Tag Archives: zero to hero

No More Tripping Over Pebbles in the Dark


I’m going to tell you the story of Tripping Over Pebbles in the Dark.

Stupid name for a blog.

Pebbles is our little cat, also known as Cooking Fat.

Pebbles came into our lives when Lashes, as a small child, developed an irrational fear of cats. We thought the best course of action was to get her a little cat to scare her with when she misbehaved. No……wait…….. That’s not right. I’ll try again.

We thought that having a teeny, tiny, cute, little kitty around the place would get her over her fear of cats before it turned into a major phobia.  It sounded like a good plan to us.  So we duly turned up at the rescue centre that weekend, which is bloody miles away, only to be told that they didn’t have any kittens in but they knew of some – ten minutes away from home. Sigh. We drove all the way back to go and see said kitty.

It turned out that a woman had taken in a stray cat which promptly had kittens. Before she got rid of them all, one of the kittens had kittens. She was up to her ears in cats and fed up to her back teeth of her dog trying to eat them. We walked in saying that we’d like a little boy cat. “This is a boy” she said as she pointed to a tiny black ball of fluff. To be honest, I think if we’d gone in saying we wanted a martian she’d have pointed to it and told us it was a martian.

“Ok, we’ll take it.” That was when the fun started. This little ball of fluff had had to fight to survive the gnashing jaws of the dog and the squabbling of other cats. I don’t think it had been treated terribly kindly by the owner either. It had quickly learned that the best strategy for survival was to be quick on its feet.

As the woman bent to pick up the kitten, it  sprang into life and almost literally flew round the room at breakneck speed via the furniture and the curtains. It was bit like watching Evel Knieval on the wall of death. Round and round it went until it finally came to rest – hanging like a bat from the tv where it had got its claw stuck.

I went and gently plucked it from the tv while looking at Boofuls with one eyebrow raised, silently questioning if we were doing the right thing getting this tiny hell beast for our feline fearful daughter. However, once I had the little thing in my hands and it finally stopped shaking and howling we decided that there was no way we were leaving it behind. The poor creature was terrified.

A visit to the vet quickly ascertained that the little boy was a little girl and was younger that six weeks old, maybe five weeks old but probably a bit less.

Lashes decided that the hell beast was to be called Pebbles and I’d love to say that they became the best of friends but Pebbles never really lost her fear of everything and has always been a very skitty kitty and she definitely didn’t like children. If she did become best friends with anyone, it was with Boofuls, they’ve always had a special bond between them. Lashes though totally lost her fear of cats.

That was almost twenty one years ago. We worked out that she must have been a new year cat so her 21st birthday is any day now. Over the years she has remained tiny, a true lady but always fearful and nervous. As the years have gone on she has lost her eyesight and her hearing. She has become senile, walking round and round in the kitchen screaming “I don’t know where I am! Help! Help! He…ooh, food.” She has developed diabetes and arthritis. How she’s lived this long I have no idea. Obviously the country air agrees with  her. I open the door in the morning and look down as she looks up and we greet each other. Her by screaming  at me “Open the bloody door you fool!” and me by saying, “You’re still here then.”

She spends her days in the kitchen, right in the middle of the kitchen floor, circling round and round my feet as I’m trying to cook. How I’ve never tripped and sent a pan of something hot over her I’l never know. Or if she’s not in the kitchen she’s sleeping in bizarre places, halfway up the stairs, in the middle of the landing or right in front of the bathroom door. Many times I have tripped over her in the middle of the night on one of my nocturnal bathroom visits. Hence ‘Tripping over Pebbles in the Dark’. It’s a tribute to our little black cat.

Yesterday morning when she came in it was very obvious that something was very wrong with her. She was almost dragging one of her legs behind her and was clearly very uncomfortable. Off to the vet’s we went. “Well, you know she is a hundred years old, don’t you?” Basically, he was telling us to prepare ourselves.

