Copyright© 2012 Angharad
All Rights Reserved.
After dinner I let Simon scratch my itch but I didn’t yell anything like as loudly. Lying in bed in the afterglow trying not to let goo trying to drip out of me spoil the moment; I asked Simon something which had puzzled me since he’d told me it. “We’re staying at the Ritz in Paris, yes?”
“Uh? Oh yeah, the Ritz.”
“Isn’t that where Princess Di was staying before she took that final car trip.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“How would I know, it was the only place I could get a room.”
“That’s like a super standard hotel, probably about seven stars if they went that high.”
“Si, you’re not listening.”
“I am, the tits hotel, yeah,” he swallowed, broke wind and seemed to go into a coma. Do people snore in a coma? Probably not, so he was possibly just asleep assisted by the glass of wine he’d imbibed at dinner. Now that I felt so much better, I was anything but sleepy and so excited at the prospect of my trip.
I crept downstairs and made myself a cuppa and began to list the things I’d need to take with me. When were we going? I half remembered him saying two nights, so is that Friday and Saturday or Saturday and Sunday?
Would I need anything nice to wear to go to dinner? Is the camera battery charged? Will Cav take the sprint again? Oh goodness, I’ll never get to sleep.
I did, dreaming that I was leading Cavendish out and that he couldn’t keep up with me. What a joke, I woke up giggling.
“What are you laughing at?” asked a grumpy hubby.
Having woken I couldn’t remember, so he got even grumpier and got up to go to work. I thought discretion the better part of a lie in and got up as well to make him breakfast. Sammi came down yawning but looking quite businesslike in a suit I hadn’t seen before.
“Where did that come from?” I asked touching the sleeve of the jacket.
“Daddy got it for me, d’you like it?”
It was a rose pink and while I wouldn’t have worn it, it did look quite good on her. “Yes, it’s very nice.”
I fed them both and had a snack myself then Tom rose and I made him some coffee and we talked for a few minutes. He heartily approved of me going to Paris. I thanked him for his support and went and got Catherine who’d woken. I fed her while he had his breakfast, then made a note to try and express some milk for them to use.
I began organising things to take with me. I opted to travel in a pair of calf length trousers, which, given as it was due to get warmer, would be cool and also double for watching the race. I packed a couple of tops to go with them. I packed a skirt suit and a blouse with a pair of heels in case I needed something tidy to wear and a dress which would go with the heels. I also packed a cardi and a shower-proof coat which packed down to virtually nothing. Then came knickers, bras, a nightdress, tights and socks and my toiletries.
I packed the camera and my passport and looked out Simon’s. I mentioned the safe in my study, that’s where we keep them. They were both well in date—they should be as I had mine updated when I got married. I glanced at the photo inside mine and wanted to scream—why do they always look so awful?
David arrived and I checked with him that he’d really cope with the baby. He said he would and he’d enjoyed his time with Catherine while I’d been in hospital. He looked a little confused for a moment but I left him to his thoughts. If he wanted to talk he knew where I was.
Over coffee, he decided he did want to talk. “You were talking about the baby, earlier?”
“Yeah, just making sure you were okay with her.”
“You know—this is really weird.”
“I felt quite broody for a moment.”
“Perhaps you want to be a dad,” I said lightly.
“I don’t know, but it was well weird, because for a moment I think I envied your being a mum.”
“Oh, a bit of your original biology rebelling against your life choice, perhaps?”
“I don’t know—not much of my original biology left.”
“I’m not aware of feeling the same thing—you know in reverse—I’ve never contemplated being a dad, perhaps because my own father wasn’t very nice to me most of the time.”
“I know that feeling,” David said and rose from the table. “Better get the dinner sorted—keep my slave driver boss happy.”
“She’s very happy.” I beamed him a broad and I hoped warm smile, I liked him quite a lot already. He was easy to get on with and it was interesting hearing about the opposite side of the coin.
My only experience had been watching that series of documentaries about the trannies getting together once a month, and the men then seemed very strange, mind you I thought the would be women were too.
Here was a gentle man without any piercings or tattoos, or a scrawny beard and shaven head, who didn’t swear—except the day he burnt his finger—and I’d have sworn too. He shoved it under the cold tap and I put an icepack on it straight away. It still blistered.
After lunch I sat down to watch le Tour. Dave Millar was in the breakaway and so I wasn’t sure if I wanted them caught if he could make it to the line. However, several of the teams who had neither a rider in the breakaway nor a stage win decided to reel them in.
However, it didn’t quite go to plan because others escaped and the breakaways were only overhauled in the last few hundred yards. It was exciting to see the yellow jersey leading out the Sky train for Cavendish, with Boasson Hagen as the lead out man for the world’s fastest sprinter.
In the melee for the line Cavendish seemed to lose his link man and for a moment it looked as if he’d got baulked. Then he shot across behind the others and flew out the other side and powered for the line winning by several bike lengths. It was only when seen from above that you could appreciate his acceleration—he left the others for dead, coming past them as if they were stationary, and these the likes of Goss, and Sagan who are no slouches.
Cavendish loves to win, it’s what he does best and he enjoyed the win today very much by the look on his face. I was hoping he’d show he same form on Sunday on the Champs Elysee, which would take him above Armstrong on the number of stages won. Goodness, I was looking forward to it.
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