“Oh, happy birthday,” I said offering her the card and present.

“How did you know?”

“Your file is in here, remember?”

“Of course. I didn’t know you ever read them.”

“I don’t except I keep a list of birthdays on my iPad, yours wasn’t on it so I did the research.”

“I’m impressed, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She left and there was a squeal from her office. A moment later she came dashing back in. “You can’t give me this,” she said waving the box about.

“Why not—don’t you like it?”

“Like it, I love it.”

“Well then, go and play I have work to do.”

She gave me the evil eye for that remark. “This far too expensive.”

“Isn’t that my decision not yours.”

“Not if I don’t accept it.”

“You already did.”

“I didn’t know what was in it then.”

“Tough.”

“Cathy, I don’t know what to say.”

“You already said thank you, now go and make some of my students suffer or something useful.”

“It’s really beautiful.”

“Like its owner, now go.”

“Are you sure—you know—it’s so valuable.”

“It’s only silver, now go—I have work to do.”

“Thank you.”

I waved her away and she left my office and me in peace. Okay, it was a nice fountain pen with sterling silver casing and yes it was expensive but I happen to think she’s worth it. She’d admired my pen when I was signing letters remarking she’d have to get a new one as she’d broken her old one and didn’t like ball points.

I began to look at my post and found the contract. I had to sign it, I wasn’t sure I would, not with that final clause. I dropped it on my desk and sipped my tea. Life was back to reality with a vengeance.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2860 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

Basically, the final clause was one to prevent whistleblowers. I would get my lawyer to look at it before I signed it. I photocopied it and then faxed it to Jason asking him to call me when convenient. I slipped the original in a folder and put in my personal file.

It was eleven o’clock. I’d wasted a lot of time but I felt justified. As an archetypal Sagittarius, I tend to charge in when sometimes a more circumspect approach would be more useful in achieving a desired outcome. Age or experience was beginning to show me that small print was something that needed to be read before action not after, then it was often too late. I wasn’t expecting anything to happen at the university that I’d report to the wider world but if something did happen that needed exposure, I would do it—as things stood—I’d also lose my job. Perhaps less of a big deal for me than many of the academic staff because I didn’t actually need the money. However, it also suggested that if i did leave any research projects surveys remained the property of the university. Sorry, but the mammal survey is mine and I’ve registered the methodology and the software Sammi designed for us. Effectively, I hold the copyrights or patents, so if I am forced to leave, so do they—I’m not going to give them away. I’d scribbled a note to Jason with the fax mentioning this. Years ago, I’d have trusted them—nowadays, I trust very few.

Diane had actually sent the fax for me as the machine is in her office and when she brought in some mid morning tea and a hot cross bun—no wonder I don’t lose any weight—she said, “I get a strong impression you’re not very happy with the contract.”

“Your impressions may well be accurate.”

“So who were you faxing it to?”

“A barrister friend who will give me the legal reasons why I may or may not sign it.”

“You don’t do small talk, do you?”

“No. Not with the Vice Chancellor, he’s got more sides than a dodecahedron.”

“Whatever one of those is.”

“Twelve sided solid.”

“Do-deca—ah yes, I get it now.”

“Don’t tell me it was all Greek to you?”

“Very funny. I guess you don’t like the Vice Chancellor very much?”

“Not at all, have you met him?”

“Very briefly when he came to see you once.”

“Did your flesh crawl?”

“Possibly, I can’t quite remember.”

“He knows I’m something of a loose cannon...”

“Maverick, surely?”

“I wear the Cameron brand,” I waved my rings in the air.

“I meant in not conforming, being a free thinker—that sort of sense.”

“Okay, you’ve pigeon holed me, now go and do some work.”

“Yes ma’am,” she saluted me and left.

Ten minutes later my phone rang. “Professor it’s Professor Michaels from Archaeology.”

“Oh okay, put him through.”

“Hello, Peter what can I do for you?”

“Have you seen the new contracts?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I’m still thinking about it, I won’t sign anything until my barrister has seen it.”

“Lucky you can afford to get a legal opinion.”

“True, at the same time his advice generally I would share with interested parties though what they did with it would be up to them.”

“I’m not sure what he’s up to.”

“He’s a control freak,” I suggested.

“He wants to run it like a business and we’d be senior managers.”

“That’s his background, isn’t it—oil industry?”

“Yeah, out in Nigeria or somewhere in Africa—wasn’t there some trouble out there, a major accident, lots of people killed and of course he emerged squeaky clean from the enquiry.”

“I’m sure he had two incidents like that and both times he either managed to shift the blame or sidestep it, or bribe the investigators. He’s made loads of money.” As I said this I suddenly realised that I hadn’t done too badly myself, but at least mine was honestly acquired.