It wasn’t with any surprise but with a great deal of sadness that we discovered Pebbles crossed over the rainbow bridge at some point during the night last night. She went to sleep in her  basket and just didn’t wake up. Exactly the way we always hoped she’d go. We’re going to miss you, you howling, mewling, trip hazard.

No more tripping over Pebbles in the dark.

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Christmas day in the Mad House


Boofuls was attacked by our giant tree. It was perfect this year, no knobbly or misshapen bits, all we had to do was trim a few inches off the top and decorate it. Marvellous! What do you think about the reindeer hat we saw in Sainsbury’s? Suits you, Sir.

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I’ve really enjoyed all the preparations for it this year. Of course, working for a florist has given me a few extra ideas for decorations.

I made some trees. What do you think?

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Sandra, who I’m working for gave me this amazing Christmas wreath. Isn’t it fabulous?

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So that’s it all done for another year.

I love Christmas and this year did not disappoint.

It was brilliant and I loved every minute of it.

Sophiscated, elegant, restrained and in impeccable taste. Nope, there wasn’t any of that. It was all good, riotous, family fun. I’d already braced myself for it being bonkers, with all the family and four dogs running around I know it wasn’t going to be peaceful. Who wants a peaceful Christmas anyway? Not me!

I’d bought myself a beautiful red dress for the big day but decided at the last minute it was too formal so I opted for my gawjuss, sparkly, red Christmas jumper, purple jeans and red boots. I was looking good – if I do say so myself.

As normal, we set off to bezzie mates for our croissants and champagne. Bezzie always pronounces it as crossont.  I told her I didn’t want any crossonts as I was in too much of a good mood for that, she looked at me strangely until I told her I’d have a happyont instead. So there we were, happyonts all round! Bezzie’s gift to me this year was a onesie, she’d got herself one the same so we went outside and wished the whole street a merry Christmas, – in our onesies, my beautiful Christmas ensemble was all covered up by a fleecy giraffe suit. Ah well. Douggie the doggie thought that I was a big cuddly toy to jump all over.

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This year I even got help in the kitchen from Number one son, The Rev. He’s been learning to cook and enjoyed lending a hand, along with Lashes and Boofuls. Hhhhhmmmm, too many cooks I can here you whispering. Actually, no. It was all very smooth. We did have a couple of teeny culinary issues but nothing to get upset about. I cooked and drained the sprouts only to find that a spider had been cooked along with them. When I announced that sprouts would not be joining us for luncheon this year a cheer went up! Then when I came to serve the carrot and swede batons I discovered that they weren’t so much al dente as break toothy so we didn’t bother with them either. Who needs veg anyway? Bring on the roasties!

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Among my unusual gifts this year was a pack of £50 notes to blow my nose on and some Marmite chocolate. I like Marmite, I like chocolate. Do I like them together? The jury is still out. I’m thinking not.

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Douggie had a great time opening his presents. He’d have opened everyones if he had been allowed. He loves presents.

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We had a brilliant game of don’t show Keith your teeth. It’s a word association game and you have to say your word without repeating what has been said previously and without showing your teeth. That reduced me to tears of laughter (you needed to be there).

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Lashes made this amazing snow scene cake. Big enough to feed about forty people it was most definitely a grand design – and a very nice bit o’ cake.Copyright

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Munki, aka ‘Tell it like it is’ or in this photo, Elsa, was her usual irrepressible self. She didn’t like one of her presents so she turned to me and in a loud voice said, “I don’t like THIS! Do you want it?” as I said, ‘tell it like it is’.

She was swinging between being hysterically funny to tantrumming and then being delightful again all in the space of seconds. You have to be quick to keep up with that child. Photo of the day, the one that made me laugh out loud, was this one. Munki refused to pose, Lashes was losing patience. Me? I howled laughing.  Christmas with kids summed up in one photograph.

