Tag Archives: Rocky

Tension

Posted on by
Reply

I think my neck is trying to kill me.

For three of the past four days, I have woken in the early hours with a headache that emanates from my neck, rises through the back of my head and over the crown, descending into my forehead, where it comes to rest behind my right eye.  And there it stays for hours, impervious to any pain killer that I can throw at it. These things render me incapacitated with pain and sickness.  They make me utterly miserable.

Today’s was partly my own fault, but I’d like to place most of the blame on the tanker driver who exploded his load of propane on the M56 yesterday afternoon.  Having spent a couple of days relaxing in north Wales, we were in the car on the way back from a day of beautiful sunshine on the beach when the traffic report came on: M56 closed for several hours due to some twat exploding.  My stress levels started rising immediatley; I’d wanted to be home for no later than 8pm so I could pick up Otto from Mum and Dad’s, let him and Rocky have a few handbags before settling down to an early night.  As it was, I didn’t see the point in setting off on the two and half hour journey because the diversion routes would be so congested that it just wouldn’t be worth it with a stressy Tina and equally stressy Rocky.

Serena kept me calm on my journey, she knew the motorway was closed and planned an alternative route through Cheshire, where we were joined by many others following the same diversion.  The time ticked on, the light faded and the burning in my neck grew.  By the time I deposited Otto in my dining room, it was gone 11pm and I hadn’t had my pill.  

It’s still early days in my adventure with Sertraline, but I’ve found that they make me quite drowsy, so I’ve been taking them in the evenings.  It’s quite nice, the way I drift off to sleep for a few hours before waking at about 4am and I’ve not suffered any of the other potential side effects warned about in the patient information leaflet.  Last night’s lesson, however, was do not take just before bedtime because today, in addition to my customary, vomit-inducing headache, I just couldn’t wake up.  The stress and duration of my journey, the diplomatic intervention between Messers Hissy Claws and Gummy Snarling, the late night and chemically-induced neurotransmitter overload was just too much for me.

Poor, wrecked me.

The thing that I’ve found about these headaches is that, if I lie in a position that’s most uncomfortable for every other part of my body, i.e. flat on my back with no pillow, they don’t hurt as much. It’s just that the lack of sleep and back ache makes you feel and look like the undead.

I think the answer might be a neck massage, with prolonged, firm pressure applied to the anterior aspect.  I can imagine all the stress and tension escaping from everywhere, permanently.  Once the medication takes full effect, though, and with a little extra help, these days will be a long and distant memory.
Mac n cheese

In other news, I had a Marks and Spencer macaroni cheese for my dinner this evening and it was delicious. It was a remnant from recent trips to the hospital where I was visiting my dad as he was being treated for pneumonia.  With the introduction of Marks and Spencer Simply Food outlets to most hospitals, being sick or visiting the sick has never had so many upsides.  

Rocky… Rock! JESUS!!!

Posted on by
Reply

Those three words, said with exasperation, are the ones that are heard most within these walls more than any others.

With the odd “fuck!” thrown in of course.

Not to mention: “I’m fed up” and “I hate my life”.

After a restless night last night during which I had to give in to yet another canine tantrum and allow him to sleep with his squeaky toy on the bed, the offending item had been hidden from him this morning. Now that it’s bedtime again, he has demanded his latex comforter; shouting at it, even though hidden from his view.

My dog acts like a retard, but is highly intelligent. He is pack leader in this house.

It was never meant to be like this. He was introduced into a home with two mummies (he being the idea of his other mummy), but homes with two mummies are doomed to failure because relationships between two mummies generally bring together women who are suffering from a spectrum of mental illnesses, otherwise known as lesbianism.

“You can keep the fucking house, I’m taking Rocky!”

What on earth was I thinking? I’d been his main carer for nearly two years and I still wanted to have sole custody. Mental illness, you see. But still, of all the souls I have encountered in the past seven or so years, and of all those that I have yet to be acquainted with, that little dog is only one who I know will love me unconditionally and will be a constant in my life.

