30 December 2018 (Sunday) - Pett Level


Fudge spent the night curled up with me. I say “curled up”; “sprawled out” might be a better description of how he was lying.
Eventually I got up; if I spend too long with the CPAP machine blowing air up my nose I get a sore beak.

Over brekkie I saw I’d got a taker for one of the records I was trying to flog. That’s two quid I wasn’t expecting. To be honest I’m not fussed for the two quid. Having priced the lot up (from seeing the same things on Amazon and eBay) I was actually rather hoping that someone would offer me fifty quid for the lot. No such luck.
I spent a few minutes playing “Candy Crush” then had a look round the rest of Facebook. I was absolutely amazed to see that fox hunting (with hounds) had been going on over Christmas. If a fox is a nuisance there are *far* better ways to deal with it than to charge round the countryside with horses and dog and ripping the thing to shreds. Aren’t there?

We settled the dogs and drove down to Hastings. The journey is a bit far for Pogo just yet. We went to see mum – it was her birthday two days ago. We had an interesting chat about Brexit which she started by saying she didn’t understand it and that she had loads of questions. She went on to demonstrate she didn’t have the faintest idea of anything remotely related to the subject. I did suggest that she might have asked these questions *before* casting her vote rather than two years after. For some inexplicable reason she had an unshakable conviction that once Brexit is implemented, she will be able to buy New Zealand cheese in her local supermarket, and that was her only consideration when voting.
Did I ever mention that I don’t believe in democracy?
My brother soon arrived; today was his birthday. We exchanged insults. They were all going off for lunch, so we left them to it and slowly headed homewards. Firstly via a geocache in Fairlight which hadn’t been found for over a year. We found it. Happy dance.
We then stopped in Pett Level for a little wander about finding a couple of geocaches as we went. As we approached our quarry we met a couple of young children who proudly announced they were geocaching, and showed us what they had found.

We made our way back along the beach to the car and drove off. We were feeling peckish so thought we might hunt out some lunch. We hadn’t been driving long when we found The Red Pig. The Red Pig is rather unique; it is a small rather ramshackle caravan in a lay-by serving home-made food. We sat inside with several other people. It was a tad cosy, but everyone was friendly. We had the eight-inch sausages; they were really good. But we want to go back to try some of the other dishes that people were having.
I took a few photos of our walk and our lunch.

We came home and took the dogs round the park. As we went Pogo didn’t fight with any other dogs which was something of a result. We met OrangeHead who was out with her Chunky Little Friend. They’ve not been together for months. C.L.F. had her little dog along. I knew he’d been ill; it was good to see he was on the mend.

I did intend getting our old living room table out of the shed in readiness for “Project Lego” but by the time we’d finished doing this and that it was getting dark. I thought I could do that at some other time,
Having had a rather substantial lunch neither of us felt very hungry, so "er indoors TM" suggested she made mushroom soup for tea. She boils up a rather good bit of soup. Usually. However this evening she was subject to food blender malfunction. Fortunately the dogs were ale to clear up that which went all over the floor. I swabbed up the worktop a little while later, and I kept well out of the way as she wiped it off the walls not too long after that.
The soup she did make was very tasty, but I am led to believe that we’ll be getting a new food blender soon.

Matt came round for one of the records I was flogging (I didn’t take his money), then with "er indoors TM" off bowling I spent the evening watching a docu-drama about the life of Hattie Jacques whilst ironing some shirts. They don’t iron themselves, you know…

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