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By 7.00pm, everyone had left. Douggie flopped exhausted onto my lap and didn’t move for the rest of the evening. But that was fine as Boofuls and I didn’t move either, except to scoff another chocolate for have a sip of some sweet and ridiculous concoction we wouldn’t dream of drinking at any other time of year. All in all it was a prefect family Christmas. Thank God it’s only once a year!

I truly hope you enjoyed yourChristmas as much as we enjoyed ours. MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

Teaser


I have a friend (Yeah, really!) who always posts a single word post on Facebook and waits to see how many people comment on it. Ten minutes later, if no one has commented she’ll go and open up the topic.

What’s that got to do with anything?  Absobloodylutely sod all.

It’s just that I haven’t got anything to write about and that’s all I could think of – and as it always says in the ‘how to’s’ you should just start to write so here I am.

Apologies in advance for the disjointed drivel that you’ve just read and for that to follow. It’s not even as though nothing has happened this week – loads has happened, just not things that I think are appropriate to share on here. Mostly because it’s been the crap week from hell and since I’m positive thinking at the moment I don’t want to dwell on it. To be honest, the only thing I’m feeling positive about today is that I’m completely and utterly naffed off, tired, emotional and drained. Douggie the doggie having a fit in the early hours of this morning didn’t help matters much. I’ll resume my attitude of gratitude tomorrow.

So. Day off today.

It’s tough being a florist’s assistant. It’s also super busy at this time of year. I went from helping to make a Christmas arrangement to helping to make a coffin top arrangement to Facebooking and updating the website, all in the space of an hour yesterday.  So much for retirement. It’s so busy I’m  working up to and including Christmas Eve.

That brings me nicely to the season of goodwill.

I popped over to have a gander at Manchestercflickchick’s blog, as is my wont. Good blog, go and take a look, say I sent you. Imagine my delight when I read a whole post dedicated to Christmas. Yay! It was one of those nominate jobbies but she didn’t nominate me. I was gutted.  Anyway, God loves those who help themselves – so I helped myself to a nomination and Here it is: my Christmas themed self indulgence fest.

Let’s talk about me…….

Favourite festive food: Where to start? Bring it all on. Christmas morning croissants and champagne at bezzie mates. Christmas dinner with ALL the trimmings, Christmas pudding. Yup. I love it all. I don’t even mind doing all the cooking. If I have a lot of people to cook for then that means that I have all my favourite people around me. What’s not to love? This year I’m going a little bit away from our traditional smoked salmon for a starter and going with beef carpaccio, also known as food of the Gods or manna from heaven.  Nomnomnomnomnomnom. I feel a bit sick now 😦

Favourite Christmas drink: Can I have two? Advocaat should be made compulsory at Christmas and then banned for the rest of the year. Christmas just isn’t Christmas without thick, gloopy, weirdly tasting advocaat mixed with dry ginger. Then there’s the Christmas sherry. I quite like a nice dry sherry. I wouldn’t normally drink it but when I do I can’t stop myself from saying in a shrill voice at regular intervals, “More sherry, vicar?” as I hold out my glass for a refill.

Favourite reindeer: Hhhmm. It has got to be Rudolph as the rest of them are a set of two faced, laughing, name calling  bitches. I hate bullies.

Favourite day of Christmas: All of them, starting in mid December.  In the last week I have foraged a tree from the garden to paint and decorate with icicles and snowflakes, I’ve foraged twigs and ivy to make a Christmas tree. Tomorrow I’ll be making my table decorations from leylandii and wine bottles. Christmas is a crafter’s dream! I  love the run up to it, I love the excitement, the gift buying and wrapping, the cooking, the visiting, the chaos, the giving and receiving of gifts, the meaning of Christmas. I’m not a church goer now but have some very deep seated beliefs, which is why I get so pissed off when people get all politically correct and start referring to it as ‘the holidays’. It’s a Christian celebration. Christ – mas, the clue is in the name. Got it? *catches rant before it starts*  I suppose my favourite day has to be the day itself but only by a whisker.  Did I mention I love it?

