Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 714 by Angharad

The girls rediscovered the makeup sets I’d bought them, so they spent much of the day practicing, painting and removing said paint. I did offer to get them a blow lamp, which once I’d explained what it was, they ran off screaming and giggling.

Eventually after they’d been upstairs for some time, they all trooped down wearing my shoes and one of my dresses, wrapped in beads and bracelets and scarves and painted more than the Forth Bridge.

Simon and I were watching the TdF on Eurosport – the struggles up Ventoux – and when he saw the sight for sore eyes which presented itself, he snorted so much he had to wipe his nose. I glanced across at what had made him laugh, and nearly wet myself – we had been invaded by three minor hookers.

Let me describe the scene: Trish was wearing a red dress of mine, which she’d belted around the waist hitching up much of the skirts into a bundle around her middle. It was a sleeveless affair under which she wore a red bra, and red shoes. She had on red lipstick – mine, I suspected – red painted nails and red high heeled shoes. Around her neck were red beads.

Livvie was wearing a blue two piece, the skirt presumably wound up under her arms, the top reaching down to her knees. She was wearing enough makeup to make a tart blush, and some of my black high heeled shoes. In her hair she had a floral hair decoration.

Meems, was almost hidden in one of my tops, a long thing which came down to her ankles. She had some beads to match the grey top. The shoes were my navy ones, the lipstick red and garish, and her nails matched. Around her waist was one of my scarves, and she had blue eye-shadow smeared over much of her upper face.

Simon dashed off to get his camera, and we took portraits of each of them and then a collective one. They could be used later on to blackmail them in front of boyfriends.

After showing Tom and Stella, we emailed some of the photos to Henry and Monica. Then it was time to clean them up. That took me an hour, and the easiest thing was to dump them all in the bath and after using a cleanser, let them wash that off with their flannels. All the clothes were chucked in the washing machine, along with their play clothes, and I finished off washing their hair.

Dried and dressed, we spent ages getting the nail varnish off. I promised to buy them each some in a pink colour – real stuff, not the kiddie play variety, but to earn it they would have to behave tomorrow. I wanted to see if Cav could win in Paris.

The rest of the day was unworthy of mention, except Livvie had some sort of bad dream and woke us up. It wasn’t about her parents, something about a giant black dog chasing her. I calmed her down, but she ended up in bed with us. We were only sleeping, so it was no big deal.

The next day, the other two invaded the bed and we had wriggles and giggles before they forced us to get up. Then it was breakfast and wash and dress and quickly into town. We chose their nail varnishes, a pale pink pearlised type, each one slightly different to the other two. I told them I would show them how to do it properly, if they behaved themselves and that included leaving my wardrobe alone.

The return journey included a visit to the supermarket and we stocked up for the weekend. For a change I bought a turkey and decided we’d probably get four or five meals from it. A pile of assorted vegetables, all fresh, they seemed to have forgotten about emerald green mushy peas, especially when I bought some proper peas in pods, as well as some mange tout.

Then after paying a king’s ransom for the trolley load of shopping, we filled up the tank and drove home. Fuel prices seemed to be yo-yoing up and down, this week they were down, last week they were up. Crazy, but the price war some of the supermarkets were fighting was a great help.

After lunch, I showed the girls how to paint their nails – they did each others, then they did Stella and me. Not satisfied with that, Simon and Tom had to have theirs done as well. I would tease them later, saying we had no remover.

Finally, Simon and I were able to sit and watch the end of the Tour, with Cavendish taking a sixth sprint finish, way out ahead of the others. Columbia seemed to have it off to a fine art, and no one else really had a chance, especially when Garmin screwed up and blocked the other teams.

Contador won as expected, Armstrong did well to get third after Schleck, and Wiggo was fourth. Seeing as no one gave him a chance of finishing in the top twenty, he did really well. Despite his six stage wins Cavendish was about a hundred and thirty fifth. That’s ten stages in two years. The man is a phenomenon, a rocket propelled one.

I yearned to get out on my remaining bike, but when we looked out it was starting to rain. Tomorrow is another day, maybe then. Simon had forgotten about the insurance claim for my bike, he’d submitted it, and would pester them on Monday, or his secretary would on his behalf. I wasn’t sure if they’d manage to get me a new Scott, or if I might settle for another make, possibly a Felt.

The turkey had been in the oven for about four hours when we finally ate a roast turkey dinner. Assured we wouldn’t have to sing carols, Simon came to the table bringing a bottle of wine, while Tom carved the bird and Kiki stood around whimpering and waiting for charitable donations– all of which would be gratefully received.

After the clean up, we played some board games with the girls, each of them partnering an adult and playing as teams. I got Meems as my partner and we lost. Simon and Trish won, and their prize – first pick of the ice cream. Then it was bed and a quick story -- some more of Maddy Bell’s Gaby stories.

In bed, Simon said, “You were getting twitchy watching the Tour, weren’t you?”

“Twitchy? What do you mean, twitchy?”

“You wanted to get out on your bike, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, sort of, except it rained anyway and I have other responsibilities which tend to come first.”

“Tomorrow, when I get home, why don’t you go then or if it’s raining get your turbo out in the garage?”

“It’s not the same.”

“It keeps you fit for when you do get out on a real bike.”

“I suppose it helps, it’s just so bloody boring, staring at the garage door while pedalling myself to a standstill. At least out on the road, you get to play with the traffic.”

“After all your experiences with traffic in one form or another, how can you want to interact with it on a blessed bicycle?”

“Because I’m a cyclist, it’s part of being me.”

“As much as being a woman is?”

“What an odd question? If I say, I’m a woman cyclist, does that answer it.”

“I suppose so. If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”

“Gee whiz, Simon, you are so corny.”

“Is that your answer?”

I rubbed my body against his and felt movement in his pyjama trousers. “Are you carrying a banana in your trousers or are you pleased to see me?” I accepted his kiss as a reasonable answer.