The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2709 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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Oh no, the football season starts again today, I realised as Jim Naughtie was saying something on the radio while I tried desperately to go back to sleep. It never works though, does it? You never do go back, you always become more awake and feel increasingly tired.

How could it be the start of the fitba season? It feels as if summer has just arrived, yet if it’s soccer, it must be August. Geez, autumn is just around the corner. As I lay there someone was explaining how it was going to be warm in the south, especially the south east. I had vague recollections that England were about to regain the Ashes—so I must have been dreaming—yeah, by an innings and so many runs according to some ex cricketer they were interviewing or had interviewed. England always lose the Ashes. I mean, they couldn’t even beat New Zealand, a country with a population of a few hundred and most of them played rugby—but what did I know?

I just wondered how much Simon would win or lose from his Aussie friend, because they would bet, despite my saying how stupid it was. Perhaps that made him do it all the more—my disapproval, that is. He could lose thousands, which is possibly a hundredth of his bonus. I sat up with a start, “It’s Saturday,” I said.

“Yeah, they said so an hour ago,” my husband was not impressed with my epiphany.

“I don’t have to get up.”

“So?”

“Would you like a cuppa?”

“What, in bed?”

“Yes.”

“You feeling alright?”

“Yes, I feel good.”

“So glad,” he yawned and turning over away from me said, “Where’s this cuppa then?”

I leapt out of bed full of the joys of summer, caught my foot in the duvet and corkscrewed down heavily onto the floor. “Si,” I said and repeated it more loudly.

“What?”

“Help.”

“Help what?”

“Help me.”

I heard him turn over, “Where are you?”

“I’m on the floor, I’ve hurt my leg.”

“Bugger,” I heard him mutter and the bed creaked as he got out and walked round to me. “Where’s it hurt?”

“My leg,” I said, tears forming in my eyes.

“This one?” he poked and I gasped. Thereafter he was more gentle when he untangled me and lifted me on to the bed. “I’ll get Stella.”

“Um, Si...”

“What?” he asked impatiently.

“I think you’d better put some pants on.”

“Oops, yeah okay.” His dangly bits were waving in the breeze and while Stella was something of an expert on such things, it isn’t done to flaunt them in front of ones sister. A minute or so later a yawning Stella entered the room and began prodding me.

“That hurt?” she asked and I shook my head. “I thought Si said you’d hurt your leg?”

“I did, the other one.”

“How long have you had two of them?” she asked and poked the second leg and I nearly jumped off the bed. “Yeah, it’s definitely that one.”

“I knew that already.”

“So what d’you call me for?”

“It was either you or ghost busters.”

“What?”

“Who ya gonna call...?”

“You are definitely over influenced by transatlantic culture.”

“That isn’t what hurt my leg.”

“What was it then? No—don’t tell me, gravity.”

“It wasn’t the fall that hurt but hitting the floor.”

“Why did you hit it? What’s it done to you, Watts?”

“Short term memory loss,” I said to Simon who stood bemused beside his sister. I made a signal with my finger to show I thought Stella was as mad as a box of frogs.

He shook his head and muttered something about tea went off to get it. “Oh that’s a good idea,” agreed Stella and went off after him. I went to get up and a sharp pain went through my hip and down my leg. I lay back down on the bed and tried to get comfortable, it wasn’t easy and each time I thought I’d achieved comfort a pain would shoot through my leg and travel down it at lightning speed and exit via my foot.

“Bugger,” I cursed my ill fortune. It seemed to me if it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have none at all. Simon re-entered the bedroom preceded by Trish.

“There she is, sort her out—here’s your tea,” he said dumping the mug on the bedside table. “I’m going to watch the cricket.”

“It’s not on for three hours,” I called after him.

“I’m going down the rugby club, there’s some rugger on, too.”

“Le Ventoux?” I called.

“No, rugby,” he returned grabbed some clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. “Haven’t you fixed it, yet?” he shouted to Trish.

“No, you haven’t paid the call out fee yet,” she shouted back and I laughed and jerked my leg.

Trish was getting better as this healing lark, so there was a chance I might survive which meant she’d have to wait a bit longer to get my red handbag, which she had coveted since she was five years old. In about twenty minutes she eased the pain grabbed my leg and yanked it and after a flash of agony which felt like she’d stabbed my hip the pain stopped altogether. “There ya go,” she said and flounced off as Simon emerged from the bathroom in shirtsleeves.

I stood half expecting my leg to give way but it didn’t, nor did it hurt. Trish was definitely better at this healing lark. I’d obviously pinched a nerve and she’d freed it, for which I was grateful. I drank my rapidly cooling tea and passed Simon as I went to shower.

I had shopping I wanted to do and because it was going to be a lovely day, I thought we could just relax in the garden after lunch. In fact we could have lunch out on the patio—that would be a novelty. After dressing I deferred breakfasts to Jacquie and disappeared before they realised I was missing. Apart from some traffic on the way to town, once I got there and parked, it was pretty quiet and I managed to dash round the shops I wanted to visit in under two hours, by which time the sun was getting hot and the streets were filling.

My final shop was M&S and there I found the object I sought as well as a bag full of food—they do the best tuna pate on the market, it’s gorgeous on toast or crumpets. Then it was a case of fighting the traffic on the way home and as I entered the driveway, it appeared England had won the Ashes by an innings and so many runs. Oh well, I expect they’ll lose them next time as it will be in Australia.

I handed out assorted presents to various daughters, mainly tights or knickers until I got to Trish. I handed her the M&S bag and her face was a picture when she opened it—she beamed in positive delight.

“Wotcha got?” asked Hannah who was pleased with her tights.

“This,” said Trish waving the red handbag, “Thank you so much, Mummy.”