Favourite Christmas song: Easy peasy. It’s the one Douggie the doggie and me danced to at the dog club party last year. Louis Armstrong’s Zat you Santa Clause? I can’t help but smile when I hear it and Louis Armstrong has a special little place in my heart anyway.

Favourite Christmas present: Another easy one. Although I’ve had many, many brilliant presents over the years, the one that springs to mind is the Sindy doll I got as a little girl. It was in the days before that long legged and big boobed American imposter, barbie really caught on here. I loved my Sindy doll and was distraught when my little brother pulled her head off on Boxing Day.

Favourite Christmas film: Ok, ok, I know I’m supposed to say “It’s a Wonderful Life’ but it aint. It’s Elf. Ok? There, I said it in public.

Favourite Christmas tv advert: It’s caused a lot of controversy but I love the Sainsbury’s advert about the first world war ceasefire on Christmas day. I wonder how many people realise that it’s a true story? It makes me cry every time I see it.

Favourite Christmas decoration:  As my daughter can tell you, I fall in love with anything rustic. My absolute favourite decoration is a rustic fairy dressed in brown and gold with long golden hair….Oh. But then there’s my collection of Father Christmas’s I love all of them, tricky to choose.  This year’s favourite? My big balls. Haha. Oo-er missus! I bought some giant balls for the tree. Every tree needs giant balls. Doesn’t that just paint a great picture in your head?

Favourite festive tradition: Well, every year follows pretty much the same routine. Brekkie with bezzie, drinks at Len’s mum and dad’s, everyone round to ours for pressies and dinner. That’s the way I like it so I have to say my favourite tradition is all of it!  Don’t even get me started on why anyone would go for a curry on Christmas day. That’s just bizarre. One year we went to a restaurant for Christmas dinner. It snowed, it was beautiful, there was lovely music, no bickering, the atmosphere was brilliant, the meal was so much better than I could have cooked. It was all wrong, wrong, wrong. Christmas should be at home with the family.  Which brings me to….

Place to spend Christmas: See above.

So there it is, my perfect Christmas. If you’re still here, thank you for indulging me. I’m in a much better mood now. Time for a snooze on the settee while I watch Elf again. When you get a minute, why don’t you tell me all about your perfect Christmas?

A right tit


Here’s a picture of a right tit.

Source: Internet
Source: Internet

And here’s another one.

Source: Internet
Source: Internet

Yup. it’s Nigel Farage, that racial tension mongering arse. He taps into the middle aged, middle class, just below the surface racism, sexism and every other kind of ism that sadly people in our peer group seem to subscribe to.  A nice, law abiding, civilised bunch on the surface with a seedy underbelly of racist and sexism. The ones who bizarrely go round saying “I should paint my face black, the Government would be throwing money at me then.” For God’s sake! Come on people, like it or not we live in a multi racial society now.

Don’t get me wrong, I have very strong views about those who come to live in our county, take full advantage of our benefits, health and education system and them condemn our society as it doesn’t fall into line with their religious beliefs.

I have incredibly  strong views about those who come to live in this country and then refuse to integrate or learn the language. Such a refusal to become part of their adopted country can only lead to suspicion and tension as certain areas of town become no go areas.

I have even stronger views about those who grow up in our country and then hop on a plane to go to terrorist school, returning later to bomb the bejaysus out of us.

However, the majority of immigrants here are hard working and law abiding people who despise these radicals as much as I do. Besides which, most of the Asians in this area are third, fourth, fifth  or more generation and are as English as I am.

Which brings me back to that rabble rouser,  Farage.

For those reading this who may not be in this country or aware of our politics, Nigel Farage is a dickhe……..er, I mean an elected MP and leader of the UKIP party, a right wing ‘give England back to the English’ party.

Sadly, because of his ability to tap straight into middle class and middle age prejudices as well as appealing to the more right wing element of our society, his policies are gaining ground. It’s a terrifying  thought that this man and his thugs should gain any real power in this country.

