Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 707 by Angharad

The next day, I was consoling myself over the fact that Brad Wiggins was in third place in the TdF, and that bloody Contador looked as if he was going to win it again. Okay, so Contador is a good cyclist, but he has all the personality of paper bag.

The girls were out playing in the drive, those bikes were certainly getting a lot of use, even Mima now had one although she was going to need stabiliser wheels for some time. Stella had fed and watered Puddin’ who was presumably sleeping; Stella told me she was going to have a soak in the bath and I was up to date on my chores, hence my investigation of the TdF placings. I sort of catch up the next day, when I can. Today was a rest day, the last one before they go for Paris.

I went back over the past few days, Cavendish had had the green jersey and let it go to Hushovd, then Cervelo had complained in one of the sprints and Cav had been disqualified and lost the points for that stage–all because the sneaky Norwegian had tried to go on the blind side. Sodding French commissaires had decided that Cav had infringed, when it was obvious to all but bloody myopic frogs that the barriers were at fault, not the blessed Cav. I hope the bugger wins the final stage now–it won’t bring back the green jersey, that Norwegian git has that now unless he crashes heavily and has to retire or fails a drug test. Despite my disgruntlement with all things Scandinavian, I wasn’t going to wish anything bad on the sneaky toad. Maybe young Cavendish will learn it’s more than just about speed and power, winning the green jersey, that is.

I was musing on what we’d have for lunch when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi, Babes,” Simon seemed in good spirits.

“I was just thinking about you, big boy,” I smarmed to him. It was a lie but he’d feel good all day for those few kind words, just like a puppy.

“Oh, that’s nice, Babes, I think about you all the time.” He lies as badly as I do, oh well, at least we’re all square in the deception stakes. “Guess what?”

“What?” that was easy enough.

“No, guess what?” he repeated.

“I just did, Simon, give me a clue, it’s not mastermind.”

“Okay, what do you get out of a fire?”

That was clear as mud, “Um, coal?”

“No, try again.”

“I don’t know, Simon, um…charcoal.”

“No, Babes, think current.”

“Current? What like an electric fire?”

“No, you dozy bimbo,” he sounded frustrated, it might have been obvious to him but not me, but he was not going to get away with calling me a dozy bimbo.

“I’m not going to play if you’re going to resort to name calling, and I resent being called dozy or bimbo.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it anyway–honest, I didn’t.”

“Well I don’t bloody well know what else you get from a fire, unless it’s ashes.”

“Bull’s eye,” he said emphatically.

“You don’t get bull’s eyes in fires, they’re on dart boards and things.”

“No, give me strength, you were on target, the answer was ashes.”

“Oh, I’m glad I managed to get my dozy bimbo brain to give you the right answer.”

“Leave it off, Babes, just get yourself and all the others tarted up for dinner tonight.”

“Hang on, what about the children, we can’t just leave them behind.”

“No, we take ‘em with us, and Stella and Tom.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“The Ashes.”

“Oh, the cricket.”

“Yep, spot on again, we won the latest match which puts us one up in the series.”

“And that’s grounds for going to dinner?” I wasn’t too convinced.

“No but taking a grand off an Aussie broker is.”

“You’ve lost me, Simon; please start at the beginning.”

“I bet this Aussie, we’d win at Lords.”

“Well, I suppose it was home advantage,” I said trying to sound as if I knew what he was talking about.

“Nah, we hadn’t won there for seventy odd years in an Ashes match.”

“So wasn’t that a risky bet, and a thousand pounds is a lot of money.”

“It wasn’t a thousand then, it started as a tenner and got bigger.”

“Like a hundredfold bigger, that was a lot of money, Simon, please don’t do it again.”

“It’s okay, Babes, I won’t give him a chance to win it back, I’ll have spent some of it on a dinner treat for everyone.”

“I don’t know, Simon, what if he wins the next one?”

“I won’t play again, it was a one off.” I knew damn well, he couldn’t walk away from it if the other chap insisted he have a chance to get his money back, next I know it’ll be, ‘double or quits and Simon will lose and have a face like a fiddle for a week.

“I think you ought to save that money just in case he wins the next round.”

“Just get yourself all beautiful for seven.”

“But seven is far too late for the kids.”

“Give ‘em a sarnie to keep ‘em going.”

“I will not, they’ll have a proper meal at tea time and I think you should consider doing this another night when we have a sitter in, or get Stella to do it for us.”

“But I want to take everyone out.”

“Well do it for lunch, then.” There was no way I was going to have three kids eating supper at nine in the evening and playing up because they were tired or full of wind.

“Aw, Babes, it’s not the same, striking while the iron is hot.”

“Sorry, that’s my best answer.” It was too short notice and ill-considered, I hoped it was implicit because I wasn’t going to explain it.

“Huh, I bet you’d go out if Mark bloody Cavendish or wossisname Wiggins won the Tour de France.”

“That’s more unlikely than England winning the Ashes. Having said that, Wiggo is in third place at the moment.”

“Is he? Well done him, what about that Armstrong bloke? How’s he doing?”

“Second to Contador.”

“Not bad for an old man, eh?”

“Very good, except the Spaniard will win it.”

“Ah, that’s why you’re crabby, ‘cos a Spaniard’s gonna win the Tour.”

“No, it’s what was expected, I just think they seem to have a high propensity for boosting red blood cells and things.”

“You don’t think he’s doping, do you?”

“I doubt it, but several of his countrymen are in trouble at the moment.”

“What, on the Tour?”

“No other races.”

“Anyway, what about this here lunch?”

“Can we can discuss it with the others later?”

“Oh, all right–see you later, then.” He rang off.

“What was that all about?” asked Stella. I explained what had transpired and she shrugged. “Simple Simon–Idiot–lunch is a much better idea, all I have to do is convince him to take us to a restaurant that does scallops.”