Easy As Falling Off A Bike pt 485

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Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) 485.
by Angharad

“Yahoo, let’s kick ass,” yelled Stella as she came out of the study.

“Stella have you been watching Clint Eastwood again?”

“Nah, that would be: Make my day, punk–this here’s a forty four magnum, the world’s most powerful ice cream…”

I began to worry about Stella at times. However, I tried to ignore her wilder verbalisations in the hope someone else would too. Why do these things never quite work so well in theory?

I’d been ruminating on the letter and became aware that Mima was transfixed by something. I glanced down, she was staring at my nipple; although my nightie was drying, it was cold and my nipple was standing on tip toes and projecting through the material.

I just watched as she walked forward and poked me in the nipple, with a sharp little finger. “Ouch, you little bugger, that hurt.”

She laughed and parroted, “Wittle bugger,” dancing round the kitchen while I caressed the offended organ in my hand, it was still smarting.

“You hurt me then, please do not do that again,” I said quite firmly but she was carried away by her cleverness. “MIMA,” I spoke loudly and sharply, she stopped and burst into tears. I couldn’t win with this kid, no wonder her mother had given her away. I suppose there always was ebay, wonder if we’d get a better price for two–have to speak to Stella.

She ran crying out of the kitchen and slap bang into, ‘kick-ass’ Cameron. I suspect that if Newton’s law of whatever, were applied, the equal and opposite reaction was what happened. The smaller object was repelled by the larger force and came flying back into the kitchen, or should I say, backwards into the kitchen. All I could think was, she’s not wearing her helmet–bugger–and I almost dived across the room to catch her before she hit the ground. I did, but she hit me across both boobs and the pain was, shall we say, it was and leave it at that.

I was lying on the floor gasping as Stella walked in, “You alright, Cathy?”

“No, I’m bloody not.” The shock had stopped Mima crying, and Stella picked her up from on top of me. “I tried to catch her before she hit her head–ouch–and I did catch her.” I sat up and cradled my breasts with my hands.

“Ouch,” said Stella. She paused for a minute and said, “I’ll take Mima up and wash and dress her and you take your time, go and have a bath or something to ease them off, yeah cold water, stop the bruises.”

I stood up and they were still hurting, burning inside. Occasionally bending down I’d hit a corner of a desk or handlebar of the bike and it takes your breath away for a minute. This was lasting more than that.

I went up to the shower and stood under the cool water for a few minutes, what a torture that was, talk about adding insult to injury. I showered quickly with more a humane water temperature and dried quickly, plastering the affected areas with arnica cream.

They were still very tender, but almost bearably so. I dressed with great care, especially in my choice of bra, a nicely padded one, finally slipping a polo-necked pullover on with my jeans. I would have to stop Mima bouncing onto my lap for a few days, although it wasn’t her fault, she is only a child and I don’t actually have to kill her today.

I met Stella and Mima at the top of the stairs. “You look very smart, Missy,” I said to her.

She giggled her response and put her hands over her mouth. Stella, winked and pointed at my chest. I groaned and she nodded.

“Where is your helmet?” I asked.

Mima stopped giggling and her bottom lip twitched. I hoped she wasn’t going to start crying again, or I might have to raise her up my execution list. Didn’t you know my alter ego is a hit man for MI6, you know, the name’s Bond, Premium Bond.

“Come on, let’s go and find it,” I took her hand and we went downstairs. At least it wasn’t in the dogs basket this time. I found it under the stairs in her den–made up of a bath towel airing on a clothes horse.

As I tried to put it on, she resisted, “Mima, no wike helmet,” she pouted and kept knocking it off.

“Just a moment little girl. I am going to say this just once, so you listen carefully. A little while ago you had a bad injury to your head. Your head is very fragile, that means it can easily be hurt again. You nearly hurt it again when you fell in the kitchen, only you landed on me. I got hurt instead.”

“Sow-wee Mummy,” she said sniffing.

“Please listen, I haven’t finished yet. Now, if you hurt your head again while I’m looking after you, they won’t let you stay with me.” She immediately squealed and jumped up clasping her arms around my neck and crushing her chest into mine. A minor nuclear blast occurred somewhere in the middle of my chest and I couldn’t breath.

