The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2724 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.
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The salmon was delicious, I won’t say any more except that I nearly had to fight Simon off, he wanted seconds and I wanted to use it for sandwiches tomorrow. I won only because Stella told him he was too fat already so didn’t need extra food and I told him that he could take a sandwich to work with him tomorrow. I didn’t actually say it would be a salmon one, but I thought I’d better stick to what he perceived as the agreement.

I checked, I had enough bread to make him a sandwich. I offered Sammi one as well but she declined saying she had a milkshake thingy as she was trying to lose some weight. She has a lovely figure but I didn’t bother to say anything as she had already made up her mind to diet. These size zero models and actresses make the rest of us feel uncomfortable as if we should be the same as them, yet they’re the odd ones. Real women don’t look like stick insects once they get past age fourteen. Then, who listens to me—they’d rather listen to the advertising industry and media who between them probably created the epidemic of eating disorders we see today.

After dinner, the light was fading so we didn’t have a chance to ride—it’s dangerous enough in daylight, let alone after dark. It had also been a dreary, wet day and it wasn’t until mid afternoon or later we saw some sunshine, the strong winds chasing the clouds away eventually; but not before we’d had a soaking. I hope no one got flooded out, there was that much rain.

I settled down to deal with my emails. I’d have thought the number of lunatics sending in strange sightings would have stopped before now, but apparently not. It would seem there is a pack of hyenas running loose in the fens of Cambridgeshire. Perhaps they’re eating all the wallabies, llamas and giraffes they seem to get out there. Needless to say I ditched that one. For the more useful ones I have a stock reply thanking them for helping with the survey and that their record will be passed on to the specialist team dealing with that particular mammal group. I don’t mention that it gets passed on if I decide to send it.

Oh I got one the other day complaining about the tortoises which the writer accused of damaging her garden. I tried to point out that we’re only counting mammals and that tortoises were reptiles, albeit very attractive ones. I had a snotty reply about my showing a lack of empathy for an old lady. I discovered she was forty seven. Must have been a full moon or something.

The funniest one was the supposed escaped hippo—on pure curiosity I investigated that one and found from the local police it was an escaped pig, Vietnamese pot bellied variety. I suppose if you were very short sighted you might mistake them—okay stop laughing, this time I was trying to be sympathetic—barking, completely barking.

Thankfully, some of the records I receive are actually correct or probably so. We have some very competent recorders, and some of those are the people who analyse the owl pellets. Done a bit of it myself, except I had to keep referring to books or charts of the various skeletal bits of the owl’s previous meal. For those who are wondering what I’m on about, owls swallow their dinner whole—not good table manners but effective. Then they have to get rid of the indigestible bits, which they do in the form of a pellet of fur or feathers and the bony bits. These can be dissected and the bones identified and thus records of where the pellet was found can show not only what the menu for the owl’s favourite take away is but also what little furry things were running about in that locality before the owl got peckish. Sort of kills two birds—shall I rephrase that...

Simon came and found me, knee deep in records and emails and asked me to go to bed. I suppose I could have refused but he always looks like a small boy when he’s pleading for a bit of nookie that I tend to give in, although it makes me feel like a—nah we won’t go there.

It almost goes without saying that I had to go for a little wash afterwards and did so carefully. I also decided I wouldn’t be cycling tomorrow—yeah some days he gets more carried away than others. Annoyingly, he was asleep by the time I got back to bed, snoring Rule Britannia or something very similar. I took ages to get back to sleep. Partly this was because I was trying to work out if it was cheaper to take Danielle for her football practices or to send her in a cab. I even went to the length of asking if they gave a discount with a regular, twice weekly account. The amount offered was derisory. So we still ferry her to and fro from within the family. Tom is a great help and Julie can be if she’s in a good mood or not out herself. Rarely, Sammi will take or collect her in her BMW sports, which Danni loves nearly as much as her dad’s F type. Mind you that is a beautiful car, I hate to think how much it cost but much less than John Terry—him of Chelsea FC—who recently splashed out £1.5 M for a Ferrari. I suppose it keeps a few Italians in work, but personally, I’d want a private jet for that sort of money. Perhaps he’s already got one of those. Still compared to bankers, footballers are overpaid.

The next morning arrived too quickly and although the aliens rarely invade us as regularly, it’s quite disconcerting to have four or five bouncing on your bed talking in their giggle language when you’re trying to sleep. It decidedly vexes one—well this one at any rate.

“I’m not getting up until the radio alarm comes on,” I said keeping my eyes tightly closed.

“It did, Mummy, an hour ago—you slept through it.”

The alien who sounded like Trish had made a big mistake. I never sleep through the alarm, well the radio—an hour of Radio 4’s Today programme. I said so and was told that I had. I blinked open my eyes ready to denounce the invaders as fibbers only to discover they were telling the truth. I’d slept right through it and my visitors wanted their breakfasts. It was only half past eight—HALF PAST EIGHT—bugger, they were interviewing for Delia’s successor today, I’m supposed to be there at nine for nine thirty. I suspect I showered so quickly that neither my hair nor body actually got wet, dressing took a bit longer; I fell in the wardrobe putting some tights on. The girls thought it was hilarious. I didn’t.