The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2772 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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231 doz for our dodecaphiles.

I spoke with the doctor who’d examined her and he was astonished that she didn’t have more head injuries. I wasn’t going to tell him why so I just shrugged my shoulders telling him wrapping it in vinegar and brown paper should sort it. He looked very strangely at me—I have this effect upon some people—“Jack and Jill,” I said and he looked blank then smiled.

“It’s all about sex, apparently.”

“What Jack and Jill?” he asked his eyes wide open.

“Yes, just think about the words.”

“I am and the fact that I was reciting it with my little boy last week.”

“Well they say that sex education should be started young,” I said blithely and Simon nearly fell over.

He followed me back to my ancestral pile—okay, it’s just a four bedroom detached house compared to his damp and dreary castle, but it’s mine own and I don’t think my ancestors had to do as much cattle and sheep rustling as his did, though having grandparents from Dumfries, perhaps they did. I must go back one day and have a better look about the place; though there I’d be accused of being a Sassenach, while down here I’m occasionally accused of being a Haggis basher. As long as it’s a female whatever, I don’t care.

I quickly cleared up the mess from earlier—I’d dashed home and changed into some spare clothes I kept at the house—made up a bed and did us a cuppa while Simon went through my post, to check for any unpaid bills.

We had an unsolicited envelope from a charity with some cards, a bookmark and two cardboard coasters. I was going to chuck it into the recycling, but he stopped me pointing out the note on the back asking recipients to use it even if they didn’t send any money to them. I decided next time I saw one of their collecting tins, I stick in a couple of quid to salve my conscience. Oh, I forgot, there was a cheap ballpoint in there too.

After tea and one or two biscuits—I had one, Simon ate the rest of the packet—we adjourned to bed and chatted for a few minutes before I zonked into a dreamless sleep. I’m sure I did dream, we all do, but I had no recollection the next morning.

We had tea and a shower then drove to a cafe and had breakfast. Despite all the publicity about preserved meats and their carcinogenic potentials, Simon ordered us two full English, which meant bacon and sausage as well as eggs and mushrooms, tomatoes and toast. He had coffee and I had tea and we both had fruit juice as well, which meant a trip to the loo before we left.

I reminded him about the WHO warnings on preserved meats and he pooh-poohed it, saying that his cousin Laurence, had eaten a cooked breakfast everyday of his life. On my enquiring how he was, Simon declared that he’d died at twenty five from bowel cancer. Apparently, he also smoked like a chimney and drank quite heavily and never ate fruit or vegetables.

“According to perceived wisdom, eating certain brassicas such as broccoli and curly kale, can help to prevent bowel cancers because they contain some chemical or other which inhibits cancer cells.”

Simon pulled out his mobile phone and a moment later was reading off the entry in wiki on Kale. “Kale is very high in beta carotene, vitamin K, and vitamin C, and is rich in calcium. Kale is a source of two carotenoids (beta-carotene is also a carotenoid), lutein and zeaxanthin.[10] Kale, as with broccoli and other brassicas, contains sulforaphane (particularly when chopped or minced), a chemical with potent anti-cancer properties.[11]

Boiling decreases the level of sulforaphane; however, steaming, microwaving, or stir-frying does not result in significant loss.[12] Along with other brassica vegetables, kale is also a source of indole-3-carbinol, a chemical which boosts DNA repair in cells and appears to block the growth of cancer cells.[13][14] Kale has been found to contain a group of resins known as bile acid sequestrants, which have been shown to lower cholesterol and decrease absorption of dietary fat.[15] Steaming significantly increases these bile acid binding properties.”

“In which case I’ll ask David to steam the cabbage in future.”

“You’d have thought he’d know that anyway, being something of a food guru.”

“It doesn’t always look as appetising.”

“Scots eat loads of kale.”

“With their porridge?” I teased.

“Aye, it reduces the fat intake frae thae deep fried Mars bars.”

We both fell about laughing and I had to rush off to the loo before we went to the hospital to check up on Danielle. When she heard we’d had full breakfasts and she’d had cereal and a bread roll, she felt quite hard done by. However, Simon offered her a ride home in his F-type and her hunger seemed rapidly assuaged. Perhaps it’s really true that phallic symbols do have girl ‘pulling power’. I suspect the kale stuff is more likely to be true.

We had to wait for the consultant to come round to discharge her, which gave her a chance to shower and dress in the new stuff I’d bought her. When he did arrive, delayed because he’d looked at her scan results again, and he was astonished that she hadn’t suffered more injury from a fall of thirty or more feet into a steel bin.

I pointed out that some of the debris was softer than other bits but he still looked suspiciously at me. When he saw that even the superficial injuries were now healed he asked her if she was the same patient he’d examined yesterday?

“We heal fast in our family,” was her retort.

“Really? So if we’d had to amputate your head you’d have grown a new one by this morning, would you?”

“Nah, that would take at least two days, wouldn’t it, Mummy?” I sat silently blushing.

“I believe you hail from Portsmouth?” he addressed me.

“We live there, yes.”

“You don’t know anything about this healing angel, do you?”

“What in Portsmouth?” I asked and he nodded. “Goodness, no I don’t.”

“Only, the women either side of you appear to be recovering from catastrophic injuries, which was unexpected. In fact, I half expected them to die, such were their injuries.”

“I glad to hear they’re improving.”

“But you had nothing to do with it?”

“I didn’t even know you had patients in the other side rooms.” Was it getting hot in here or what?

“Oh well, in which case I don’t need to thank you then, do I?”

“No, I think we need to thank you, Mr Carter.” I shook his hand and he winced, putting the other hand over his abdomen.

“Are you all right?”

“Bloody hell,” he said sweating, “I thought my ulcer had popped, but it feels better now.”

I smiled and blushed.

“Thank you,” he said, “and don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Does that mean you can drink a drop of wine?” asked Si about to send him a case of the stuff.

“I don’t drink,” he responded, “despite all you hear about neurosurgeons, I prefer to stay sober, it helps to remain calm when up to your armpits in someone’s brain or spinal cord.”

“Yeuch, too much information,” squealed Danielle; just like a typical teenage girl and the surgeon and I both laughed.

“I’d like to give you something for your help,” said Simon determined to make some sort of donation.

“Drop a cheque to the children’s hospice, those kids deserve all the help they can get, especially as my meagre skills often fail.”

“I’ll do that,” said Simon, shaking his hand.

“Thanks,” said Carter and left to join his entourage who were still trying to work out what had happened as we left. We heard one of the students asking what had happened. “Some sort of miracle,” he said, “is the only explanation I can suggest.” We hurried away before anything else happened.