I think he enjoyed it. What do you reckon?
We are performing tomorrow at the local dog rescue centre which meant that after his walk Douggie swapped his mud bath for a bubble bath. He looks lovely again now.
Sitting and staring at an empty screen for ages it crossed my mind that that should be what I should publish as it pretty well sums up how I’m feeling today. Empty.
Then it crossed my mind that you probably wouldn’t understand that and think I’d clicked ‘publish’ by mistake. It reminded me of Tracey Emin’s unmade bed. I remember the furore when it was presented as a work of art.
An unmade bed? WTF? Here’s my dirty dishes, let’s call that art as well.
Without a bit of background knowledge it just makes no sense.
So here’s the background: If I can get it down without crying (apparently I can’t – it can’t be good for a keyboard to have tears seeping in to it. If this post stops half way through then I’ve blown up my computer by crying into it).
Last night we took a phone call to say that our good friend and dance teacher of umpteen, I really can’t remember how many – at least fifteen, years is seriously ill and in intensive care. After his car crash last week from which he seemed to have walked away relatively unscathed, it would appear that complications set in. All we can do is hope and pray that he’s going to recover.
So, in the absence of our Thursday morning paso doble lesson, I grabbed Mrs Woofy and set off before 8 o’clock onto the still dark, cold, foggy and snowy moors for a walk to clear my head and shoot a few photos – always the best cure for melancholia. You probably won’t like them, they’re very gloomy – match my mood perfectly.
Get well soon, teacher.
I’m doing the happy dance as I write this. I have brilliant news.
The builder has finished the patio. YAAAAAAYYY!!!
After much ranting, raving, gnashing of teeth and threats to his health ( all from me) he has finally, after almost five months, finished.
Oh happy day! Oh happy day-ay!! Well, when I say finished, he has one other small task to complete which he assures me he’ll do tomorrow. Ha! We’ll see. I’m not sure he understands the concept of days of the week. He was supposed to turn up Monday which turned into Tuesday and then got to Wednesday before he finally got here. It was a chilly old morning today, barely above freezing and with a cold wind blowing. I was mentally daring him to complain about the cold so I could point out that it hadn’t been cold on either Monday or Tuesday and if he’d have bothered to turn up when he said he was going to then he might have found his working conditions a bit more comfortable.
He must have read my mind though because apart from blowing on his hands, hinting for a cuppa, which I grudgingly made, he never even mentioned the weather.
Tsk. I was poised, ready to strike. Thwarted.
Am I turning into a grumpy old woman?
Moving on, before you answer that…..
Batty and me went for a walk today to Burnley to see the famous panopticon, The Singing, Ringing Tree. Before we had the walk though, we had the drive. Straightforward enough.
We went up and down the same road three times before I stopped to ask a likely looking chap for directions. Luckily he wasn’t the vilkage idiot and we arrived at our destination, with his help, about ten minutes later – about an hour later than we should have done.
Never mind. It was most definitely worth it.
The views were stunning and the panopticon was breathtaking. We could hear it singing as we approached. It was an eerie, haunting sound like an orchestra playing but almost out of earshot. I filmed it on my phone for you but it’s a rubbish bit of film. I was walking backwards as I did it. trying to get close enough so you could hear the sound without it being distorted by the wind and far enough away so you could see it in all it’s glory and it’s fabulous setting. I’m not sure I managed it but here it is anyway.
I’ve been going to bed with Harry Potter for the last few weeks, courtesy of Batty who insisted I take the whole set of books so I won’t run out of reading material for a while. Even now I have to chuckle to myself when I remember buying the first Harry Potter book for Lashes. Unfamiliar with the name Hermione, she decided to pronounce it as Hermi-one. Hehee. I could have put her straight but it was just so funny. Poor old Lashes, it took her ages to work it out.
On that note, it’s time for my date with Harry again so, g’night all.
After a quick tot up yesterday, we realised that our old cat is very near due a telegram from the queen. If she can only last a few more months….
Our people/child/dog/attention/vet intolerant delicate little ingenue witch cat has reached the grand old age of 19 which is 92 in human years. As you can expect at that kind of age, she is a bit rickety. The eyes have clouded over and she limps occasionally, ‘specially when the weather is cold, not that she goes out much these days. She just holds court on the landing where the warm pipes are, and sleeps her days away.
Yesterday, during a rare moment of playfulness with Boofuls, he noticed that her claws have grown so long they are stating to curl under. Ow! Ow! Ow! I’ve felt those claws and they’re bloody sharp. That means yet another trip to the vet then. That’ll be fun. NOT!
There is a grave danger that one or both of us, or the vet or all of us will lose our faces tomorrow courtesy of those claws. She doesn’t take kindly to being messed around with, this cat. That’s always supposing we can get her to the vet’s in the first place.
She seems to have a bit of a sixth sense when it come the the arrival of a cat basket and she can’t half shift a bit smartish on those feline tootsies when it suits her. I can see a bit of a pantomime ahead. When she doesn’t want to go out she runs downstairs and hides under the table, when I shoo her out she runs back upstairs so we can repeat the whole performance two or three times. I swear I can hear her laughing at me puffing and panting as I teararse round the house.
