The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2654 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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The next morning Trish was apologetic for her rudeness the previous evening. I told her that if she were really sorry, she wouldn’t do it again. I knew it wasn’t true but I needed her to think a little about her shooting from the lip retorts. I wanted her to exercise some self control over what she said and did. If her brain was as big as a planet, as everyone told me, then surely she could manage to find a few underused brain cells to control her mouth or run a little more self control. I know she’s only nine, but if I let her get away with it now, by her teenage years she’s either going to have caused someone to kill themselves or her—possibly her sisters.

It was half term and breakfast was more relaxed than usual, it being a bank holiday, which once upon a time was called Whit Monday, from Whitsuntide or Pentecost, when according to legend, the Holy Ghost came among the disciples and they started talking in tongues—which is I believe a sign of mental illness, but not in those days.

Danielle had become a real teenager and stayed in bed until lunchtime despite the efforts of the others to get her up. I suspect she’d used up loads of emotional energy on the Saturday and was now coming to terms with what she’d done—won an international match for her country. That meant a degree of immortality, because the records will go on for many years after we’re all gone, when people will say, “2015, who was this D Cameron who scored two goals?” It wasn’t the Prime Minister, same name but he only scores own goals.

She’d slept quite late on the Sunday as well until Cindy came over and I left them chatting up in her bedroom. Cindy has been taking blockers and hormones for over a year, so they could hardly get up to very much except rubbing each others’ boobs and to be quite honest, I doubt Danni would be that interested in doing it with another girl—which is how we all view Cindy. However, that is up to Danni. I did ask that they behaved themselves if I let them go up to her room, and she promised she would.

Cindy stayed for dinner and seemed in awe of her friend. I told her that it was only a fitba game and she said it was so much more. I reminded her it was a friendly, in theory if not practice, and so it only counted for so much. In view of the fact she’d played the whole game and had been instrumental in winning it for England, she was to be awarded a full cap. I guess we were all pleased, even if I’m supposed to be Scots by birth.

On the Monday lunch time as sleeping beauty was rising from her bed, the doorbell rang—well somebody pushed the button which made it ring, it wasn’t an exactly spontaneous expression of existentialism by the bell, in case you wondered. On opening the door, standing behind a large bunch of flowers was John Jackson from the Echo.

“How did you get in?” I asked angrily, we had expensive gates which were supposed to keep people like him out.

“The gate was open.”

I tried to think who was last out but it could have been anyone. I was about to slam the heavy front door in his face when he protested that the flowers were for Danielle for her achievement on the football field.

I told him she wasn’t going to talk to him, so he could keep his flowers—give them to his mother or girlfriend. He insisted that while he’d like a story he understood she was very tired given the game she’d played that weekend. I felt like telling him, it was just as tiring watching it, especially when that bloody woman kept clonking her every time she got the ball. I suppose it happens, skilful players are dangerous and can transform games in moments so they get special treatment—often of a very physical sort.

I told him that she’d had a difficult game, her debut as a senior, given she was only thirteen, and was resting up and having her injuries tended. It was a mistake.

“Of course, you’re some sort of white witch aren’t you, you do healing and things, don’t you?”

“I’m not a wiccan of any colour, Mr Jackson, and I’d best remind you that any aspersions cast will be flung back at you and your newspaper in court. Unlike most of the people you annoy, I have the resources to make you regret it.”

“Lady Cameron, I wouldn’t dream of causing you distress.”

“Mr Jackson, you’re about as honest as convicted felon.”

“You misunderstand me, Lady Cameron. Your daughter Danielle is special. She could be the next David Beckham.”

“I would have thought that would be difficult because he was a phenomenon of his age and Danielle, apart from being female, won’t have the chance to play for Manchester United, because she’s female.”

“They have a women’s team.”

“I’m sure they do, but I doubt anyone down here has heard of any of them.”

“They’ve all heard of Danielle.”

“I doubt it.”

“They did a feature on the game in the Sun on Sunday.”

“I doubt it, they had play-offs and so on to cover.”

“They did, see for yourself. They described her as Danielle ‘Bend it like Beckham’ Cameron and had a series of pictures to prove it, plus a video.”

Oh boy, do I tell her or let her find out the hard way? I finally got rid of our local reporter who has all the skill of a porcupine masseuse or should that be quill?

Once it was noted that the Sun had done an article Trish went off to track it down. Thankfully, I didn’t drop it until everyone had eaten. She was soon back with her iPad and showed it to Danni who went crimson. They had a few quotes from the team coach but that was it, they weren’t getting any from Danielle or anyone else in the household and I laid down the law in chapter and verse. At least they understood the reasons so should be more careful.

Danni said about thanking them for the flowers, which I supported but if she did as she suggested and send an email, they’d have her email address. She groaned but promised me she wouldn’t do any such thing. Trish then got to help her arrange the flowers. I left them to it. Instead I went in search of a thank you card because I knew I had some in my study. Danni eventually went off to do a draft, which was just as well because she couldn’t spell Reivers, as in border variety.

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