I just wish he was normal.

Photo shoot
When I took him for his jabs and check-up the other month, I signed up to something that provided a discount on this and that, flea treatments, annual blood tests… and a free – get this – photo shoot! They phoned me today, the people from Venture Portraits: “So, you can come along with your partner and children, and our photographers are great with animals, so we can do some lovely shots and you can have some lovely photographic memories to keep and keep again.”

“Can I get somebody else to have their photo taken with him? I look like something that’s crawled up a railway embankment after a derailment.”

…Nervous laughter…

“I’m joking. Yes, it might be nice, but it’s just me and him, unless I can drag my niece along. That might be nice. Actually… can you just do him? After he’s had a hair cut? And a few valium?”

They’re calling back next week.

I remember when those sorts of family portraits started cropping up in people’s homes around 2005. At first, they seemed quite sweet, an innovative way to capture the family dynamic away from the staged “book of the dead” portraits that had gone before them. Then after the first few times of seeing another family pile-up shot (“Oh, ha ha ha! isn’t that a lovely and novel way of taking your photo, I’ve NEVER seen that before!”), it became at best tut-worthy and at worst, something that made me want to kill small animals.

IMG_0591.JPG

Right Move either had the obligatory Audrey Hepburn negative on block canvas or the Venture Portraits family pile-up shot adorning walls of houses that were being sold in all price brackets. [For a fun evening, I often go on Right Move and tally up the number of homes for sale in a particular area that have at least one Audrey Hepburn and/or a “feature” wall of hideous floral wallpaper.]

IMG_0590.JPG

This image will haunt your nightmares.

I am tired. I’m tired of life, of the struggles of having nobody to share the burdens of it with. So, I’m taking a week off work in an attempt to recharge a little bit. To help lift me from this autumnal gloom, I am going off to Blackpool and I’ll be staying overnight in a 1960s-themed guest house where the bar looks like this:

IMG_0592.JPG

Kill me now.

All quiet on the Stoneclough front

Posted on by
Reply

It’s the calm before the storm.  They arrive tomorrow morning.  I am prepared and ready to do battle with my introvert tendencies; I can deal with the exhaustion in a week.  The thing about living on your own and having a routine, and being an introvert, and slightly high on the autism spectrum, and a bit miserable… is that spending time with others for any length of time really does take it out of you.  It’s difficult for some people to understand this; some people thrive on the company of others, get a little stir-crazy if they’re not around people for any length of time.  For me though, apart from my time at work, I don’t have that much contact with people and, well, I actually quite like that.

April though, she is very special to me and her company is so uplifting, so very easy.  I do joke about fancying her, she’s an attractive woman in all senses, but my affection for her is grounded in her being one of the best friends I’ve ever had.  She has provided some of my best times over the past nine or so years; she has supported me through some of my toughest times.  She has encountered devastation and loss herself, but always, she is April.

I am very lucky to know her and I’m certain those words would be said by everybody who has been fortunate enough to know her.  I’m so happy that she’s taken the time out to come over to visit me.   I feel extremely privileged.

Sacha, on the other hand.  Well, the jury is out on that one, but eight years is a long time and there is a huge difference between a three year old and an eleven year old.  I’m looking forward to seeing her again, it’s going to be… interesting.

Anxiety levels were a little high earlier on as I scoured Morrison’s for inspiration as to what to feed two jet lagged visitors tomorrow.  I went for fruit, cheese and crisps.  And coffee.  I’ll let them decide what they want when they get here.  Needless to say, they’ll want feeding seal cub wellington at 2am, but they’ll have to settle for a kebab.  Oh GOD! That just autocorrected to kabob – must’ve known I was referring to feeding North Americans.  

Twots.

 

Dogatitis

The dog is barking his head off.  His skin has flared up again and he shouts to tell the world that he’s not happy about being itchy.  And there’s nothing I can do to help him.  He has his medicated baths and his flea treatments, but this is just how he gets at this time of year.  It’s desperately sad to witness, but more than that, his incessant barking and scratching and nipping is fucking irritating to the point that I want to kill him.

SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!

Cinderotto

Posted on by
Reply

The little cat goes back home to his beloved daddy tomorrow.  He adores his dad, his dad adores him; it’s a beautiful thing.  

Otto has missed his dad this past fortnight, I can tell.  I can tell by the way he wakes me at dawn by pummelling my face with his paws and purring loudly, his nose touching mine.  He does this to his dad and his dad lets him get away with it, he gets a “fuck off Otto!” from me.  He’s a floppy, silky pyjama case of a cat and I too adore him, but my love of him is a fraction less than my love of sleep these days and, as much as having him flop over me is delightful, I do actually have to get out of bed at some point and drag my arse into work at a reasonable hour.

I think I’ve been a good hostess to the little feller while he’s been here.  Of course, he’s not been allowed to leave the house, but he’s had a nice clean litter tray every day, lots of cuddles, four meals a day… three if you count what goes into the dog because… well, here’s the thing, I have to put his food on my desk in the little study so that the little dog can’t get to it.  The odour, of course, filters into my bedroom.  God, it stinks to high heaven.  I do wish he could eat it a) without throwing it all over my desk and b) in one sitting.  While it’s hanging around, Rocky gets ever so jealous, so he’s been having the odd pouch of Felix too, just to prevent him from exploding with envy.  

Otto came with his own food parcel: a box of Felix pouches and about ten trays of extra special “gourmet” Sheba.  Like a wicked step mother, I’ve been feeding the Sheba to the dog to keep him quiet and the cat has been left with stuff that smells like poo.  

Wax

I don’t hide the fact that I use wax strips to remove my moustache hair.  Despite reassurances from well-meaning blind people (or utter cocks who are lying to me), it can be quite substantial moustache hair, especially if caught in the cruel light of the mirror in the lift at work.  Or caught in heavy machinery.  

Anyway (:@), after waxing my moustache last night, I had a spare strip left over.  Tempting as it was to try it on the dog, I refrained and, in that moment as i held it over the bin, ready to discard it, I had an epiphany… try it on your chiiiiiiiiin… try it on your CHIIIIIIN!  So I did, and it was great.

You see, I can’t see close up enough anymore to tell whether I have out of control beard growth.  People are often too scared to mention these things (or liars), and I can’t pluck blind, so this was a revelation.  I’m so happy!

At the hospital

I had a hospital appointment today to see the neuro-endocrine people following my recent surgery.  I actually thought the appointment had been made in error because I only attended the same clinic in July.  Soooo, I entered the full-to-bursting waiting room with less than positive expectations for the experience that awaited me. I was appalled by one particular site that greeted me as I took my seat: female; overweight; shorts; tattoos; crew cut; bleached hair; talking rubbish at the TV.  But you have to accept that there are lots of different people in the world and that it’s not for long that we have to be in proximity of those we’d never be caught dead associating with.

The TV was on, set to BBC because that’s the safest way to ensure that none of the people in the waiting room are also appearing on the Jeremy Kyle show.  It was a programme about antisocial behaviour, as usual.  After I’d had my blood pressure taken, I returned to the waiting room and, to my horror, the only seat available was next to Madame Tattoo.  I sat down and admired her… ink… on her knee caps… while sending out calls for help via text.  

Looking up, I saw the noticeboard that informed me my doctor’s clinic was running an hour late.  Thank fuck I’d charged my phone.

I sat and waited, watching the site visits to my blog go up and up following a recent post about a potty-mouthed, but adorable,  Dane

.IMG_7795IMG_7798IMG_7800IMG_7806IMG_7815IMG_7816

Unbelievable.

Time ticked on, and the waiting room emptied.  The TV was on a timer and turned itself off.  Mercy!  