I fell back against the chair and Stella, who had followed us must have seen what happened, because she pulled the kicking and squealing tot off me. “Cathy, are you all right? Mima, just hold mummy’s leg.”

A moment later a felt a cold wet cloth on my face and I gasped, “Geez-zuz, that hurt.”

“Come on, get your coat.”

“Why?”

“I’m taking you down to A&E.”

“I’ll be okay, it’s just bruising.”

“Yeah sure, get your coat. I’ll have to drive your car, it’s the only one with the child seat.”

The thought of Stella driving me to the hospital was actually more frightening than the consideration of what damage Mima had wrought, especially in that big car.

No matter how much I protested, she insisted and Mima was wrapped up, with helmet and plonked in the back, in her kiddi-seat. I was eased into the front where I had to hold the seat belt off my chest the whole journey.

We waited for two hours, the joys of the NHS, but after a good examination–the reason for the delay was waiting for the doctor from the breast clinic to come over to A&E. She knew what she was doing and ten minutes later and a letter for my GP, plus a prescription for two lots of pills, I was discharged. I also clutched a certificate to denote that I needn’t wear a seat belt for a couple of weeks. I was thinking about driving to and fro past the police station for a few hours if I got bored.

Stella had gone over to the urology clinic to see if Mr O’Rourke was about, taking the human cannon ball with her. I slowly walked towards the clinic when I saw them emerge, she called goodbye to someone and walked smiling towards me. Mima was eating what looked like a doughnut. My heart sank, if she ate that, she wouldn’t touch any lunch. It seemed that Stella had even less idea about kids than I did, and I was next to useless.

We called at the pharmacy and got my pain killers and anti-inflammatory pills. As we struggled back to the car, I almost winced at the prospect of wondering which of my two companions would succeed in killing me first? Stella–with her driving, or Jemima–by continuous assault and battery?

I got into the car and prayed to that God I don’t believe in for safe passage.

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Comments

Source of inspiration

You must have been channeling your mamogram when you wrote this. ;-)

KJT

"Being a girl is wonderful and to torture someone into that would be like the exact opposite of what it's like. I don’t know how anyone could act that way." College Girl - poetheather


"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
George Carlin

Not quite

Angharad's picture

I was recalling being bulldozed by my son, when a toddler, who hit me mid chest - it hurt!

I rarely plan anything of the plot line, although obviously themes have to be explored once started, relying on inspiration more than anything. If my recent experience at the breast screening clinic was part of that inspiration, it was unconscious.

Angharad

Angharad

How do you tone down the energy

without turning off the enthusiasm for life. Big problem for Cathy. Mima is a child with a child's curiosity, enthusiasm, and lack of judgement and restraint. You want to increase judgement and restraint without destroying the enthusiasm. Good luck Cathy! I suspect little Jemima will just have to get a bit older. Hope she and you survive.

Old joke

I've always been in favor of the Bunghole Theory of child-raising. Pop the kid in a barrel and feed them through the bunghole. When they turn 18, drive in the bung. ;-)

KJT

"Being a girl is wonderful and to torture someone into that would be like the exact opposite of what it's like. I don’t know how anyone could act that way." College Girl - poetheather


"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
George Carlin

I believe

Robert Heinlein came up with that theory in "Time Enough for Love". He was joking, maybe.

Ouch, ouch

I say again OUCH.... Mima REALLY needs to learn... *sighs* Not likely any time soon.

Stella, was actually helpful again. :-) You know, simon's absense may have nothing to do with the economy right now... The mild voice Mima may have driven him away.

Thanks,
Annette

Me, I Am Glad That Cathy

Is only a bit bruised. It could have been worse. Maybe Cathy needs to invest in several kids cartoons and programs for the telly and have Mima watch them.
May Your Light Forever Shine

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

Supervisor

I knew a supervisor that got into really hot water. It appears an older overweight and amply endowed lady manage to slam a door on one of her outstanding members. This yahoo came said something pithy like "Why are you crying? It's only fat."

HR called him in next day.