Here she is in her usual spot looking all sweet, innocent and harmless. Don’t be fooled, she is a finely honed killing machine. Many a small furry or winged creature has lost it’s life because of her. Doesn’t she look gentle? Don’t get too close to your monitor or she’ll have you too:
The other cat, you’ll be glad to know has made a full recovery. he still looks like he’s been pulled through a hedge backwards. Mostly because every time I’d administered the greasy ‘orrible ear drops that the vet gave us he’d give his head an almighty shake and most of the thick and unctuous liquid went all over his fur. It might take a while before he regains his usual regal features:
That floppy ear and the bedraggled coat make him look a bit of a bruiser, don’t they? He’s not at all. This cat is the most gentle creature ever. Oh how deceptive appearances can be.
Mrs Woofy and me had a lovely walk on the moors today. It wasn’t in the least bit cold, instead it was foggy and gloomy, I suppose you can’t have everything. Here are a few foggy photos taken on my phone. Yes, I know I’m overusing the lomo app, I just love it.
Doncha just love that heart shaped puddle?
here are just a few photos from this morning’s lovely, windy, cold and snowy walk on the moors with Mrs Woofy:
There is a blog I follow called ‘Fridge Soup” It’s for all those little bits and pieces that can’t really make up a whole post on their own so you throw it into the soup and see what happens.
Today’s post is a bit like that: random offerings, throw ’em at the wall and see what sticks.
Yesterday in the doctor’s waiting room, me and Baby Bunting were waiting for Lashes to come out from her consultation (nothing serious). As normal I was amusing the baby by showing her and talking about the photos I have on my phone. She pointed at this one from St Annes with the clingons last year and said:
“What? Say that again.” So she did, in the nicest RP accent you’ve ever heard. “Build sandcarsells.” In between wiping away the tears of laughter at this born and bred lancastrian saying ‘sandcastle’ with an RP accent I had to wonder; where the hell did she learn………?
She’s obviously discussed the photo with him and his southeren accent at some point and his pronunciation has stuck. I like it. Hhhmmm, do you think she’s too young for elocution lessons?
Did I mention that while we were on holiday Marco Pierre White was on the ship? Big N’s hero. He almost swooned with excitement (Big N, not Marco ).
Of course he had to buy the book and get it signed. Casually dropping into the brief conversation that he was also a professional chef earned him much kudos from MPW who signed the book “From one chef to another.” I’ve never seen Big N get star struck before, On the photo he is almost cuddling MPW, not cool, Big N, not cool.
Walking in the pouring rain with Mrs Woofy today we took the high road round the back of our house and onto the moors up there. I’ve been avoiding that route becasue one of the local farmers has put livestock on it recently and we all know how partial mrs Woofy is to poo. Since I’m not partial to throwing up, I usually take her on a different route these days, however, the combination of heavy rain, tiredness and a lot of work to catch up on made the decision for me.
The dog came across a puddle:
and decided to teararse through it at breakneck speed about a dozen times, every time ending by standing in front of me and shaking, all the while with a huge smile on her face and looking for a scooby snack for being a clever dog. It made me laugh though so she got the snacks.
Further on in the walk we came across this tree:
It’s got a bucket hanging from it. You may remember this bucket tree from last year. Anyway, for no apparent reason I started to sing Sandie Shaw’s “Puppet on a String.’ Where’s that come from? I couldn’t get the sodding song out of my head all the way home. Eventually I realised why I was singing it
‘IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII wonder if one day that you’ll say that you care’
If you say I love you madly, I’ll gladly be there’
Like a bucket on a treeeeeee.’
Even though it was a windy, cold, wet and drab day, the moors were full of colour. Take a lookie at this:
Ok, I’ve enhanced the red a bit but to be honest, not much. The red grass was like a huge bloodstain on the yellow moorland grass. beautiful.
Talk about giving clues! Guess where Boofuls keeps his cards/money/fags/phone. Pickpockets R Us won’t struggle much with this one:
Shopping for accessories for my newly decorated bedroom (I’m saving that post) I was in a shop with a cafe. ‘Time for lunch,’ I thought. Wished I headn’t bothered, the jacket potato was still hard in the middle and just look at the salad.
Yeuch!! Did it go back? Oh yes. Faster than you can say,’ This is crap.’
The over familiar teenage waitress with the booming voice kept saying, “I’m sorry looooove. That’s how the cucumber comes.”
It wasn’t till later I realised why she was over loud, a bit nervy and over friendly and helpful. That’s not like the staff in that shop at all. She must have seen me take the photo of it and thought I was a secret shopper or from ‘Watchdog’ or something.
Ok, that’s the best I can offer for today’s soup. Don’t worry though, it’s Friday tomorrow, we can have Friday pie!
A local farmer has put some sheep and cattle on the moors at the back of our house. Chatting with one of the neighbours recently the new livestock came up in the conversation. “Have you seen them big heifers in yon moors?” she asked me. “Yes, I have and you’re right, they are indeed big f***ers.”
Due to the dog’s predeliction for eating the poo of various farm animals that particular walk has become a bit of a no go zone, dammit.
It’s looking like it’s going to be a busy weekend again for Boofuls and me. I took today off from my new job as pot filler extraordinaire to catch up on my own work. I seem to have wedding album work coming out of my ears all of a sudden (not literally). Today I’ve worked on the computer till my eyeballs bled to try and catch up.
The end result of which is that I have absolutely sod all of any interest to share with you today so: goodnight.
And Other Observations From My Soap Box.
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