The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2298 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I found myself in front of a group of thirty students. After asking via shows of hands who done slide making before, there were ten who’d never seen a microscope let alone sliced bits of things to shove under it. I began to wonder how they’d got on a biology course, but then it was probably because they’d seen some bimbo playing with dormice on the telly.

I’ve heard science teachers say that as long as they have maths and chemistry they can teach the biology quite easily. Hilary was standing at the back of the room and fortunately she had prepared slides before and was happy to help those who had a clue while I dealt with those who didn’t. Three hours is a long time, when you have background mutters that they came to play with dormice not slice dogfish brains—albeit in wax—it makes three hours seem like a life time.

Finally, they got the idea of a microtome and making as thin a slice as is feasible without tearing the specimen. Then you have to dissolve out the wax, then stain the slide then dry it, examine it and if it’s a keeper add some adhesive and a coverslip. Labelling comes at the end.

I allow them to go for a coffee half way through because I usually need one. The more experienced group were doing okay and Hilary was showing them the adaptor to project the slide onto a computer. It’s easier than drawing your specimen but possibly means you don’t examine the slide as much as you might.

The next time we’d be doing the drawing and using the camera adaptor but before then, they’d be slicing some more dogfish brains, these specimens from an unfortunate creature that had a brain parasite and this time we’re looking to see how many spot the difference between their old and new slides. I know, we’re nasty bastards, but they come here to learn biology not ponce about in front of cameras playing with dormice—that comes after you know your stuff and can find someone daft enough to pay you to do it. In my case, my pa in-law who just happens to own a bank—it helps.

Daddy caught us as we finished and to keep the peace I agreed to go to lunch with him before he also asked Hilary. I did think about inventing some emergency—look the house is burning down, so I’ll see you later—but he’d have known I was lying.

I was only working until lunchtime so although I took Hilary with me to the restaurant he was going to take her back to the university after lunch. To be honest, I was quite impressed with the way she’d looked after the larger group and she told me she was equally impressed with my handling the non-biologists. I had done it before, but felt we were teaching A-level stuff not degree. She agreed but said that seemed to be the trend unless it related to computer stuff.

At the restaurant I told her what Tom would order—a chicken curry with rice and a pint of Guinness. She said he’d told her I’d have either a tuna salad or a tuna jacket, wasn’t I worried about mercury poisoning? My retort, “I’ve got so much mercury in me, when it gets warm I start to grow taller.” For a moment she didn’t see the joke then she snorted and laughed loudly, telling me I was mad. We all know that, so it was hardly something revelatory.

She had a tuna jacket as well so Tom felt out-voted, however, she did have half of Guinness so that pleased him. I stuck with my cranberry juice although I’m aware it has loads of sugar in it.

We spent lunch bewailing the fact that we’re teaching students skills they should already have and he sympathised but reminded me each one of them was contributing to our salaries with their tuition fees and that education was big business with the universities being the top end of it. The days of free anything were long over and the way the government was going things were going to get worse before they got better. Departments were closing, especially in less popular subjects like chemistry.

“So why is biology so popular?” asked Hilary.

“Why, because wee girls see Cathy walking through woods and stroking dormice and that’s whit they think we’re all aboot, because they didnae do any in school, they probably did psychology and economics or history if they want to be on Time Team. None o’ them seem tae realise it can be hard work doing what they have described as soft sciences by the mathematicians.”

“Yeah, we all know, it’s all down to the second law of thermodynamics according to Brian.”

“What is?” asked Hilary at my exposition.

“Tell the puir lassie, Cathy.”

“Professor Brian Cox, he of the large brain and pop star fame, suggests that life on earth is a demonstration of the second law of thermodynamics, it explains its origins and so on. But then he’s a particle physicist and has obviously never stuck his hand in a dormouse nest box and pulled it out quickly because there was a man eating wood-mouse in there.”

Tom nearly choked on his drink and Hilary laughed and got me to explain about the fact that wood mice bite whereas dormice don’t usually—well sometimes if you’re tagging them, but that does involve sticking a microchip in them which is quite large in comparison to the dormouse.

“I’d like to see you doing that, see how it compares to doing it with pumas.”

“You microchip them?”

“We used radio collars on a few to track them and microchipped them to see if they’d been used before, only we have to dart them first because they probably would bite.”

“I suppose they would, but let’s see your scars,” I said pointing out two small ones on my index finger from encounters with Apodemus sylvaticus.

“Okay,” she rolled up her trouser leg and had a large scar on her calf. No wonder she was on about my legs. “Courtesy of a baboon.”

“Where was that?”

“Manchester Zoo, I was doing a summer holiday job and thought I knew my animals. I got too close and one grabbed my leg and sunk his teeth into it.”

“I don’t recall Gerald Durrell mentioning that in his books.”

“It was partly my own fault and they did pay me some damages—out of court of course—but I can’t go without something on my legs—like you do in the summer.”

“Can’t they do any plastic surgery to reduce the scar?”

“That is after plastic surgery.”

I felt quite sorry for her.

“Still, compared to that woman who had her face bitten off by a chimpanzee, I suppose I shouldn’t complain.”

“I think I can pretty well assure you that won’t happen with dormice,” I offered.

“Aye, but keep awa’frae Spike, she’ll only let Cathy handle her.”

“She bit Neal, the chap you’re replacing, he tried to weigh her babies and she objected.”

“Spike?”

“The one in the photo.”

“Oh the bank poster, that’s Spike, is it?”

“Aye, thae furry ain, th’ ain in thae suit is Cathy.”