I've found that the
simple act of pulling the duvet up over my head helps me sleep
longer. I didn't stir until 7.30am this morning. I came down to find
"Furry Face TM" was still in his
basket fast asleep; completely oblivious to the cat which was sitting
on the window sill.
My piss boiled somewhat
as I looked at social media over brekkie. Last week people who've
never heard of the show "Top Gear" or ever read
anything written by it's presenter were swearing undying loyalty to
Jeremy Clarkson. At the weekend people who've never heard of the
Great A'Tuin were distraught over the death of Terry Pratchett.
This morning (St
Patrick's Day) seemed to be "pretend you are Irish"
day; with people who've never been closer to Dublin than Clackett
Lane making out that they love the Emerald Isle. Bearing in mind you
can't get further from Ireland than Kent and still be in the UK, why
do people feel they have to jump on bandwagons?
I took my dog for a walk.
We went out through the park and went along some roads we rarely
visit to get to Park Farm. I'd had a report that one of my geocaches
had gone missing. Someone had reported "There was nothing
here. If it was magnetic an where I think it should be it is now gone
I'm afraid". I walked a mile (and a bit) to find
there actually was something there. However it wasn't magnetic "an"
I'm pretty sure the non-finder had the wrong place in mind.
Mind you for all that I'm
being just the teensiest bit sarcastic I'm glad when people log that
they couldn't find something. If nothing else it gives me a target
for a dog walk.
We carried on into Park
Farm where we met an old twat. Fudge went up to his dog and sniffed.
Twat's dog sniffed Fudge. Dogs do that. Twat went hysterical, and
started swatting and kicking at my dog. Apparently no one and no
thing should ever get within twenty yards of this twat's dog; the
fact that the footpath was only five yards wide was my problem and
not his.
I politely suggested that
I would not try to pick a physical fight with someone twenty-five
years younger than myself, and even more politely explained the
potential consequences of his attempting to harm my dog. I explained
just how lucky he was that he'd not actually made contact with any of
his attempted blows, and I walked away. It took a good twenty minutes
for my piss to stop boiling.
What would I have done if
he had actually kicked my dog? I think I really would have punched
his lights out. Did I ever mention that I never wanted a dog...
We came home via Pets at
Home. We sat in the vets waiting area for a few minutes so's "Furry
Face TM" could get used to the place. We
do this at least twice every week. He's fine with the place *when*
he's not got to see the vet. When he has an appointment I have to
drag or carry him in. How does he know?
Whilst we were there I
got him a bag of Baker's Weight Control food. Vet says he's
overweight... despite our best efforts of reducing his food intake
and going on walks that would kill a lesser dog he's still not losing
any weight. The nice lady in Pets at Home told us that the dried
foods (like the stuff he's been having) are full of sugar.
That would explain a lot...
I came home and saxed for
a bit. And after banishing a howling dog to the garden I saxed some
more. I then got a zinger burrito from the KFC for lunch. Not too
shabby at all (as "My Boy TM"
would say) and scoffed it whilst watching the new series on
Channel 4. The first episode of "Raised
by Wolves" was quite amusing. I hope it continues in
that way.
I then spent the
afternoon solving geo-puzzles; I've solved two series of the things
now in readiness for an upcoming jolly to Brighton whilst my dog
slept.
This eveningg the clans
gathered in darkest Willesborough where I stayed awake for an episode
of "The Flash" (Zoom Zoom). It's quite
entertaining, but we're up to episode ten and nothing's actually
happened...
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