I wish I knew how three small dogs can take up so much bed space.
When in their baskets they curl up so tightly. When on the sofa with me there
is plenty of space. When on the bed they seem to undergo some Doctor Who / Star
Trek - like dimensional transformation to take up about a hundred times more
space than is physically possible.
I gave up fighting for space, got up, and watched an episode of
"Shameless" in which the rather unmoral young lady who porked
someone to death in yesterday's episode was now trying to have her wicked way
with a policeman. The policeman wasn't having any of it... because he was
secretly having his wicked way with her younger (too much younger!)
sister. There's a lot of wicked ways going on in that show...
I had a quick Munz from the comfort of the sofa and Munzed a
virtual magnet which was a result.
As I drove off to work the pundits on the radio were interviewing
one of the head honchos at British and American Tobacco whose profits are going up. It seems that either people
aren't giving up smoking, or if they are then those still smoking are prepared
to pay good money for fags. It was mentioned that the vaping division of the
company was being run at a loss. Vaping doesn't seem to be any substitute for a
fag.
And it was claimed that the Americans have captured a UFO though everyone quizzed on
the matter was rather vague about what they were going to do with it.
I got to work - the allocation of shifts for the next few months
had been announced, and I spent a little while organising my diary and swapping
those shifts that don't suit me. In all honest not many of them do suit for the
simple reason I'd rather not do them. I've asked for a formal meeting to talk
about taking semi-retirement. I wonder if I will get one.
I got as much as I could possibly get done during the morning and
then slipped off. I had the afternoon off so’s to look after “Darcie Waa Waa
TM” whilst “Daddy’s Little Angel TM” had a
driving lesson. As I drove to Folkstone so my phone rang. It was the most
recent fruit of my loin. Where was I? On the motorway. But where I was wasn’t
the important matter. The burning question was when was I. When was I? I was
late, that’s when I was. I’d got the time of the driving lesson wrong. Fortunately,
only by half an hour, so it wasn’t the disaster it might have been.
As “Daddy’s Little Angel TM” set off (with
instructions not to mow down the proles) “Darcie Waa Waa TM”,
Pogo and I sat on the sofa and watched sad singalong drivel on You-Tube. It passed
an hour though, and littlun didn’t cry at all,
“Daddy’s Little Angel TM” and “Darcie Waa Waa TM”
walked me back to my car… via McDonalds.
I came home and took the dogs to the woods. We had a good walk and
went round the woods with no “episodes” at all. There was a minor
incident when I lost Bailey. After five minutes frantically shouting and
whistling for her I eventually realized she had been in the long grass at my
feet all along.
With
walk walked we returned home, and whilst “er indoors TM”
boiled up some dinner I set about ironing shirts. Dinner was rather good, and after
we’d slobbed about watching telly for far too long I suddenly realised that the
council were coming for some bulky waste in the morning.
So
we heaved “er indoors TM”’s old bike and a knacked carpet
washer through the house into the front garden. I nearly lost a finger as we
manhandled a dead fridge through the house. And I seriously considered dropping
the old bedroom telly out of the bedroom window rather than breaking my back
trying to carry the thing outside. That old telly cost me a fortune back in the
day – it was a Matsui one and they went out of business thirteen years ago.
I
had to laugh when two minutes later there was a knock on the door and a passing
normal person asked if he could have the old bike. I told the chap that the bike
has been at the back of the shed for over twelve years, the tyres had perished,
the brakes had locked solid, the chain was seized up, it was poggered beyond
redemption and fit only for the dustbin. But he seemed to be up for a
challenge. He might fix it. He might get hours of entertainment trying to fix it.
He might just chuck it in the river. But that bike is now somebody else’s
problem.
Sadly
we had to tell the council in advance exactly which four items of tat they were
to collect or we would have put out something else in its place. If any of my
loyal readers have a broken bike they want rid of, leave it in the front garden
before seven o’clock tomorrow morning…
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