Easy As Falling Off a Bike pt 3139

Printer-friendly version
The Daily Dormouse.
(aka Bike, est. 2007)
Part 3139
by Angharad

Copyright© 2017 Angharad

  
007b_0_0.jpg

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.
*****

I wasn’t sure what I felt about Tom retiring. He’d indicated that he wasn’t yet ready for it and I was quite happy for him to continue in his job despite its demands upon him as an older man. But he was aware of all of those and it was after all his decision.

The troubling bit was, did I want to jack it all in? Part of me was quite certain I did. I thought about how I’d lapsed into becoming first a reader, then a temporary professor and now a super professor or dean of the faculty of science. It wasn’t a career choice, nor one I’d anticipated. It was rather an opportunity that had occurred and I’d been sort of pushed into it or grabbed it because it was necessary at the time, not because I was thinking long term.

The problem was, beyond being a mum and a wife and perhaps a dutiful daughter as well, I hadn’t really considered my career beyond watching dormice and being paid for doing so, if possible. But then all the things I could have wished for doesn’t mean I expected them. The idea that I could be a mother is preposterous, but it happened, if not biologically, then otherwise. That I should marry a millionaire banker would seem equally absurd considering my origins. What sort of odds would there have been against me becoming a titled woman, albeit courtesy of my husband. It’s not just bizarre, it’s completely bonkers and part of me expects to come to either in a hedge with a cussing Stella looking down at my broken body still clad in cycling kit, or in an intensive care unit where they tell me I’ve been unconscious for weeks. In some ways it’s too much to believe in one hit but it seems to be what has happened.

I realise that I’m such a lucky bunny, that I seem to have been in the right place at the right time too often to feel it’s just randomised good luck and that it appears to have a pattern of sorts. What else could it be? It makes no sense and stories of gods and goddesses are just primitive peoples’ ways of explaining phenomena they couldn’t understand—aren’t they? Before science happened and showed what really happened. The problem is that I’m a scientist as well as a mother and so forth, and will probably be so as long as I live. It isn’t just a career, it’s a way of being—accept nothing at face value and question everything. If it makes sense, you probably missed something.

There again, motherhood isn’t just for as long as the apple pie lasts, it tends to be a lifetime commitment. Even when the children you have aren’t your own biological brood, once they become yours, unless they choose to leave your life, you care about them as long as you have a breath in your body—or at least I will. I made a commitment to them for as long as I live. In return I can expect nothing but their trust and love—and dirty washing.

I went to collect the girls and we went home. I’d managed to avoid Sister Maria but she’d outflanked me again and sent a note via Danielle. “Oh can I play for the school on Saturday?” She asked handing me the note.

“You know better than I do,” I replied shoving the envelope on top of my bag.

“It’s more fun than just training—we don’t have a match this week.”

“What if you got yourself injured?”

“Can happen in training.”

“Is this fair on the other teams?”

“Yeah, we’re all the same age.”

“Except your team has Wonderwoman playing for them.”

“Nah, she’s my mum, I’m only Supergirl.” The laughter from the back seat tended to suggest they’d enjoyed it. I see Readers Digest has caught up with the laughing at dark jokes indicates higher intelligence and apparently less aggression than people who find them offensive. Mind you, I suppose we all have certain subjects that could offend us.

I read several in the article and laughed at them all—but I’m a professor, so I’m allowed to—only one stuck in my mind. A nurse leading some people past a technician poking about a dead body is heard to say, “Oh the post mortem is over, he’s just looking for his wrist watch.”’ At least I thought it was better than, ‘Why don’t cannibals eat clowns? They taste funny.’

Even that caused a snigger, possibly because I don’t like clowns. I decided to share that one with my captive audience. Danni chuckled immediately, the others gave a half second pause before laughing uproariously, which was far more than the joke deserved—but hey, it’s better than them all crying or complaining at it.

We arrived at home only to hear that David had gone home feeling unwell—something he ate, perhaps? So guess who had to do the dinner? Goodness, you must be psychic—yeah, it was yours truly.

I went and changed while Danni made me a cuppa and after drinking it, decided to have a quick squint in the fridge. Two pounds of lean minced beef transformed itself into a large bowl of bolognaise sauce in my mind or even cottage pie. I decided to be democratic about it. “Who wants spaghetti bolognaise and who wants cottage pie?”

“Can we have ice cream?” came back the reply—no wonder Brexit won, democracy is a myth and only works while the people in real power allow it.

“Afterwards, now what are we having for dinner?”

“Can’t we have mince and tatties?” asked Trish, who’s about as Scots as Yorkshire pud.

“We could, anyone else fancy that?” It was unanimous—like I said, no wonder Brexit won.

So I spent the next hour or so washing spuds and setting them to boil and then boiled up an equally large pan of mince, onions and carrots with garlic, in gravy and a smaller pan of garden peas. I don’t bother measuring amounts of them, just slice open the packet of frozen peas and drop them all in.

Tom was delighted with Trish’s menu choice. I sent one of the girls over to see if David wanted some dinner and he had a plateful as well. Simon said it reminded him of holidays up in Stanebury as well as the odd meal in school. Stella looked disdainfully at it then tucked in and cleared her plate in minutes, even the little ones wolfed it down. I hadn’t made it for ages, probably because I don’t cook that often these days.

David brought his empty plate back over—he’d washed it—and said he’d enjoyed it, declaring that sometimes simple meals are the nicest ones. I took it as a compliment rather than a criticism. I leave him to do the difficult stuff, I do the easy variety and so far haven’t poisoned anyone yet—at times it’s tempting.

05Dolce_Red_l_0.jpg

Please make a donation to the site if you can - it's too important to contemplate losing.

up
239 users have voted.
If you liked this post, you can leave a comment and/or a kudos! Click the "Thumbs Up!" button above to leave a Kudos

Comments

Mince as the

basis of a meal is so versatile, I know in our family we have it as main meal at least once a week , Cathy might be married to a millionaire and not short of a bob or two, But it seems years as a poor student have left their mark on her and she knows the flexibility offered by this unassuming relatively cheap meat are something she can always put to good use .... Mince and Tatties not only sounds nice its also nicely filling ....

Kirri

Australia

When I cycled a big chunk of Australia, I came across an unexpected breakfast item: mince.

Mince and tatties.

Yep, we used to get that once a week in Borstal, always on a Wednesday and it was a useful reminder of what day it was. That and Sunday when we had church parade.

Still lovin' it Ang.

bev_1.jpg

Life plans and other illusions

Rhona McCloud's picture

I find it hard to plan a meal often changing direction mid-preparation and cooking is predictable compared to the rest of life with births, deaths, love and moments of terror creating chaos. The greatest creative act that humanity has ever come up with is 'the story' that makes a kind of sense of life when looked at in retrospect. Thank you Angharad for enriching our spring of storylines which we can take out and apply to the real world.

Rhona McCloud

Somehow, I scanned past this

Somehow, I scanned past this on Friday.Honest, no Green beer to blame.
Everyone but me knows what minced beef is. We don't have that in 'New' England, only in old England.
You reach a point were you say "I'm tired, I'm retiring" I know I did.

Karen

It's just ground beef

Julia Miller's picture

In North America, we use it to make beef patties, spaghetti bolognese sauce, shepherd's pie, meatloaf, mince pie, etc