(aka Bike, est. 2007)
Copyright© 2017 Angharad
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.
What’s gone wrong? We’re heading towards a weekend and it might stay fine and be warmer—oh and the clocks go forward. Great, I lose an hour in bed. Just what I need.
Saturday morning loomed and I rose from bed needing a wee. It was six o’clock and nearly light, tomorrow this will be seven o’clock. I yawned and went to the loo. I slipped back into bed but worrying about losing sleep tomorrow meant I lost sleep today as well. How come it never rains but it pours?
At seven I gave up the struggle with insomnia and got up. Tom was feeding Kiki and Bramble, who decided she couldn’t wait for Trish to wake up. I made myself some tea and sat with Daddy while he poured his coffee and drank it. He’s twice my age but seems to have far more energy than I do.
“Why can’t ye sleep?”
“I dunno, got my knickers twisted about losing an hour tomorrow and lost another one just now.”
“Weel gang tae bed earlier.”
“It never works out like that does it?”
“That’s up tae ye.”
“Don’t rub it in, I feel stressed enough already.”
“I’ve booked Stanebury for a holiday over Easter.”
“Aye, weel there’ll be nae midges then.”
“No I’m having some specially imported so we feel at home.”
He looked at me for a moment before the corners of his mouth went up and he chuckled, “Ye’re mad.”
“I know, I was sane until I came to live here.”
“Aye weel, sae wis I, till ye cam here.”
“Oh thanks, Daddy, stick the boot in, why don’t you?”
He chuckled and the cat came along to see what was going on, settling down on my lap after looking me in the eye and sneezing in my face. That made him laugh even more. It reminded me that marine iguanas sneeze salt. If ever I go to the Galapagos Islands I’ll bring one back for our local chip shop, they’ll only have to buy vinegar then.
He eventually went off to walk the dog and I sat still while a little baggage on my lap kept me warm and purred, at least she wasn’t puddling this time, where they stick their claws in you as they pummel you to death—it does take quite a few years to die, so I believe and old age is likely to get your first, well second, it gets the cat first.
My tummy rumbled and I decided to make some breakfast before the rest of them notice I’m missing. I dropped the cat off my lap and she immediately jumped back up. The same happened three more times before she decided it was too tiring trying to keep me seated and sat on the empty chair watching me as I made more tea and then toast to which I added some mashed banana. One of these days I’ll have scrambled egg or something, but not today.
It was nearly an hour later that the first descendents descended, so to speak, accompanied by their other parent and his sister. I’d checked my emails and was busy replying to about the fourth enquiry regarding the mammal survey. Officially it was over but I still regularly got enquiries or records. Another possible sighting of a pine marten in the New Forest—at least this one gave a map reference. Might get one of our post grad students to check it out and possibly put up some trail cams.
Apparently, they’re doing this in Queensland because they keep getting reports of thylacenes, this is the so-called Tasmanian tiger, so the local university is setting out dozens of trail cams to see if they can record one. They’ve also been using them to look for snow leopards and that apparently has been quite successful.
(image courtesy of wikipedia)
“Oh there you are?” declared my husband.
“Yes, I never was very good at hide and seek.”
“It was a joke.”
“Not a very good one.”
“You should know.”
“I said looks like snow.”
“Shall I get you a hearing aid for your birthday?”
“Nothing wrong with my ears,” he asserted leaving himself open to...
“No, just the bit between them.”
“Glad you thought so, would you make me another cuppa while you supervise the chimps breakfast party, I’ve another email to do.”
“It’s Saturday for god’s sake...”
“I know, which is why you’re doing their breakfast instead of me.” I smiled sweetly and he went off muttering. Mind you with Trump doing away with half of Obama’s environmental controls, I’m not sure anyone had much to smile about and Theresa May is triggering Brexit next week—life is such fun isn’t it. Just watch the EU out manoeuvre her and her team of zombies, if we’re not careful they’ll get Gibralta back or something equally stupid. As you can see I have little or no confidence in the governments of the US or UK. How long the latter will apply to us as the orange pixie, aka Nicola Sturgeon—she’s no relation to Trump is she?—is determined to break up the United Kingdom, even though they have a fifty billion pound budget deficit and rely on the rest of the UK to bail them out.
She’ll be cock-a-hoop that they’ve discovered some more oil off the Shetlands, so she’ll be able to increase her borrowing even more. I’d laugh my socks off if the Shetlands declared independence from Sturgeon—serve the one track pixie right.
I don’t know how I’d feel if Scotland did go for independence. Years ago, it wouldn’t have worried me, I lived in England, but since having visited there and knowing I come from there, has made a difference, especially as I’m a supposed Scottish noblewoman these days and I take that fairly seriously, trying to behave myself and comport myself as I should—while anyone is watching.
Wonder how we’d get on with Stanebury? Would they put a tax on absentee landlords? If it weren’t for a few things, I might even consider living there, such as the weather—it rains even more than here; it’s colder; the afore mentioned midges; no dormice and it’s run by the orange pixie, Nicola, Queen of Scots.
A horrible thought assailed me—Trump is bright orange, nutty Nicola is bright orange—both have presumably Scottish ancestry, as have I. I quickly checked in my compact mirror—phew, I wisnae gang orange.
“What are you doing?” asked husband mine as he caught me checking myself in the mirror. I looked at him carefully, he wasn’t going orange either—maybe it’s just a symptom of political lunacy—nah, can’t be that, or Mrs May would also be so as would dear Jeremy—the leader of her Majesty’s opposition, though I’m not sure if he realises this, which might explain his ineptitude and the worries that we could be stuck with a Tory government until the next millennium.
“Look at this,” I said calling up the picture of the two women politicians, May and Sturgeon sitting together.
“What am I looking for?”
“Does one of them resemble President Trump?”
“No, theoretically they’re professional politicians.”
“I meant in terms of appearance.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen him in a skirt.”
“I was referring to skin colour.”
“Ah, I see what you mean, the orange pixie.”
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