I was getting a bit restless, needed a pee, was starving hungry, was anticipating a negative experience with the doctor.  Humph. [Insert unsmiley face emoji here]  And then I was called into to see the consultant… some other guy I’d never seen before… here we go, I rolled my eyes (internally of course, I didn’t want to seem impolite).

I couldn’t have been more wrong.  He explained everything to me, all the different types of hyperparathyroidism, how and why they can occur and then he said: “With you, it’s clear that you’ve been deficient in vitamin D for a number of years.  When you had a test early on in 2013, you had a negligible amount.  Over a period of time, this will affect the feedback mechanism and cause your parathyroid to produce more and more PTH to compensate, and this is probably what happened with you.  We’ll take a blood test and either give you a massive dose of vitamin D, like you’ve had before, or just put you on a maintenance dose for life.”

I was like, what? Really?  Is this anything to do with my Pepsi Max addiction?  

So that’s it.  It should all be sorted.  What I really wanted him to prescribe was a new life in the Mediterranean, but what with NHS cutbacks, they’re no longer offering this particular treatment.  I’ll have to stick with my vitamin supplements and oily fish.

Mirror in the bathroom

Posted on by
Reply

All I want when I go to use the toilet is a little bit of privacy.  I don’t get this at home because I’m accompanied by the little dog wherever I go.  Like Lyra’s pine marten, Pantalaimon, he is my daemon; I’m sure he feels that if he’s ever more than two metres from my ankles, his entire being will evaporate.  So when I go to the bathroom at home, he follows me, sits by my side, tries to jump on my lap, paws me, has a sniff while I wee.  If he gets a little too excited during my pre-walk call of nature, I have to pacify him with the tube from a used toilet roll, which he shreds in the time taken for me to have a wee (TMI).  Visitors to my house might think that I’m just lax in sorting out the recycling, but these things are wonderful to keep on hand for this purpose.

IMG_4342

IMG_4311

Anyway, if the lack of privacy in my own bathroom makes me weep, it is nothing compared the anxiety I face when using a public toilet, particularly the one at work.  It’s one of those hideous arrangements with five interlocking cubicles.  As if assembled from flatpack furniture, these fibreboard contraptions merely separate each toilet while leaving huge gaps at the bottoms and tops.  No sound-proofing, no privacy.

I hate people hearing me when I tinkle.  The sound is amplified so much in the echoey communal bathroom.  Then there’s the possibility of gaseous escapes, or even worse.  At work, I never take a comfort break unless there is a full complement of female colleagues in my office.  This reduces the risk of one of them being in the toilet at the same time as me.  But on a floor of many offices, staffed in the majority by women of the female persuasion, there is always a high risk of there being company whenever I make a call of nature.

Today was such an occasion, but it was company of the absolute worst kind: a mirror hog.  She was there as I entered the room.  Stood in front of the mirror, brushing her short, faux-blonde hair.  For fuck’s sake.  I’d just got into work after a waste of time hospital appointment and I hadn’t “been”.  My heart sank.  I knew that I needed more than just a wee.  

Jesus.  

I gave a cursory nod, rolling my eyes in thoughts, and brushed by her to my favourite cubicle.  My old favourite cubicle (number 1) is dead to me since the flush became unreliable and the cistern’s delayed refill time became too much to bear.  I now go for number 3 because I like to use the sink opposite it when I exit.   She was stood in front of number three.  I hated her.

I entered the cubicle, locked the door and followed my usual routine of wiping over the toilet seat.  This serves two purposes: it clears up the water splashes from the previous flush and also creates a cushion in the pan to reduce tinkle noise.  As I took my seat, she entered cubicle 4 – next to me!  I wanted to kill her.  She won the wee race – obviously she didn’t care as much about me re toilet seat hygiene – and was back at the sink as I left the cubicle to wash my hands.  I glanced across to where she was occupying my favourite sink.  She had placed a makeup bag on it and was applying some whatever it was to her face.  What the fuck?  What was wrong with this bloody woman?  Why couldn’t she do this before she got to work?  

