Yesterday I mentioned that I saw an advert for nudey sauce romps on Facebook and had reported it. This morning as I scoffed toast I was presented with the same advert. So much for reporting filth and Facebook’s “Community Standards”, eh? As I’ve mentioned before it seems fine for porn-mongers to advertise their wares, but whenever I’ve pointed this out on my own feed I get a formal warning. This morning I contented myself with making a comment of “which one do I get to pork?” and left it at that.
Once
the dogs had scoffed their brekkie I took them up to Challock. As we drove the
pundits on the radio were quite open that there have been no new developments
in Ukraine overnight, but that didn’t stop them jabbering on about it.
We
got to Kings Wood rather later than planned, but we still had a good walk; if
perhaps a tad more eventful than I might have hoped. Having got rather
over-excited at a spooked pheasant that went (flew) straight upwards the
puppies then set off in hot pursuit of a squirrel that didn’t. And there were
several somethings in the tree-tops squawking like things possessed. Were they
parakeets? Fortunately all the hounds responded to the whistle and came to me
so I could be sure they didn’t get in the way of passing horses and cyclists,
and (unlike on Wednesday) we managed to avoid rolling in fox poo and in
a dead hedgehog.
We did have one “episode” though. There was some woman walking a slavering vicious rather nasty dog (on a lead), She had two toddlers with her. Bailey went up to say hello to the toddlers and they had a complete meltdown. How does that work? You have absolutely no problem with mother’s death-hound which is trying to take lumps out of all and sundry, but you are terrified of Bailey? (For those of my loyal readers who have not yet met her, Bailey is just like a real dog, only much, much smaller. Probably weighs about five pounds. Certainly smaller than the average cat)
We came home, and I did the dogs’ flea treatments. I did Treacle first so she didn’t realise what was coming. Morgan had his done without problem, but Bailey seemed a tad suspicious of the idea. But with flea treatments dobbed on their necks, the dogs soon settled as I had a cuppa.
I
got up without disturbing Treacle, and carried the sleeping puppies to their
crate, then set off west-wards to Pembury. As I drove it seemed to be "National
Drive Like An Idiot" Day. Not only were ongoing cars going far too
fast up the middle of the road, cyclists were going the wrong way round
roundabouts, and people older than me were randomly flying across the road on
electric scooters.
I
think I either drove incredibly skilfully or was incredibly lucky to get to
Pembury without crashing into any of them.
I
popped into Tesco at Pembury again; the place was heaving. Does every pensioner
for miles around *really* have to go for their weekly shopping
mob-handed at mid day? And if they do, why can't they go round the shop, put
what they want into the trolley and then take all of it to the counter in one
go (like everyone else). Why do they have to have the husband at the
checkout jealously guarding it from all-comers whilst the wife dashes from
aisle to till and then back to another aisle getting and paying for their
shopping one item at a time?
Once
I finally got to the head of the queue there was another delay. The woman on
the till felt that more tills needed to be opened (they did) so there
was an argument amongst the five till operatives on duty as to who needed to
call over the tannoy for backup. Everyone agreed they needed help; no one
wanted to be the one asking for it. I wish I didn't have such a powerful idiot
magnet.
I got to work; it was much the same as it ever is. As I worked I had a phone call. “Stormageddon – Bringer of Destruction TM” wanted to know who would win in a fight between a microwave and “Darcie Waa Waa TM” 's bum, and “Daddy’s Little Angel TM” had the sulks as something has eaten all of her neons. The jury is still out as to exactly what has been doing the eating, but I am reliably assured it wasn't Pogo.
I
quite enjoyed the morning's walk round the woods, but the flip side of a late
start is the late finish. Leaving Pembury after nine o'clock at night can be
something of a pain in the glass. Especially as the A28 at Bethersden was
closed and I had to take a diversion down a road we know as "Earl's
shortcut". Whilst half a mile shorter than the bit of the A28 it cuts
out, the country lane is narrow and twisty and used as a rat run by all and
sundry... even at half past nine at night.
And
it didn’t help that the diversion to avoid the road works had a road closure of
its own half-way along it. I wonder whose genius idea that was… and how much
they get paid.
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