Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 962 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

As I ate my lunch, I realised I wouldn’t hear the rest of Maureen’s story for a while. I’d agreed to take the children cycling–I had to keep my word. We cleared up, then changed and before we left on our version of the TdF, I paid Maureen in case she was gone before we got back.

I watched in fascination as the cyclist struggled against gravity and the heat as she tried gamely to climb the monster known as Ventoux. We called to encourage her, but she finally climbed off her bike, shouted at it and sat by the side of it and burst into tears. Thus Mima learned the joys of cycling up hills. It wasn’t much of one, barely a rise, but on her little bike–she wasn’t going to use the trailer bike–she felt it was too much, so I had to go and get her.

Livvie and Trish had made it, and the boys had gone up like rockets. On my mountain bike, I didn’t even change gear, but obviously it was too much for Meems. I walked her up to where the others were waiting, and they all clapped and cheered when I pushed her to the top. She thought it was funny then–fickle creature.

We did a couple of miles and then turned back to the house. It was four o’clock when we arrived at the house and I then had to collect Julie. I didn’t bother changing from my jeans and trainers, and while Stella distributed cold drinks and a biscuit, I got in the car and went off to the salon.

It had closed and Julie was waiting on the pavement, she was huddled in the doorway against the cool breeze. “You’re late,” she snapped accusingly.

“Am I? Most shops I know work until five or six on a Friday, sometimes later.”

“We stop at four on Fridays and Saturdays,” she grumbled, and saying she was cold, she got in the car and moaned and groaned all the way home.

“How was work?” I asked trying to change the subject.

“Alright until that stupid old cow came in.”

“Old cow?” I queried.

“She was ancient, at least thirty five.”

“And?”

“She complained I had the water too hot and scalded her.”

“Was it hot?”

“Not very hot, she was just a trouble maker–she got her hair cut for half price. I reckon she was conning them.”

“She might have been,” I agreed.

“Then she got into this big four wheel drive thingie, after she boasted about her garden centre.”

“Oh,” I asked, “did you catch her name?”

“Browne-Cow or something–she has a daughter called Petunia–I mean, like how dumb can you get.

“Wasn’t Browne-Coward, was it?”

“Something like that, why do you know her?”

“If it’s the one I’m thinking of, our paths have crossed.”

“Was she a right cow?”

“I won’t disagree with the description, and her daughter was a bully–ask Trish and Livvie.”

“They know her?”

“Yes, she used to go to their school.”

“Oh wow, she used to?”

“Yes, she had a rather public row with the headmistress and was asked to remove her child. It was about bullying.”

“Small world, like, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed. Just think, if she’d known you were related to me, she’d have insisted they sack you.”

“Huh, if she comes in again, I’ll like refuse to wash her hair.”

“I’m not sure if you can, but it might be a wise course of action.”

“Snotty ol’ git,” sighed Julie and we both burst out laughing.

We walked towards the house, “Oh, has Maureen gone?” groaned Julie.

“Yes, she went before I came to get you.”

“Huh, she works less hours than I do.”

“I doubt it, Julie–and she barely stops when she’s working.”

“So do I–look, shampoo hands.” She held out her hands which were a bit pinker than usual.

“We’ll have to get you some barrier cream or rubber gloves. Did you use the hand cream?”

“Yeah, but then I have to do another shampoo and it’s all washed off again.”

“I suspect a barrier cream might do the same. Looks like rubber gloves or a plastic equivalent.”

“I can’t wash women’s hair in me Marigolds?”

“Why not?”

“They wouldn’t like it.”

“They’d like it even less if you had a dermatitis or eczema.”

“Ewww, don’t we had a boy in school who had eczema–his name was Peel, we used to call him Orange.”

“Not Emma?”

“Emma? Who’s Emma?”

“Emma Peel–in The Avengers.”

“Uma Thurman–she was in Kill Bill.”

“The original and best was Diana Rigg–whom I so envied.”

“How could you envy anyone, Mummy? You’re like, beautiful.”

“I did in those days, when I was a kid–mind you, Dame Diana is in her sixties or seventies now, I should think.”

“So how did you see her?”

“A friend I had at the time had videos of the originals. Mind you I also wanted to be like Linda Thorson–she was more glamorous than Diana Rigg and had bigger boobs.”

“Oh, Mummy, you do make me laugh.”

“Don’t you have heroines you’d like to be or look like?”

“Yeah–that Megan Fox, is like totally kew-ell.”

“I know someone who thinks you’re quite a little fox, yourself,” I teased.

“Who’s that, Mummy?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that, can I?”

“Why not?”

“Because it would be breaking a confidence, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, like c’mon, Mummy, tell me–pulleaaaaase.”

“No–are you going to help me get the dinner?”

“Not unless you tell me who it is–someone I like, know?”

“I shouldn’t have told you, come on wash your hands.”

“I can’t they’re sore.”

“Oh well sit and talk to me.”

“Mummeeeeee,” the door burst open and Trish and Livvie bounced all over me like lovesick spaniels.

I hugged them and they went back to watching their programme.

“So who was it?” she asked, “Was he like, my age?”

“Was who?” I asked as I washed some potatoes.

“This boy who said I was a fox.”

“What boy is that then, dear?”

“Aarghh–you’re like so annoying,” she accused me, jumping off her seat and stamping her feet.

“Don’t do that, darling, I washed this floor earlier.”

She put her head in her hands and shook it, “You are so cruel–you horrible woman.”

“No one is forcing you to stay with me, if I am so bad.”

“See, now you’re throwing me on to the streets.”

“I was actually suggesting you go and watch television with the others.”

“Oh, alright,” she went out the door and then poked her head back inside the kitchen, “Who is he, Mummy?”

“I’m not telling you.”

She squealed again and went into the lounge. I chuckled to myself–I shouldn’t tease her, but she is so easy to get going–teenagers are because they’re so self-centred. Anything anyone says about them is snatched up and analysed and dissected until they can make themselves even more neurotic about it. Yep, they’re all angst and acne–although saying that, Julie doesn’t seem to have very much in the way of spots–maybe the hormones are helping. Her hair looks nice tonight, I wonder if they’ve given it a demiwave or something similar? Seems to have more body.