My head was raging with images of bludgeonings as I left the ladies.  This exploded into a full-blown rant when I got back to my desk.

“What the fuck is wrong with women that they have to fanny around in front of the mirror in the bathroom instead of just going in there to use the fucking toilet?  If I had my way I’d remove all mirrors from public toilets, they just encourage stupid women to preen and get in the way of people who want to use the toilet and wash their hands!”

This is particularly true on the rare occasion when I find myself “out” of an evening.  You go to a bar, find yourself in the unfortunate position of having to use the facilities, then can’t get to wash your hands because of the three-deep queue of bloody women slapping on makeup.  More often than not, they dispose of tissues (usually the last of the toilet paper) in the sink, thus blocking them for people who want to use them for their intended purpose.

The mirrors in public toilets serve no logical function, they are surplus to the main requirements of having a wee and washing your hands afterwards.  They are often harshly lit and never show anybody at their best, exposing the tiniest of flaws that make the less confident amongst us despise ourselves even more than we have to.  Why do they even exist?  If mirrors do need to be available for those who can’t go a few hours without pandering to their vanity, they should be placed well away from where normal people just want to use a toilet.  Preferably in a stinking pit of venomous snakes.

 

 

The never ending story

Posted on by
Reply

The Little Dog is an idiot.

The end.

I suppose this could be fleshed out.

Rocky has a habit of being a nuisance; his life’s mission seems to be to cause as much annoyance to other living creatures as possible, me being the main victim. He menaces other dogs because he LOVES them. I suppose we’re lucky in that most dogs, and their owners, are understanding of his type and they just let him get on with shoving his nose up their pets’ anuses before he’s satisfied and then moves on.

He never learns though, and two things that he knows always defeat him are spiders and toads. I no longer dread spider season because of my own fears of the eight-legged monsters, moreso because I know he’ll valiantly try to kill the beasties in a tense and jumpy battle that always concludes with a flattened spider and dog vomit on the carpet. I don’t know whether they tickle his tongue or if they bite him, but he always throws up after getting one in his mouth.

The same goes for toads. We’ve just had an encounter in the yard with a little one, a TINY one. He somehow managed to sniff it out amongst the pots and pursued it with fearless, yet terrified, persistence. His tongue makes contact with toad, toad jumps off, Rocky starts convulsing and then vomits. Always.

It’s like watching the replay of a car crash; you know the outcome, but you’ve just got to observe without intervention because, well, it’s quite funny to see him defeated by something that’s less then 4cm in length. I shooed his nemesis off under the gate. Until next time, toady.

He almost had a mouse once. It was painful viewing as he ran around from one corner of the fireplace to the other, the cat watching in disdain.

Here’s what “they” say about mini schnauzers:

Miniature Schnauzers developed from crosses between the Standard Schnauzer and one or more smaller breeds such as the Poodle and Affenpinscher, as farmers bred a small dog that was an efficient ratting dog.

A “ratting” dog. A rat would beat seven shades of shit out of him.

Get his synopsis:

Miniature Schnauzer
Dog Breed
The Miniature Schnauzer is a breed of small dog of the Schnauzer type that originated in Germany in the mid-to-late 19th century. Wikipedia
Hypoallergenic: Yes
Life span: 12 to 15 years
Temperament: Spirited, Alert, Obedient, Friendly, Fearless, Intelligent
Height: Female: 30–36 cm, Male: 30–36 cm
Colors: Salt & Pepper, Black & Silver, Black, White (rubbish)
Weight: Female: 5.4–8.2 kg, Male: 5.4–9.1 kg

I read all sorts of reviews about this breed of dog before acquiring him. FUCKING LIES!

Still, he probably gets all his worst traits from me. Apparently when he’s looked after by others, he’s an absolute dream, “no problem”, they tell me, “he’s been a really good boy.”

Living with him is a constant reminder of my long list of inadequacies, those things that bring me to the daily conclusion: Tina, you’re weak and you’re shit.