 Anyway, moving on before I start to rant…..

 His latest jolly jape is to tell mothers to cover up when feeding their babies the way God intended them to.

WHAT?!?

In an attempt to be fair, what actually happened was that a waiter in Claridges rushed over to a breastfeeding mother and told her to cover up or sit in a corner. Of course it quite rightly hit the headlines. Mr Farage in his infinite wisdom decided this was a suitable bandwagon to jump onto and leapt on – in defence of Claridges policy!  Then he wondered why all hell broke out.

 Does the oaf not realise that feeding babies  is exactly what breasts are for?   How on earth can he find it offensive that a baby is being fed from the breasts of it’s mother?  Obviously  finds it more acceptable to see them emblazoned over the pages of a newspaper to be leered at.

As a woman who has breast fed all three of her children I think I can speak for the majority of breast feeding mums when I say that we don’t whip out our baps at the drop of a hat and wave them around for all to see.  I would go so far as to say that no woman in her right mind would choose to  get her baps out in public and when they do so  to feed their babies it is discreetly and quietly. Nothing to see or get offended about here, folks!

Source: internet

Source: internet

Mr Farage, you made a massive boob this time. Carry on just as you’re doing and hopefully we’ll soon be rid of you.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside


Boofuls, Douggie and me have just got back from a week away in sunny Devon.

“Oh! Have you been away?” I can hear you saying. Dang! I love how you all miss me so much!

Yes we have, we’ve been searching for our perfect home on the south coast.

One day we decided to broaden our search and investigate a few of the other towns and villages along the coast. People kept telling us how nice it was in Sidmouth so we went for a look. Quant little English seaside village. I think it’s actually God’s waiting room. I’ve never seen so many grey haired people all in one place in my life. Pensioners were marauding everywhere with their walking sticks, wheelchairs, zimmer frames and scooters. Don’t get all excited thinking that the pensioners on scooters were zipping round on the scooters of your childhood or on trendy Piaggio’s,  how cool would they be?

No, I’m talking about yer good old mobility scooters.

My mum used to have a mobility scooter.  It had two speeds: hare and tortoise. It had a picture of a hare and a tortoise on it’s dashboard.  My mum only ever used to use it on the ‘hare’ setting, or as she used to call it, ‘rabbit speed’. She once got told off by a traffic warden for speeding on her scooter. She nearly took his kneecaps off when she came ‘haring’ out of a shop (see what I did there?).

Anyway, back to the plot and talking about getting told off….

Once Boofuls and I had thoroughly investigated Sidmouth we went a bit further round the coast to Dorset and Lyme Regis.

Sigh. To be fair, it wasn’t the best of days, we were cold and tired, the wind was blowing, we were not really dressed for the weather as it had been quite warm when we set off, we were hungry and we were fed up and on the verge of an argument.

We popped out heads into a few of the local eateries to be met with faces of disgust when we enquired if they were dog friendly. That’d be a no then. Eventually we did find somewhere to eat that was warm and welcoming. I partook of the chestnut and mushroom soup which was surprisingly tasty. I’ll be making that.

Once we’d decided that we could really linger in their any longer just keeping warm we decided to head off back to Torquay. “I’ll just take the dog on the beach for  a pee”, said I.

I checked the sign about dogs on the beach: April to November.  Blah blah, yeah, yeah.  Douggie ran off grateful for a chance to stretch his legs while I trudged up the stony beach feeling like I was on the verge of hypothermia. Up ahead the beach became sandy so I headed to that part. To get to it we had to walk on the prom for about eight feet. I decided I’d risk it without putting him on his lead.

As we jumped down onto the sandy beach an officious looking character approached me. Douggie looked like he was about to go and say hello to him so I threw his ball in the opposite direction:

Officious character: “Your dog is off the lead. It’s not allowed to be.”

Me: “Seriously? We only walked on the prom for about eight feet. Just to get onto this beach.”

