He’s done something to his right front paw, the little beast. I first noticed it on Tuesday morning as I watched him from the dining room window. He was stood there, pathetic, his right paw held aloft, looking at me through the blinds. I let him into the kitchen and he was limping badly.

Two trips to the vet, £120 lighter in pocket and him provided with drugs that I can only dream of, four days later and still he limps.

It’s quite nice to have him subdued medicated, but I’d rather he was pain-free and back to himself. I think.

We have a week off together and it’s not going to be much fun if he can’t walk. I feel sad for my ball of smelly fur.

Grand designs
I need to decorate my bedroom, but I’ve been putting this task off for months because of lethargy combined with the prospect of moving furniture. There’s not much of it, but it is bulky, it’s difficult for just one person to move, and there’s nowhere to put it while I perform the simple task of merely painting the walls. I still haven’t chosen a colour scheme, but after an insane dalliance with blues, I know that I’m going to go neutrals.

The more attractive option is to put the house on the market and let the new owners deal with the problem. I’ve done the rest of the house, so two rooms shouldn’t be a problem for them.

More and more though, my house is just a place to be, a place to exist and to sleep. I feel less attached to it and its contents each day. There’s always been something special missing from this place and that will be true for anywhere that I reside.

I just spend my life rattling around in boxes that are full of things, full of stuff, but that miss those vital components that transform a house into a home.

Conversation, companionship, love.

The rest of it, it’s all just stuff.

The curious incident of the non-scannable chicken
The last few years has seen a transformation in the way we pay for goods at supermarkets. This transformation has been, quite frankly, rubbish. I’m referring to the self checkouts, which are just the most dreadful so-called innovation in the history of retail.

Firstly, they make it impossible to be “green” in that using your own bags causes so much hassle that it’s just not worth it. The unrecognised item in the bagging area is a bag.

Then there’s the default volume of the woman who shouts at you while you scan, bag, get told to call for assistance, pay, reminds you to swipe your Nectar card, asks you how you’re going to pay – again, then thanks you for shopping there as you’re already fifty metres away and out of the door. Stop. Shouting. At. Me!!! So I mute the volume and this makes it so that I can’t hear her as she’s telling me to take my £30 cashback and I leave the store without it. Fucking bitch.

Today’s experience at the worst Asda on the planet ripped whatever was left of my soul from me. Having waited patiently while three women took an eternity to scan, bag and pay for four items, my poor, tired, hungover body started to scan. No, I don’t want to bag these items. Seriously, no, I don’t, they don’t fit into a fucking bag. Then came the rotisserie chicken. It had a barcode, which didn’t scan. I tried and tried, but it wouldn’t scan. I tried to enter the code manually instead – nothing. The man behind me was encroaching impatiently, “It won’t scan”, I mouthed at him apologetically. Having summonsed the energy to raise my head and look around, I spotted the self-checkout assistant and looked at her, pleadingly. She was too busy having a conversation with somebody. Like a schoolgirl asking permission to speak, I raised my hand. I had to raise my hand… in Asda. Why don’t they provide a button that gives the assistant an electric shock to waken them from their gossiping? Oh the humiliation. She noticed me eventually. “Oh, it’s a rotisserie chicken, you can’t scan these.” Why the fuck not? If they can’t be arsed to put on enough proper tills, surely they should make it so you can scan everthing? Clearly not.

It didn’t end there. I made the mistake of buying screenwash for my car. The self checkout didn’t like this either and I had to call her back.

By the time I was allowed to pay, the man behind me was almost giving me a piggy-back, he was so close. It was an utterly dreadful experience.

The thing is, if you have to scan your own items, why don’t you get a discount? There’s no novelty, or convenience added by having to do this, it’s a ball ache and it’s so much slower than going through a normal till. And at least at a normal till, you have the chance of having a conversation with somebody, you know, human interaction that’s actually quite nice when you haven’t spoken to a soul all day.

Down
I’m down on the world at the moment. The usual and predictable disappointments of life have reared their ugly head again and I’m so tired of hearing the same old excuses from others for their behaviour.

This coming week will give me some much needed rest and the chance to regroup, dust myself off and recharge the batteries as spring finally breathes new life into my weary bones. And hopefully, the little dog will be up for a bit of fun and mud-filled frolicking in our favourite place.