Lifespan: 12 to 15 years. He’s six. It’s going to be a long few years unless I start getting all pack leader on his tufty little arse. Things are going to change, starting tomorrow! He’s going to the spa for a bath, a hair do and a pedicure, then I’ll take him to the pet shop so he can choose his favourite dinners and new toy, then I’ll let him run free down the woods for an hour.

Tough love, that’s what’s needed.

And valium.

Women glow

Posted on by
Reply

It is with great pleasure that I can announce that we’ve had summer. The past two weeks or so have erased the memories of the cold easterly chill that cursed us and made our bones shiver for so long. There has been warmth and sunshine. The nation is invigorated… and burnt to a fucking crisp.

After spending a few hours after work and most of the past two weekends exposing as much as myself as is decent to those wonderful, warming ultraviolet rays, I am carrying a healthy glow. My intention this weekend had been to get sunburnt to within an inch of my life, but sense took over and I saved myself the agony with a good covering of factor 8. I don’t think you can get factor 8 any more.

The smell of sun cream on my skin stimulates such joy. Then I rub it into my eyes and the resultant chemical reaction between Piz Buin and contact lenses causes my corneas to melt. But I don’t care, the tears don’t worry me because my ageing skin is protected for a full day. Apart from the skin on my nose, where the sun cream gets rubbed off pretty much as soon as it’s applied because of my need to constantly clear my nasal passages.

So here in bed, there is pleasant warmth radiating from my, hrrm, not sure what colour they are, “tanned” bits.

The little dog doth explodeth
As I entered my house after coming home from work on Friday afternoon, my joy at welcoming the sunny weekend was immediately turned to dread as a familiar smell hit my senses.

“Oh God, he’s pood”

I went upstairs and approached the bathroom, which is the usual scene of such crimes, to be met with faecal carnage the likes of which I’ve never encountered. The little dog had had a major sickness-induced explosive evacuation in the bathroom. My CSI skills concluded that, in an act of desperation, he’d had to poo in the bathroom, then again in the bathroom, and some more. He thought he was safe, so moved to the landing, where his explosive diarrhoea hit the carpet and the wall, then into my bedroom… where he threw up.

I never knew a dog could projectile vomit until Friday afternoon. I never knew a little dog could produce so much awful smelling poo from one little anus.

I’ve spent a good deal of this weekend pursuing him with a toilet roll and some wet wipes so I could clean his nasty little backside before he rubbed more germ-ridden shit on the carpets and soft furnishings.

And of course throughout all of this, he was trying to clean his own bum, so I had two shitty ends to deal with.

What on earth could have caused my poor little baby to get so poorly? Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that he’s a stupid fuck who prefers to drink stagnant water instead of the fresh stuff I carry around for him while we’re out on our walks.

And then there’s his love of rolling in stuff. Yesterday he surpassed himself with a dead fish. When I bathed him, the magic bubbles released from his fur: general dirt; poo; sand; grass; moss; fish remnants; goose poo; fox poo and la piece de resistance: a cricket.

GOD!

If EVER I think for one second about getting another dog, I will remind myself of this weekend.

A load of bull

Posted on by
Reply

This is a magical time of year. A strange observation for one who doesn’t hold much patience with spirituality, but a true one for somebody who, nonetheless, feels energised by change in season and changing of the landscape from brown to green. Nowhere is this more evident to me than down the local country park where me and the Little Dog take our daily exercise. Just a week ago, the trees were in bud, but remained reluctant to reveal their spring foliage to the world, but now we stroll within tunnels of fresh green.

20130429-221929.jpg

The swallows have returned and I watch, mesmerised by their low-flying acrobatics.

Barring a few more frosty nights, we can just about say that spring has sprung.

Of course, I don’t get much time to bask in nature’s fireworks displays as I have to keep my eyes and ears open for the Little Dog, trying to ensure that he doesn’t annoy too many other dogs or their owners and that he doesn’t roll in goose/fox/dog/horse poo. He’s not a fussy scatophile, he’ll roll in anything that leaves a lingering fecal smell in my car and home.