Him: “You walked all the way down that beach with your dog off the lead. I watched you do it”

Me: “Yes we did.” Looking vacant as I said it, still not realising where this conversation was heading.

Him. ” Didn’t you see the signs.”

Me: “Yes, course I did. April to November. Well it’s December now, what’s the problem?”

Him: Slowly as if talking to a child, “No dogs at all between April and November and dogs on leads at other times.It says it very clearly and you’ve passed at least four of these signs. There’s one there, there, there, there and there and you’ve gone past them all and totally ignored them, I could fine you £70.”

Me: Turning white as the penny drops. “OH NO!! I totally misread it. I’m sorry, (much grovelling).

At this point he was starting to enjoy being able to lecture me and made a point of lecturing me at length about dogs not being allowed to run free on beaches in Lyme Regis, all this while Douggie gambolled happily around his feet and I squirmed with embarrassment.  Eventually, the official realised that the dog was still running loose and instructed me to put his lead on, which I did post haste, still grovelling. My purse was twitching with fear at the thought of having to surrender £70 of it’s hard earned money for not bothering to read a sign correctly.

Eventually the official had had his fill of making me squirm and decided to let me off with a warning. As I hot footed it back to the car a couple who’d been watching with amusement asked me if he’d let me off and informed me that Lyme Regis isn’t known for it’s tolerance for dogs.

We probably won’t be going back there.

Gainfully employed


It’s amazing how fast the novelty wears off, isn’t it?

Just a few short months after finishing work there I was tearing my hair out and getting grumpier and more bored by the day.  The I was thrown a lifeline.

My florist friend sent me a message asking me if I’d like a part time job with her until we move house. OH YES YES! YES! YES PLEASE!

I popped over to see her last week and she told me she wants me to be an extension of herself but more organised. Could i keep her diary, website and Facebook presence more up to date and also to help with day to day jobs.

First task. Make some Christmas trees. That involved going into the garden to cut twigs of various colours and then cutting them to size and wiring them into the shape of a Christmas tree and then decorating them. Beautiful, rustic, absolutely up my street. I felt like I should have been paying her. Who knew that floristry involves so much cement?

Second task. Make three Christmas garlands. Again using natural materials, I was in my element. I think I’m going to enjoy this little jobette until we move.

Talking of moving. We have actually got someone to come and view the house next week. Keep your fingers, toes and anything else you have crossed and send us your vibes. It’s well past time we were living in Devon.

This morning I was going to do a round up of all the week’s news but to be honest I’m exhausted. We had a little dinner party last night and invited people who hadn’t met before as I knew they’d hit it off. Good grief. They hit it off alright, they were still here at 1.00a.m. Boofuls and I were almost asleep at the table. I’m normally in bed by eleven at the latest. You might have to wait till tomorrow for the week’s round up. I’m going for a little snooze now. G’night.

I know he’s here somewhere


Mr Douggie the Doggie managed to break the penultimate rule a while ago and was allowed to start sleeping in our bedroom with us. The ultimate rule is ‘no dogs on the bed’ which he tries to break on a regular basis but gets met with a sharp ‘GET OFF!!’ Every other rule in the book went by the board a long time ago. “I’ll never let him on the furniture”,  for instance. Now he just jumps up and gets settled wherever and whenever he feels like it, usually using me as a pillow. Ok, I admit it, I like the doggie snuggles while I’m watching a bit of evening telly.

To be fair, we only relaxed the bedroom rule so he could alert us if he was going to have a seizure but I have to be honest, I hate him being in the bedroom.

As if Boofuls doesn’t make enough noise in his sleep now I also have to contend with the pooch snoring, dreaming, smacking his lips, flopping around all over the floor rather than sleeping on his own lovely chocolate coloured bed, stretching, twitching  and scratching, waking me up for a cuddle in the middle of the night ( you’d think he’s know that that was going to be a non starter) and generally having me awake half the night wondering if he’s ok.

