Category: Uncategorized

Listening to “Saturday Live” on radio 4 as I drive into town to the supermarket. They are discussing compulsive list making (of which I am guilty) and it is like looking in a mirror. Master lists of lists and sublists. Adding stuff already done just to cross it off. Putting “Make list” at top of list. The feeling of doom when a list goes missing.
I have to stop the car and make a search of all my bags to make sure I haven’t forgotten my shopping list.
Must remember to put “don’t forget list” on list.

I find myself in the unenviable position of feeling lucky if I were to come downstairs in the morning to be greeted by a neat “Mr. Whippy” type dog turd in the middle of the laundry room floor.
Why?
Newly acquired cocker spaniel manages to cover the entire floor in a spaghetti of mini poos punctuated with dollops, then tops it off with a wiggly path of wee to complete the artistic feature making it nigh on impossible to find a clear path to the cupboard that houses the mop and bucket.
If she wasn’t unbelievably cute and heart-warmingly and innocently affectionate her days would be seriously numbered.

At this this time of year the hens unfailingly go into undercover egg laying mode. I object to spending money on hen feed when I cannot reap the rewards. Stealth tactics must be used in order to identify the 11 separate nests that these feathery, conniving gits secrete amongst the shrubbery. This means, after letting them out in the morning, I have to stalk them individually, creeping round the grounds in my dressing gown and wellies, hiding behind trees and attempting not to be seen. If spotted, the hen will nonchalantly walk off in a random direction, whistling, with its hands in its pockets and look busy, scratching and pecking until I go away. It requires patience, guile, cunning and the acceptance that at some time or other I will inevitably frighten the postman when he unexpectedly comes across me crouching behind a bush and looking shifty.

Halfway through mammoth 11 hour drive south. Quick Pit stop at Carlisle. Would just like to say “Thank you, thank you, thank you” to the lovely man who was brave enough and kind enough to approach me as I was purchasing a cappuccino with my back on display to all 50 of the checkout tills to tell me I had a long tail of loo paper hanging out of the back of my jeans.

Argh.

😱

Today’s challenge:
Dealing with 3 dogs (2 uncut and one with no balls but you try telling him that) and a new Cocker Spaniel bitch that has decided to come into season – all under one roof.
The Springer is off his food and emitting a continuous tea-kettle whine whilst running round dementedly looking for the object of his mad hormonal desires, the junior Lab is drooling outside whichever door we have put her behind, leaving an expanding puddle, and the senior Lab is intermittantly dozing and humping both other dogs, doors and random bits of furniture.
Deep joy.

Entertaining, if a little trying, hour in the garden with free ranging chooks and new non “hen-proof” adopted Cocker Spaniel. She is beautifully trained to voice command and the whistle and kept close most of the time with a “restrained but intently interested” air about her. Apart from the moment I let my attention wander and she vanished, briefly. She was easy to find, however, as I simply followed the sound of outraged and indignant squawking and caught her lying innocently on top of an unharmed, gently squashed and, frankly, unimpressed Lacy Wynadotte which she had just rugby tackled.

Well, the last couple of days could have gone better. Banished from FB for some unknown misdemeanor and then found the dishwasher full of rank water and the kitchen sink blocked this morning. Managed to get the water level down by a mixture of boiling water, bicarbonate of soda and sink plunging. Have you ever tried plunging a double sink with a large overflow outlet? I learned the hard way as a tsunami of hot, fizzy water hoofed it up my dressing gown sleeve with the first plunge. I ended up wading around the kitchen floor in a mixture of ageing dishwater, and wee from our new, overexcited and rather leaky, Cocker Spaniel.
On the bright side, the kitchen floor has never been cleaner (neither has the dog), I managed to get to work on time and am now back online and logged in although FB Insists this account is still deactivated when I attempt to boost a post.
Happy days.

I spent the majority of my teenage years fretting about my body image and how I would be judged by others. I have learned, and am trying to teach my teenage daughters, that you are who you are and that’s what people love about you no matter what your figure is doing at the time.
I have always, however, even at my present advanced age and state of droop/bulge of my body, let it all hang out on holiday and eschew the one piece swimsuit at the beach or pool, preferring to wear a bikini.
My theory is this – most others are so busy obsessing about their own body image that they won’t give me a second glance and those that do and think I am a bit fat will immediately feel better about themselves so I am doing them a favour.
I see it as a public service to women everywhere.

Just had the shortest swimming session in history. Was halfway down my second length when a lifeguard started jumping up and down, shouting and pointing at me. Was a tad concerned that I had unwittingly shed the bottom half of my swimsuit as I dived in, but on careful self-frisking I seemed to have adequately covered nether regions. It transpires that a small person has barfed in the pool during her swimming lesson and everyone has been ordered out and the pool is shut for disinfecting. Changing room hell has followed with every small, damp local child and their parents battling it out in tiny cubicles. I’m hiding in mine till they’ve all gone.