The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2214 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“Wifey?”

“Yes, me hubby, you wifey. You go now–make breakfast for hubby.”

“Me Tarzan you Jane,” I said in as a deep a voice as I could as I walked out the door pulling on a jumper over my tee shirt.

“No, me Tarzan, you Jane,” he called after me.

“Whatever,” I muttered, while thinking, ‘Who actually gives a shit?’ Then reflected on what I’d just thought and actually, I do give a shit. To me it’s very important that him Tarzan, me Jane. Any other arrangement wouldn’t work.

It was back to the old chestnut, people who’ve crossed the gender line find it very important to be recognised in their chosen gender. Nothing else will do. Yeah, that summed me up nicely.

Instead of getting Simon’s breakfast, I became breakfast for my guest cannibal who decided she wanted a bite of breast–my breast–and it bloody hurts. At this rate I’ll end up with nipples like the rose on the end of a watering can.

Simon arrived in the kitchen about twenty minutes after I’d got there and he saw me feeding Lizzie. “Where’s my breakfast?” he asked.

“Same place as mine, Tarzan can make own breakfast, plus cuppa for Jane.”

“Huh,” he offered as a comment which really did strain my intellectual processes to respond.

“Well you feed her then and I’ll get our breakfasts.”

“Very funny–I’m not exactly equipped for it am I?”

“No, but if you look in the fridge there is a bottle in there all you have to do is warm it and pour it down her throat.”

“No, you carry on–it’s quite homely.” He bustled about taking ten minutes to make himself some toast and a pot of tea.

I sipped my tea while Lizzie paused at my breast to watch Simon spread a thick layer of marmalade on his cremated bread and munch it. “Da da da,” she called at him.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Simon Cameron?”

“No, she’s at best mistaken at worst lying.”

“Mama ma ma,” she said at me.

Simon sniggered and choked himself on his cinders. “You may be right,” I agreed then smirked at his efforts to inhale bread dust. While this was going on a herd of daughters arrived and made themselves cereal and a cold drink.

“Is it your birthday today, Mummy?”

“No, sweetheart,” I replied to Livvie. “I’m not having any more birthdays.”

“Why? Don’t you get nice presents anymore?”

“No, I’ve decided that I’m going to stay at twenty nine.”

“That is so old,” she said looking horrified.

“Thanks, Liv, that just made my day.” Simon, this time, choked on his tea. Serve him right.

Jacquie arrived and took the cannibal with her to bathe her and redress her–it’s too cold to hang her on the line–enabling me to get some breakfast myself.

“Can I take the present I bought back to the shop?” asked Simon.

“If you like,” I thought we weren’t doing presents any more.

“It was only botox anyway.”

“Botox?”

“Yeah, you know the botulinus toxin.”

“I know perfectly well what it is, Clostridium botulinus, a nasty little germ.”

“What is it, Mummy?” asked Trish.

“It’s a very nasty germ that causes botulism which can be fatal. It’s an anaerobic bacterium, from a lethal family other members cause tetanus and gas gangrene.”

“Does that make you fart?” she asked giggling.

“I doubt it–unless it was in your death throes.”

“Ugh,” she said and asked to leave the table, her two sisters following her.

“Where’s Danni this morning?” I asked.

“Och she went oot an ’oor ago.”

“Where?”

“She didnae tell me.” Daddy picked up my Observer and I grabbed the review section with the crossword as he went.

“She’s gone to Cindy’s–there’s a note on the fridge.” Simon said putting the marmalade away.

“She’s supposed to ask me before she goes.” I fumed, the little cow had beaten me again. I stood up to rinse off the dishes when I saw movement across the drive. It was Danni and she was coming out of the bike shed. Grabbing a coat I rushed out after her.

“Where are you going?” I demanded.

She appeared flushed which could have been embarrassment, the cold weather or exertion. “Oh hi, Mummy, I did leave a note.”

“You’re supposed to ask before you go off.”

“I never did before.”

“You were a boy then, girls are more vulnerable, especially T-girls.”

“I think if I showed my face as a boy around here I’d get my head kicked in.”

“I didn’t think Trish and Livvie were that violent.”

“Not them, Mummy, the kids who live in Pompey–they’d kill me.”

“Wouldn’t they do that to you as a girl as well?”

“Dunno–I think they’d be less inclined to hit a girl.”

I wasn’t sure that statistics agreed with him, the thugs today will happily beat up girls as well as boys, partly because some of them are girls as well. In recent months several girls have been involved in gang attacks on other girls. Thankfully, she’s not into gang stuff which doesn’t seem to come this far away from the town centre, and I suspect is probably more rife in bigger cities, though there is some evidence for it near Fratton but then I heard a youth worker complain that a few years ago it wasn’t too bad to find jobs for teenagers but since the first invasion of Poles, the job market dried up. It seems many employers would rather employ Polish workers because by all accounts they are more reliable and hard working than local labour. Can’t say I blame them but it does have a knock on effect on other areas including rising numbers of NEATS (Not in Education, Apprenticeships or Training). Add to that the old adage, ‘The Devil finds work for idle hands,’ and you have a time-bomb ticking away. There are loads of kids who have a very bleak outlook who have neither the education nor skills to find decent work so we import people who do, making the local problem worse.

That’s an over simplification, because like all problems involving groups of people, it’s always more complicated and involves things like, undervaluing education by teenagers and lack of motivation through belief that it won’t get you anywhere.

I don’t think it’s a simple as the payment of benefits any more than I believe reinstating capital punishment would reduce the number of murders.

“I’ve been in that pub,” declared Simon as the news showed the latest on the dreadful accident in Glasgow. “Bit much when you go for a quiet drink and have a police helicopter crash land on top of you.”

“It’s very sad,” I agreed.

My mind went back to our recent use of the police helicopter when Jacquie and the babies disappeared, we were glad enough of it then. It didn’t occur to me that it could just fall out of the sky, which is what seemed to happen to the Glasgow one. All those poor people in the pub, and on board the flying machine. It seemed so very sad.