Every evening we get the opportunity to meet new people and their canine companions, but last week was special: we met Wil the English bull terrier. Wil is a girl, so I think she’s a Wilma, but irrespective of sex, she’s a little honey. By some cruel twist of [can’t think of the word… like what the Nazis wanted] eugenics, English bull terriers have the sweetest natures accompanied by the strangest physical features; some might call them ugly. After just a couple of meetings, Wil now recognises me and comes plodding over to say hello and have her ears tickled while Rocky tries to touch her with his willy. I am simultaneously awash with warmth and despair.

Tonight’s new friend was a border collie puppy called Bella. She was SO excited to see me again that she legged herself up and did a stunt roll as she ran to me to say hello. Rocky tried a Jimmy Savile on her too.

Meeting other dogs makes me ponder what might have been. But without him, I’d never meet those other dogs, enjoy the recognition from Wil, the stunt-rolling Bella, the badly-behaved Bruno. I wouldn’t spontaneously take myself down to the woods and notice the changing of the seasons or appreciate the flight of the swans or the diving of the swallows. I’d be a much poorer person spiritually.

So I thank my snoring sex pest, who, despite his ridiculous behaviour, is actually OK. He’s just a little stupid and over enthusiastic.

H2Orrible
Because of this thing I’m doing this week, I’m not having any pop or coffee and the only drink I can have is tap water. As a child, I’d drink this stuff by the gallon – LOVED it. But as I entered my teens, I discovered my love of coffee, then booze, then the refreshing power of fizzy water and Pepsi to revive me when I was hungover. I lost my love of tap water by the age of about 20.

Once you’ve fallen out of love with something, it’s very difficult to go back. As I sipped reluctantly from my bottle of perfectly nice tap water at my desk today, I pondered how much of the stuff my colleagues drink. They actually enjoy it! Eurgh.

As I regressed into a minor grump, CBT Tina started having a go at me. “You’ve got to stay hydrated or you’ll get a headache. Drink plenty of water and it’ll help keep your tummy feeling full. Also, you’ve got shitbreath, you need a drink.” The bitch was right again.

She’s always right.

Living in the love of the common pervert

Posted on by
4

You know, you write a perfectly innocent post about enjoying long walks in the local woods with your canine companion, then your blog gets some Google traffic from people searching for “Secret life of doggers” after Channel 4 show a documentary of the same title.

People are clearly perverts. I’m outraged that my fine and morally fibrous musings should attract such attention.

Dogging
I’m not at all sure of the etiquette, but if it means you pick people up for sex while walking your dog, then I’ve got no hope; not with my furry little companion. He’d probably try to have sex with whomever caught my fancy… and then empty his anal glands on their trousers. I assume that people who are up for that sort of activity might be acceptable of all sorts of eventuality, but I’m certain that that would be a step too far.

Arrested development
Somewhere between the ages of 18 months and 42 years, a vital developmental switch just didn’t turn on for me. This “you’re a girl, so you should like pink, wear dresses and play with dolls” thing was never activated in me. It must be a recessive gene or something, but when my sister was messing about with Girl’s World and worrying about makeup and shit, I just didn’t get it. My schoolfriends had dolls and I was utterly bewildered by their fascination in these bits of plastic that were quite frankly weird and often scary.

I was confused: why would anybody play with a doll that was supposed to be a baby, which by definition is crap and useless, when you could play with Eagle-eyed Action Man and throw him from the top of the stairs and watch his parachute open. There was Lego: you could MAKE stuff! There was paper and coloured pencils and pens and you could DRAW stuff. What the hell could you do with a doll that mimicked a baby? Oh, of course, you could pretend to be its mum, because we all recognised that our mums had the best lives going: household budgeting; meal planning; childcare; cooking; cleaning; more cleaning; educating; pastoral duties; ad infinitum. Jeez – who in their right mind would want to be a mum?

