I was rather glad when the relief showed up this morning;
the night shift was rather hard work.
As I drove home the pundits on the radio were interviewing
the Business Secretary; I say “interviewing” – “slapping his arse and
calling him Susan” might be a more accurate description. Having been asked
all sorts of questions on the easing of lock-down, the chap was clearly reading
out statements that someone else had prepared for him, and he wasn’t convincing
anyone. And he just went to pieces when asked about what the housing minister
has been up to. Mind you the housing minister has been a bit cheeky – he went
out on the beer (champagne) with a load of his rich mates, and then overturned an official
decision
to allow his mate to make a small (large) fortune.
I should have gone into politics. There is far more
opportunity to misuse public office as a minister than as a blood tester.
There’s very little scope for embezzling in a blood bank.
Once home I was greeted by Treacle and Pogo who were
pleased to see me. Fudge was in the garden; when he saw me he ran into the
house to where we keep the leads, and he then started shouting. I took the hint
and took the dogs out.
I drove them down to Orlestone Woods. I spent a few minutes
getting the dogs to pose for a photo (it takes some doing), and just as
I had them all in the perfect pose some coiffured effeminate minced right
through the middle of where the dogs were posed, loudly fussing about our being
in his way. Matters weren’t helped by his holding a small fluffy dog at arm’s
length in front of him and waving it around. Obviously my hounds thought this
was some sort of game and started jumping up. Up to this point I could have
shrugged it all off as just another dog-owner who knows nothing about dogs, but
I’m never at my best after a night shift. When he shrieked “Get down you
brute!” I saw red. Pogo is many things; a “lump”, a “stoopid dog”,
a “Pogey Bear”… but a “brute”? This chap then started clucking
that his dog had been attacked by an Alsatian and seemed to be implying that
Pogo was to blame. I replied that I wasn’t surprised his dog had been attacked
since he clearly didn’t know that waving a small fluffy dog about as though it
was a toy would make other dogs think it *was* a toy. He then shouted
that his dog had been attacked by an Alsatian (in case I didn’t hear it the
first time). I’d had enough by then and suggested that judging by his
behaviour, the attack was entirely of his causing and that maybe he should have
learned a thing or two about dogs before he got one of his own causing. This
didn’t go as well as it might have done, and he then flounced off into the
distance demanding that he had to be in front.
I did chuckle when I got back to the car; another dog
walker described the chap with whom I’d had the run-in. He’d had a set-to with
him as well.
I came home and went to bed. I managed to stay in it for
four hours. Treacle came and slept with me… perhaps “guarded me” might
be a better description as she flew off in a barking fit with annoying
regularity.
Once awake I made some toast and went through the monthly
accounts. I like to account for every penny because it is amazing what I never
get billed for. Having paid for parking at the hospital in Hastings and buying
a Smargard and several Amazon purchases over the last few months, I’ve spent
over forty quid that has never come up on any statement.
Again I’m not poor; just nowhere near as rich as I would
like to be,
I
then got the ironing board out and ironed for an hour or so whilst watching “Guest
House Paradiso” on Netflix, then with ironing ironed I played “Cookie
Jam” on Facebook games. There was talk of going to the beach for a walk
with "My Boy TM" and his tribe, but it was too hot
to go out. I had thought about sitting in the garden but it was too hot to even
do that.
"er indoors TM" sorted dinner
which we scoffed whilst watching yesterday’s episode of “Bake Off: The
Professionals”. She’s now taken the dogs out; I would have an early night
if it wasn’t so hot…
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