“I suspect I’ll have to sign, Cathy, I’m too old to find another job and since my divorce I’m going to have a mortgage until after I retire.”

“Let me get the report back from Jason, first.”

“Who’s he?”

“My counsel.”

“Oh yeah, you said.”

I wondered how tied into the university the reserve with Billie’s visitor centre was. If I left or was pushed, I’d want to take that with me, I’d have to look at the contracts for that too. I know the bank owned it but had offered a ninety nine year lease for peppercorn rent—as it was my present and memorial to my lovely daughter.

“You still there, Cathy?”

“Sorry, yes, I’m still here. Look how many are likely to dissent from signing?”

“Not many, they’re too scared—at most half a dozen.”

“Hardly enough for a pressure group, is it?”

“Quite.”

“Try and draw it out for a few more days if you can and as soon as I hear from Jason, I’ll let you know.”

I took Diane to lunch for her birthday and on my return I had a text from Jason. ‘Do not sign anything – contract is OTT in their favour. Jason.’

I sat there staring at my phone. “Problems?” asked Diane bringing in a cuppa.

“Jason doesn’t do text speak.”

“Oh, is that good or bad?”

I showed her my BlackBerry. “Oh, that’s pretty definite advice.”

“Exactly. I’d better call his office and speak to him if he’s there.”

I called as soon as Diane went out again. “We’ll patch you through to his mobile,” said one of his clerks as soon as I gave my name. Moments later, “Hi, Cathy, look I’ve only had a quick squint at it but it’s very binding stuff, you’d have more freedom working for the army or the intelligence services.”

“Nah, don’t like uniforms or killing people so both would be out.”

“Probably not the best career move for a professional dormouse handler.”

“You usually say juggler.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, you usually accuse me of dormouse juggling.”

“A la youtube?”

“Yes,” I sighed and he chuckled. “You realise that’s been viewed about two million times.”

“Don’t tell me one and half million were you?”

“How’d ya guess?” he chuckled.

“What do I do?”

“Can it wait a few days, I’m in the middle of a big case should finish Thursday or Friday.”

“Come to dinner.”

“That would be nice.”

“Let me know which day and I’ll get David to kill the fatted cat.”

“Cat? Shouldn’t it be calf?”

“Nah, the cat’s fatter than any calf I’ve seen. Little bugger discovered where the munchies were kept and helped herself—ate about a kilo of the things in a week, no wonder she was always thirsty. She kept drinking the birdbath dry.”

“They’re very dry aren’t they?”

“Yes and I suspect salty, to get them edible for cats and they wolf them down, like donkeys and strawberries.”

“I’ve never seen a donkey eat strawberries, have you?”

“No, but that’s the expression, isn’t it?”

“It is. Right, I have to go I’ll ring you on Wednesday or Thursday to get together for dinner, want me to bring any wine?”

“I quite enjoy a nice Prosecco.”

“Prosecco it is, just don’t sign anything—okay?”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it, Cathy, if you do he’ll have you wrapped up tighter than an elephant’s foreskin.”

“You what?” I gasped.

“Well it’s the biggest drawback in the jungle, isn’t it?”

“I doubt it, elephants live on the savannah not jungle.”

“You shoulda been a lawyer, Cathy. Byeee.” Yeah, if I was I’d have been useless, don’t read the small print.

The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2861 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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.
*****

I called James. “My goddess, I am yours to command.”

“One of these days your phone recognition system is going to misidentify your caller and you are going to be in trouble.”

All he could do was laugh. “If I am—I’ll deal with it.”

A certain amount of confidence is good I suppose, but he sounds confident of certainty, which I’m not sure about. I gave him the name of our vice chancellor and asked him to find anything he could. I nearly suggested the oil industry but decided to keep quiet and see just how good James is.

After speaking with him I just wanted to get home and set off to collect the children from the convent. They felt in far greater spirits than I did and it was all I could do not to nag them for all the noise they were making. Once home I changed as if to shed the despondency I felt from the university. Part of me began to wonder if any of it was worth the effort, because the chances are I would lose and I needed to understand how important the job was to me. I didn’t know anymore, part of me felt like it didn’t care.

I sat in my study and coughed, my throat felt sore and soon afterwards my head began to ache. Wonderful—I need a cold like a hole in the head. I took some paracetamol and Danielle brought me in a cup of tea. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure, I might be starting a cold.”

“Oh, is that why you were a bit strange on the way home?”

“Was I? It probably was then.”

“Mummy?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can.”

“There’s like this boy I see down the football when we’re training.”

“Right,” I said, thinking I knew where this might be leading.

“He asked me if I wanted to go to a party next week.”

“How old is he?”

“Not sure, fifteen I think.”

