Easy As Falling Off a Bike pt 3208

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The Daily Dormouse.
(aka Bike, est. 2007)
Part 3208
by Angharad

Copyright© 2017 Angharad

  
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“Wossamatta, Mummy?” asked the voice that accompanied the hand around my waist. “You’s cwyin’.”

I dabbed at my eyes and blew my runny nose.

“Daddy and I had a disagreement, well a misunderstanding.”

“Shaww I get Twish, she’ww expwain it to you if you didn’t undastand.”

“Oh Mima, come here and give me a hug.”

“Is that betta?” she asked after a minute or so of me sniffing and snorting over her head.

“Much, thank you.”

“Shaww I get Twish?”

“No, I wouldn’t bother, I feel better now.”

“Oh, okay.” She shrugged and strolled out of the kitchen. I lifted the cup to my lips but the tea was now cold. I reboiled the kettle and made a fresh cup and retired to my study as I heard David coming in to make the dinner.

I shut the door and sat myself down on the sofa looking out the window—the sky was crying too—typical British summer, two fine days and a thunderstorm. There was no fireworks, celestial or otherwise but the wet stuff was hammering down, the drops bouncing up off the ground. I watched it for several minutes, allowing my mind to freewheel as I sipped my tea and gazed at the rain. Simon was out in it—stupid idiot. All his nonsense over feeling left out of the holiday plans. I’ll bet if I invited him, he’d have declined, too busy at work stuff, preferring to complain because I didn’t give the chance to refuse me. What a plonker he is, bloody fool. The invitation is implicit—we’re a team, except he goes off and does his own thing most of the time, he’s my husband, so what is he so uptight about?

A shaft of sunlight cut through the wetness and a rainbow appeared for a few moments before the clouds closed and obscured it once again. A reflection of my life, flashes of joy wrapped up in lots of greyness.

Was that really what I thought of my life? Was it really that bad? It certainly wasn’t what I’d originally intended it to be when I was a grungy undergrad trying to avoid being seen as any sex, so if I changed over, they may not notice. Who was I trying to fool? They all knew, seeing me as either an effeminate boy or a girl who didn’t know if she was lesbian or not. The more feedback I accumulated seemed to show the latter was the prevailing view in the majority.

I rarely went to the public toilets in uni having had several unpleasant experiences in school, where I was bullied and beaten up several times. Operant conditioning tends to teach you not to repeat unpleasant things and the behavioural change it caused has stayed with me, I prefer to pee at home, though I now have the luxury of a toilet attached to the suite of offices which is now my base in work. So I suppose if they didn’t see me using the loos, it would add to their uncertainty. In some ways I hope I made them all uncomfortable—serve them right trying to make me fit one of their pigeonholes all of which were wrong, as I was just a normal female—well, nearly. No risk of being mistaken for anything else now, not with my burgeoning bum and boobs. I wonder where Simon is?

I’d finished my tea but the clouds hadn’t anywhere near finished emptying their contents upon our garden, and presumably the surrounding ground. Now what did I do? Do I call his mobile or send him a text, allow him to cool down and come home for lunch, or is he down the rugby club watching whatever is on Sky sports and getting inebriated? I hope he doesn’t try to drive while he’s over the limit? Stupid man, of course I’d love him to come with us to Menorca—unless he wants to do barbecues—in which case he can stay home and poison someone else.

The phone rang and I jumped then snatched it up, it wasn’t my lord and master it was someone called Mandy wanting to see if my broadband was up to speed and had I claimed for the accident? I told her I hadn’t nor had I for PPI but I had joined the TPS—the telephone preference service. She rang off rather abruptly. They’re not supposed to cold call you if you’re registered with TPS, not that it stops them but theoretically they can be prosecuted.

I picked up my mobile phone and sent a text to Simon’s to ask if he was coming home for lunch. I made the mistake of texting, ‘David needs to know if ur coming home for lunch.’

The reply I received tended to suggest I could have sent a better one to start with. ‘So the staff miss me more than my wife does?’ It was so tempting to send one back telling him to grow up but even I recognised that would probably elicit the exact opposite response to the desired one. I suppose I could have sent one telling him that I missed him dreadfully and wanted him home to make mad passionate love to me—but it would have been a bit of a fib and I suspect he’d have twigged.

As I don’t consider I did anything wrong, except by dint of omission, he’s the one acting like he has a prickly pear up his backside—boy can those things prick you. Talking of cactus, I discovered to my disgust that the little cactus I have on my office windowsill is a grafted one, a Gymnocalycium mihanovichii, a little red cushion thing on a triangular upright, apparently they do millions of them in places as diverse as Israel and South Korea.

So, what to do about Simon? Should I just let him get rid of his bad temper and make a fuss of him when he returns? Or do I try and pre-empt any further misunderstandings or will that just add fuel to the already fanned flames in his imagination? Part of me just wants to shake him and tell him to grow up but he wouldn’t be receptive to that, it would probably make things worse—plus, is this really the reason for his sulk, or has something happened in work he’s not revealing? If I call Henry, he’ll stamp all over Si and that’ll make things even worse than telling him to grow up, because that’s exactly what his father will tell him, and how he should count his blessings about having such a wonderful wife.

I also know if he’d learnt of the omission to Menorca thing, he’d have told him that he’d have left him out too, especially if he wanted a good holiday. No, had to keep Henry out of the loop.

The phone rang again and as I was standing beside it, it made me jump enough to drop my mobile on the desk. It was Henry—have to be discreet here.

“Hello my favourite daughter in law.”

“How did you know it was me and not Stella?”

“The sun simply shone when you answered, had the rain continued, I’d have know it was my whingeing daughter, why?”

“Henry, you are so full of bull...”

“Yes, but you enjoy it really, don’t you?”

“I’m treating that with the contempt it deserves, now what can I do for you, father in law?”

“Dump the dummy and elope with me.” He does persist with his chat up lines even though he knows what the reply will be.”

“I can’t, if I divorce him I only get half his estate, if I outlive him, I get it all.”

“I like your reasoning, Cathy, pity your husband isn’t so astute.”

“You still haven’t told me why you rang.”

“Just to listen to your dulcet tones, Cathy—oh and to speak to the lumpkin you married.”

“He’s out, can I ask him to call you back?”

“Where’s he gone?”

“Not sure, I was busy in the study—he probably told the girls where he was going, he may have gone to the shop or something.”

“Okay, I’ll try his mobile. You’re far too good for him, you know—what upset him this time?”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t tell me he stormed off in a huff because he spotted the poison on his cornflakes?”

“No of course not, I don’t know where he went but he’ll be back for lunch I expect, his tummy usually brings him home.”

“In his case his gut gets there long before the rest of him.”

“Henry, this is the man I love you’re demeaning, I’ll ask him to call you when he gets home.”

“Your loyalty does you credit, my girl; I’ll try his mobile.” I put the phone down blushing—loyalty—ah yes, remember now, but at least I didn’t drop him in it with his dad, not that he’ll believe me. Bloody men.

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