A side effect of being woken up seventy five times a night is that I need to visit the bathroom more than I used to. There must be a direct link between my eyeballs and my bladder.  As soon as I open my eyes my bladder says  hello.

Going to the bathroom during the night never used to be an issue. Get up, walk to bathroom, pee, walk back, get back into bed. Easy. However, now we’ve changed the bedroom carpet it’s not so easy. I climb out of my lovely warm bed and then stand there for a minute trying to decipher where in the room Douggie is. Spotting a cream coloured dog on a cream coloured carpet in a room that’s blacker than a black thing because there’s no such thing as street lighting where we live, is no mean feat.

Once I’ve successfully located him, by peering like Mr Magoo into the dark, I usually find him stretched out to his full length at some impossible angle and nowhere near his bed, I have to try and get past him without standing on him. Again, easy. You think?

In the good old days before I developed plantar fasciitis it was ok. Now my poor feet tingle and throb and just don’t want to move. My first four or five steps look remarkably like those of your average 100 year old, wobbly, painful and uncertain. One move from Douggie as I’m gingerly stepping over him will see me go ear over elbow in a most ungainly fashion.

Amazingly, by the time I’ve reached the bathroom door I’m able to walk normally again so the walk back to bed is nowhere near as treacherous. I climb back into my lovely warm bed and snuggle down trying to get back to sleep before the next disturbance which usually happens as the first rays of light are just starting to break through and Douggie decides it’s time to get up.  He sticks his cold, snotty wet nose on my face and bashes his tail against the radiator like a gong.

My first words of every day used to be “Good morning, darling.” Now it’s “Feck off, dog! It’s fecking 6 o’clock!”. It’s no way to start the day. Of course then I’m wide awake so I lie there fuming for a while telling my eyeballs not to tell my bladder I need a wee and then I end up getting up.

With the amount of sleep deprivation I have at the moment it’s amazing I’m not walking round every day tearing the heads of people and breathing fire. These seizures have got a lot to answer for. Tell me again why I wanted a dog.

Adipose Anonymous


It was all a bit lively at my weekly Adipose Anonymous meeting this morning. My newly rediscovered joie do vivre must have been on show because as soon as I walked in up went a shout of “Hey! Our Lesley’s back! We’ve missed you.”

“I’ve been here every week.”

“yeah but now YOU’RE back.”

Heh. That was nice. There was a lot of giggling and silliness going on today. At one point the leader told us that we were being obstreperous. Ha! That was a mistake. Just about every one in the room tried out their own way of saying it and the consensus was that locally it’s pronounced ‘obstrockolous.’ Funny, that’s how my first husband used to say it.

Anyway, you may put your congratulations in the comments box, dear reader. Yours truly is officially no longer a porky bint as I’ve got back to my goal weight. Yay! That’s been hard work. Fair to say I’m feeling very pleased with my little self today. Things are looking up.

On a totally non related note:

I was standing in the kitchen the other day cleaning up the debris that occurs and a ridiculously regular basis when I heard a sound like water pouring.

“What the ………? Oh no!!!”

I’d somehow and without noticing knocked over a jug of water and the whole lot poured off the worktop and straight into a 12 kilo bag of dog food.  Fer Gawd’s sake!! You couldn’t make it up.

Not prepared to throw away £60 of dog food I spread it all out on baking trays and spread them out all over the kitchen to dry out. My God, that stuff stinks when it’s out of the bag! Poo-wee! It took two days to dry it all out. It didn’t cross my mind to put it in the oven to dry out  until I was scooping the last bit back into it’s bag.

 

Do you believe in fairies?


Do you believe in fairies? I do.

I had a conversation about fairies recently with Annabelle of Annabelle Franklin: Author.  Go and take a look at her blog, she tells some charming tales about her little rescue dog, Millie.  I told her I’d seen a fairy while I was out walking Douggie the doggie in the woods. I’m not sure she believed me so I told her I’d provide photographic evidence.

Here it is. is this not just the most beautiful fairy you have ever seen?

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