So no, I never wanted that, ever.

Something strange has happened to me over the past year though: I’ve really grown to like the Barbie cartoons and films. They’re really good. At last, at the age of 42 and a bit, I have discovered the magic of Barbie!

Of course, I can thank my niece for this, and my iPad. When the little one stays over, she creeps into my bed the following morning. This morning I woke at 9am to find her next to me.

“Can we play on the iPad now please?”

“Yeah, sure, here you go. What do you want to do with it?”

“Can we have a look at YouTube for Barbie?”

“Absolutely!”

And so, I had an extra two hours of snoozing, all thanks to Barbie.

Praise.

To do
I have a to do list. My life is one big mañana, but I need to get my act together. It’s easier to do stuff that’s obviously manageable, so here goes:

  • Cancel my TV subscription with Virgin. I never watch anything other than Channel 4 (because I’m a pervert). So I’ve bought myself a little indoor aerial and I’ve ordered a freeview recording, rewinding, pausing box thing that’ll pay for itself in three months.
  • Make an appointment for a contact lens check up. I wear these bastard little gel things occasionally, rarely in fact, but I need to go for a check up to ensure that the four times I get to wear them each year isn’t damaging my eyes
  • Laundry
  • Bury Jeff the weeping fig – he’s finally given up the ghost. I think I’ll replace him with an aspidistra
  • Unfriend Kim Jong Un on Facebook. That little fucker is just an attention-seeking twat and it’s the best way to deal with him

    • I need sleep. All this inconsequential sex in woodland car parks has wiped me out.

    Something under the bed is drooling

    Posted on by
    Reply

    Maybe I’m changing my opinions about Easter. I’ve been off work for three days and there’s still one more of the break to go. During this time, nothing special has happened, but it’s been lovely. Each day, me and the Little Dog have embarked on epic treks of completely familiar territory, taking in the spring sunshine, yet chilled by the persistent winter.

    The past three days have seen us both set off on our usual walk down the local woods, taking the former canal path along the disused and barely recognisable canal that runs alongside the river as it makes its way towards the big city. Watching him explode like a shot from a gun as soon as I remove his lead brings the deepest joy. Seeing his lopsided running reignites my suspicions that he was the last one left in the litter for a reason. He’s not the sharpest tool in the box, but he loves to run… and sniff… and play with other dogs, irrespective of whether they’re bearing their teeth and growling at him to back off.

    The woodland that we go to is part of a country park that has grown out of industrial wasteland. Emerging from the undergrowth and hidden by trees, remains the brickwork and other telltale signs of the coal mining heritage in the area. The former canal is a graveyard to a few barges that have died with it, just the skeletons of their bows persist, poking up from their leafy tombs. The whole area now hides that the lives of over thirty souls were lost to mining accidents.

    20130401-005704.jpg

    As a child, and as an adult, I read C S Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia and his description of how Caer Paravel became an unrecognisable ruin, where nature had reclaimed the man made structures, and it reflects on how this area has been reclaimed in such a short space of time.

    20130401-005925.jpg

    Given its chance, nature will always triumph.

    The children in the playground are probably oblivious to the history of the place, and good for them: they’re there to play and burn off energy. Families enjoy walks around the man-made lake and feeding the waterfowl at the jetty. Anglers spend entire days camped out there, doing whatever it is they do (smoking skunk is my educated guess). We dog-walkers are introduced to each other through the enthusiasm of our canine companions.

    I greet this time of year with much happiness. The lighter evenings afford daily visits to my favourite dogging venue. The Little Dog gets to exercise properly and return to his optimal weight, whereas I never do. He’s a little out of condition at the moment, the awful weather and dark evenings have provided little opportunity for proper exercise. But the past few days seem to have worn him out, judging from the snoring coming from under the bed.

    I’ve not changed my opinions about Easter, nor have I changed my opinions about having a four day weekend; I’ve just learned to make the most of it.