(aka Bike, est. 2007)
Copyright© 2014 Angharad
All Rights Reserved.
“Excuse me, Dr Watts, but there’s something wrong with this slide.” I walked over to the young man who’d raised his arm.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s different to the one I did yesterday.”
“Different part of the brain perhaps?”
“Dunno, but some of it looks the same, but this bit is different, stains different too.”
“Yeah, mine is,” said a girl on a bench to his right.
Before long we had half of them saying that they’d found differences between the slides they made yesterday and today. I got them to draw what they saw and then to photograph it using the adapter and the laptop. Then we printed off a colour picture for them. Glad I don’t pay for the toner for the printer.
“Okay, in what way are they different?” I asked and then asked what they thought was happening and eventually, the girl on the front bench who was the only one wearing a skirt suggested the animal might have been sick—before it died. It was, it had a brain parasite.
Admittedly, we weren’t educating veterinary surgeons so what we were doing in revealing a diseased dogfish brain was just making them aware that any specimen they might see or draw could be abnormal. So they should always check them against the library of slides we had, most accessible by computer. Dan, before he left, had transferred most of the glass slides to digitised versions and they had been so useful over the years. The downside was that before they broke slides—students are clumsy—now they break or damage computers: but the data base is protected.
I have a whole load of memory sticks at home with photos of slides on them, mostly of bits of dormouse anatomy and one or two mammals’ bits. I also have loads of camera photos of dormice and other furry things, some like the red squirrel with half its face eaten off by squirrel pox—and grey squirrels, which carry the virus, are cute? Right.
It was a long morning but Hilary had worked well with me and I helped her clear up while we chatted. When we finally finished and had a coffee, I reached into my bag and handed her a small tub of cream—mainly Vitamin E, but one or two other bits as well.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s supposed to be good for reducing scar tissue.”
“Oh—I’ve tried all sorts of things—none of them do much.”
“I’m told this one is special.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I suppose they do, but I’m informed it is good. One of my daughters used it on a gash they had and it has healed it very well, hardly shows at all now.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a go but I’m not holding my breath.”
“Try it for a month, if it isn’t any easier—I’ll treat you to lunch.”
“You don’t have to,” she said looking more at the tub of cream than me.
“Yes I do, somewhere nice.”
“And if it does work—what do I have to do?”
“Wear a skirt out to lunch.”
“Don’t prejudge the issue.”
Vitamin E does help to reduce scarring, but so does my blue stuff and I sent some to her while she was thinking about her leg and thus open to my devious plans. Her leg will get somewhat better anyway, but I need the cream to cover my little scheme. Also the healing will be gradual as her body heals the injured tissue not the miracle stuff that usually happens. Hopefully she won’t realise what has happened and think it was the cream. Okay, I’m getting sneakier by the day—‘It’s me feminine wiles, doctor, they’s growing.’
Tom just happened to see us talking and invited us to lunch. I know, tuna jacket and cranberry juice—well you’d be wrong. I had a tuna and cheese melt. It was tuna with cheese melted over the top in a baguette. It was okay, but I won’t be having it again.
For a change Tom had rice with curried chicken and pint of Guinness, Hilary had a chicken curry as well with her half of Liffey water. Ugh, how can they drink that stuff? Mind you the look on Daddy’s face when the waiter brought my tuna melt was probably similar to mine when he took a gulp of his Guinness. My reference to Liffey water, it’s the name of the river upon which Dublin was founded—by the Vikings. That’s why there are so many red headed Irishmen, they’re descended from Scandinavian settlers, the Q-Celts were actually Iberian in origins and had dark hair.
You get red heads all along the west coast of Britain and parts of Ireland where the Vikings settled, including Dumfries, which is where I was born and my parents were from originally. My hair is more mousey than red but I do have plenty of freckles and my skin is creamy like red heads. When I went auburn for the Scottish play, the hair colour looked quite natural.
I listened to the news on the radio on the way home. The missing airliner was still missing and nobody has a clue where it is or why? Lots of theories, no facts. Nothing new there then. I’m just waiting for some idiot to suggest Princess Di or Elvis were seen boarding it.
Is World War three imminent as Russia reverts to its imperialist past and effectively annexes Crimea. Last time there was war down there, we had the charge of the light brigade—I hope such futility doesn’t happen again.
At home, I answered a few emails and then went to collect the girls. There was a large brown envelope addressed to Miss Danielle Cameron on the hall table, which could be the contract she mentioned yesterday. I might ask Jason to cast a legal eye over it so we have no surprises later. Were her original sex to become known, it could cause problems, so before we sign anything, we’ll get some advice. After all, we pay him enough as a retainer.
Lizzie now had a teething cold, least I hoped that’s all it was as the puir wee mite struggled to breathe through her blocked up nose. At least Jacquie seemed easier dealing with her today, so hopefully she’s learned something about herself as well.
With Putin busy with Ukraine, at least we shouldn’t be as bothered by cyber attacks, as much of those come from Russia, a country controlled by bandits. Some wag suggested that Putin’s first name was Ras. Well I thought it was funny.
China might be busy looking for the missing Malaysian air liner but it seemed they were back on the offensive again as a text from Simon said they were back under fire and receiving ‘incoming.’ A term I believe they use to describe fire being targeted at them, in the army. He added that they might not be home tonight. At least Sammi now had some spare clothing up in her office so she could change for the morning if necessary.
It’s astonishing how men could wear the same thing every day for weeks and no one would bat an eyelid if it was clean and didn’t smell. If a woman wore the same thing, there’d be all sorts of snide comments unless she had to wear a uniform. I’m never sure if that’s a perk or a hazard to being female. I do know however, that having transitioned, I have been known to spend an hour thinking about what I was going to wear before getting out of bed. That didn’t happen before I transitioned—instead I used to know exactly what I wanted to wear but couldn’t and used to lie in bed fuming about it. So I fought hard to have the right to wear skirts and then end up in trousers almost as often as I did before. Ironic innit? Or would be if it was just about the clothes, which of course it isn’t.
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