The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1923 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

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I went and made my peace with Julie. “You don’t like it, do you?” she said, pointing to her hair.

“It was a bit of a surprise, that’s all.” That bit was true.

“You think it makes me look like a boy, don’t you?”

I studied her for a moment. “Actually, it doesn’t–it’s quite a good cut, and the bit falling over your left eye does soften it.” It would drive me mad, I can’t stand hair over my eyes.

“So what d’you think?”

“It’s okay, let me get used to it before I say any more.”

She shrugged, “Okay, did I hear Daddy come in?”

“Yes, go and see what he thinks.”

“Oh I already know he won’t like it.”

“How can you say that?”

“I can just see him now, ‘What the hell have you done to your hair?’” We both chuckled as she pretended to talk in a deep voice. Despite this she took the plunge and went downstairs where Simon was reading something.

“Hi, Daddy,” she pecked him on the cheek for which he bent his head down.

“Hi Sweetie,” was all he said, and she rolled her eyes at me and we both began to laugh.

“What’s so funny,” Simon looked up from his letter.

“Nothing,” I shrugged and he looked at me strangely.

Julie was still chuckling and he looked at her. “Okay, what is so–what the hell have you done to your hair?”

“Spot on–verbatim,” I said, and chuckled again. Julie of course, also laughed.

“What is so funny?” He was looking bewildered to say the least.

“Julie predicted what you’d say, word for word.”

“Oh, I’m that predictable–am I?”

“Sometimes.” I tried to soften the joke.

“Look at this stupid thing–they want me to go on jury service.” He waved the letter at me.

“Can’t you decline or defer?” I offered.

“Done that before. I mean they say they compensate for lost income–if I ask them for ten thousand pounds for each day–d’you think they’d pay me?”

“A tenner, perhaps.” I laughed.

“It’s not funny–that’s what I’m worth.”

“Si, that would make you worth–let me see three six five times ten–three million six hundred and fifty thousand–you don’t earn that much–do you?”

“Yes. Now d’you see my problem?”

“Bloody hell, Simon–that’s ridiculous.”

“It’s the going rate–when I was doing commodities I could make that in a bonus.”

These amounts were like something from an astronomical calculation. No wonder Stella had few qualms about spending it.

“You look surprised,” he said, presumably looking at my jaw touching the floor.

“Uh huh,” I said nodding.

“Mind you, I pay loads of tax on it.”

“So you should–proportionally, a hospital porter pays more of his income in tax than you do.” I was now in Guardian reader mode.

“That depends upon how you do the calculation, seeing as I pay more tax a month than he earns in a year.”

“He pays twenty percent VAT on everything the same as you do, but with far less to start with.”

“Yeah, that bit is not nice–but that’s the Tories for you, tax the poor to feed the rich.”

“And you happen to be a beneficiary of it?”

“Yeah–I know, a champagne socialist–but someone’s gorra do it.”

“I will, Daddy–can I have a new car?”

“What’s wrong with the old one?”

“Nuthin’ why?”

“No you can’t have a new one.”

“Meanie,” she said and left the room.

“Yep, that’s me, Miser Cameron, my ancestry showing.”

“That is total tosh and you know it.”

“Course I do. I don’t see why I’ve got to buy her a new car though. If she thinks all she has to do is ask for anything she wants, where’s the incentive to work for it? I work damned hard for my money.”

“I know, darling, but wait till she finds out that Sammi’s got modelling lessons.”

“She’s too short to be a model, and too curvy–unless she does glamour modelling.”

“Over my dead body,” I said with clenched teeth.

“Quite.”

“Want me to tell you how much you earn a minute, Daddy?” said Trish entering the room.

“Not really,” I said for him.

“It’s more than I get for pocket money.”

“Tough–you get enough, missy,” I challenged.

“Yeah, but Daddy makes six point nine four four recurring pounds a minute. I get five pounds a week.”

“That’s before tax.” I sighed.

“I don’t pay tax, do I?” she queried.

“I meant Daddy.”

Simon looked rather sad, “I thought I earned more than that.”

“You do, darling, she just divided everything by twenty four and then by sixty. You don’t work twenty four hours, do you?”

“Some days it feels like it.”

“I’m sure it does, especially with the euro-crisis.”

“Oh that blessed thing.”

“Have you seen Julie’s hair?” asked Livvie entering the arena.

“Yes, we have,” I replied.

“Well I haven’t,” pouted Trish.

“It’s well kewl, she’s had it cut short,” and with that Livvie and the human calculator went to see their big sister.

“Why is it everyone wants a bit of the action so long as it’s someone else’s money?”

“Not everyone, darling.” I hugged him and he kissed me.

“No, there’s an exception to every rule and you’re usually it.”

“Not always, sometimes I’m after your money as well.”

“Yeah, but for good reason–new clothes for the kids or food, or carpets or whatever.”

“I also still have your credit card,” I smiled.

“I know, and you’re a lot more restrained than my idiot sister.”

“If I needed lots of money, it would be for a good reason.”

“I know, babes, I trust you implicitly.”

“So, I need two hundred thousand by the end of the week.”

“Sure y’do.”

“I mean it, Si.”

“What for?”

“To stop someone suing me for much more.”

“What? Just what did you do to them.”

“Broke his jaw.”

“What?”

“And his arm.”

“How?”

“And his leg.”

“Why?”

“And most of his ribs.”

“When?”

“Yesterday he pushed in front of me at Tesco.”

“And you half killed him.”

“I’m sorry–he was rude when I told him off and raised his hand–so I let him have it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?”

“I forgot.”

“You forgot? How can you forget beating someone half to death?”

“I was involved with Sammi and her modelling.”

“And he’s agreed to settle out of court?”

“Yeah, Tesco are a bit unsure what they’re going to do.”

“Did you speak to Dad?”

“Yeah, he said he’d see what he could do.”

“Two hundred grand–see if you can get him to accept instalments.”

“He won’t–they made that clear to me this morning.”

“Even I can’t just magic up a big sum like that.”

“I sold the S type.”

“You what?”

“I sold the old Jag.”

“Oh no, Cathy; how much did you get?”

“Five thousand.”

“Five?” he raised his voice, “She’s worth five times that if not ten.”

“I was in a hurry.”

“This is like a bad dream, Cathy.”

“That’s not the worst of it.”

“There’s more?” He sat down. “Let’s have it.”

I sat alongside him looking at the floor. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, you might be crazy but I still love you.”

“So you’ll help me with the money?”

“Once I’ve involved our legal people to speak to his. What’s the other thing?”

“I tell lies to my husband.”

“Oh,” he paused, “like what?”

“Like that.”

“Eh?”

“I don’t need your money because none of that happened.”

“You mean, you didn’t sell the Jag?”

“Of course not.”

“Thank God for that.”

“What about the rest?”

“The money is replaceable, that car isn’t.”

“You’re not cross with me for winding you up?”

“Only if you had sold the Jag.”

I kissed him and hugged him but I didn’t understand him. It’s only an old banger, albeit one of some value and doubly so because of Mr Whitehead’s love of it. Seems like my hubby has the same passion for old cars.