“When is the party?”

“Friday.”

“Friday night, you mean?”

“Uh—yeah.”

“Where is it?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Until he does, I’m not saying yes. I want to know where, what time it finishes, how you’re going to get there and how you’re going to get home. I also want to know there’s no alcohol.”

She looked uncertain what to say.

“D’you like this boy—as a girl, I mean?”

“He’s okay, I guess.”

“How were you going to tell him?”

“He said he’d be there when I was training on Tuesday.”

“Better get me some answers then, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“Danielle.”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“I haven’t said no yet, but I’m not going to say yes without those answers. You’re only fourteen and we’re all too fond of you to let something happen to you.”

“Have you got his phone number?”

She blushed, “Uh huh.”

“He got yours?”

“Um.”

“You’d better tell him what I said, hadn’t you?”

She nodded and ran off blushing like a schoolgirl—duh.

I drank my tea and ate a biscuit—not the best policy with my dinner due in the next half an hour or so—but I felt in need of the sugar. Comfort eating I suppose, so I helped myself to a couple of Lotus biscuits, the ones you get with coffee in nicer cafés.

Danielle appeared at my study door again. “Gosh that was quick work, what did he say?”

“I haven’t phoned him yet.”

“Oh, so what d’you want then?”

“There’s a p’liceman at the door.”

My heart rate doubled and my blood pressure shot up the scale. “Invite him in, I’ll be down in second.” What has happened now? Simon? Oh Jeez. I brushed the crumbs off my sweater and jeans and walked quickly to the hall.

“In the lounge,” said Danielle going off towards the kitchen.

I went into the lounge wondering what tidings of bad news our local plod were bringing this time. Despite having a Jaguar I hadn’t been speeding in it since goodness knows when.

Andy Bond was sitting on the sofa by the window and rose to his feet as I entered. “Mr Bond, how nice to see you.”

“Lady Cameron,” he said nodding to acknowledge me.

“What brings you to this place, nothing bad I hope?”

“Here ya go,” said Danielle bringing him in a mug of tea. He thanked her and waited until she left.

“The man you testified against for damaging your nature reserve and illegal tree felling...”

“McKay?”

“That’s the one. He’s been released from prison.”

“I hope he’s not looking for an order for firewood.”

“I—er doubt it, but we have to let you know.”

“Right, thank you, hopefully he’s learnt his lesson and will steer clear of me in future.”

“Not sure if he has the capacity to learn very much and he was pretty angry with you at the trial.”

“It was I who should have been angry, he killed several dormice and tried to run me down and the children. He was lucky to have only got five years, of which he’s served only half.”

Andy Bond sipped his tea, “That was Danny Maiden as was, wasn’t it?”

“Danielle—yes.”

“She makes a very pretty girl.”

“She does, I’m very proud of her the way she dealt with the assault and has tried to normalise her life as a female—it can’t have been easy.”

“I’ll bet, wasn’t the kid who assaulted her the one who was also attacked on the trip to France?”

“Yes.”

“Strange business that.”

I shrugged. “I hope she’s moved on from that.”

“Indeed. She’s quite a good footballer isn’t she—or he was.”

“Andy Bond, are you pulling my leg?”

“No?” he looked bemused, “What have I said?”

“She’s got an England schools cap and an England Ladies cap.”

“Has she? What at fourteen or fifteen?”

“She’s not quite a good footballer, she’s very good.”

“Doesn’t the um—gender thing make any difference?”

“The sports rules state that if she’s been on hormones or had surgery for a year before competing as female—at that level—she’s legally allowed to compete, same goes for the Olympics.”

“Oh yeah, saw something in the paper about that the other day—they don’t even have to have had the operation any more, do they?”

“I don’t know, it seems the papers have suddenly all become trannie friendly whereas a couple of years ago they were hunting us down to show we weren’t human.”

“That’s all due to that American one, isn’t it, the one who’s always on telly with the rest of his family.”

“Caitlyn Jenner?”

“That’s the one—spent a fortune on plastic surgery.”

“If you have the money, what you do with it is your business.”

“Yeah but you’re a whole lot prettier and you haven’t had your face redone have you?”

“Uh no—too painful—I’m a wimp.”

“Well, I reckon you don’t need it. Right, better be going—any problems with McKay, let us know and he’ll be back inside before he knows what hit him.”

“Oh, how’s that?”

“He’s only done half his sentence, he’s out on licence. If he comes near you or your girls, he can be done for breach of his licence and conditions of parole and he goes back in the can.”

“Okay, thanks for coming to tell us, I’ll let the girls know.”

“Goodnight, Cathy.”

“’Night, Andy.” That’s all I need at the moment, a nutter with a chainsaw on the loose.