With “er indoors TM” and “Darcie Waa Waa TM”
spending the night in the attic room, all the dogs wanted to be up there too. “er indoors TM” had said "NO!"
on Saturday night and the dogs had just whinged all night long, so last night
she relented and (if nothing else) I got a good night's kip. I have a
vague recollection of them all stomping downstairs in the small hours, but that
might have been a dream.
I made toast, watched
an episode of "Big Mouth", and then turned the telly off and
put the remote control where favourite smallest granddaughter wouldn't be able
to reach it. Last night she was quite aggressively pointing at it and demanding
"Give it!” Letting her loose on it would be a recipe for disaster.
With a few minutes
spare I had a little look at the Internet and rolled my eyes at Facebook. This
morning there was quite the argument kicking off on one of the Star Trek
related pages I follow. Someone who obviously hasn't watched much Star Trek was
asking who would win in a fight between one load of fictional aliens and
another. Loads of people were weighing in with various opinions; all seemingly
oblivious that this hypothetical fight had formed the basis of the entire third
season of "Star Trek: Picard". It never fails to amaze me how
so many people get into so many bitter fights over that about which they know
absolutely nothing.
And then my phone asked
for a virus scan, and whilst it was at it, it checked out my Internet connection
which is “fast”. Or so it claims. Is it? I have no idea.
I got dressed. With
everyone else up in the attic room I could get dressed in the bedroom with the
light on. There is something strangely satisfying in knowing that your
undercrackers are the right way round *before* you pull them up.
I
resisted the temptation to go upstairs to say goodbye to everyone, and letting
sleeping dogs (and llittluns) lie I set off to work. I am reliably
informed that “Darcie Waa Waa TM” eventually woke up some
three hours after I left.
As I set off so the bin lorry came up the road.
I'd heard their advance party shouting to each other earlier.
I drove up the motorway
listening to the pundits on the radio who were talking about the mass shooting
in America where some
maniac with a gun has killed eighteen people, injured a dozen more, and is
still on the loose. The point was made that this isn't really news as this sort
of thing has already happened over
five hundred times in America this year. There have been a few calls to ban
guns, but no one is really listening to the "let's not kill everyone"
lobby; clearly those who make guns have quite a bit of power over there.
It would also seem that
the "let's not kill everyone" lobby is doing equally badly in
the Middle East with the Gaza situation going from bad to worse, and the
Americans now bombing
Iranian installations in Syria.
When I was a lad the
future looked to bright... I despair for what “Darcie Waa Waa TM”
is going to get when she grows up.
As I drove I kept
looking at the car's dashboard. I'd left home with the trip meter thingy
telling me I'd driven four hundred and sixty miles since I'd last got petrol. I
thought I would probably be OK to get to the filling station in Aylesford (and
if I wasn't then that would be an adventure for today's diary). The car
gave quite a loud alarm five miles up the motorway telling me that I had forty
miles of petrol left, and the gauge's needle seemed to be dropping fast as I
found myself slowing behind the stream of traffic.
I got to the petrol
station without conking out though; which was probably for the best. And from
there I popped over to the Sainsbury's supermarket for a sandwich and some
sugar and stuff. That trip also passed off without incident, which was a mild
disappointment. The sour faced battleaxe who works there who had been the
subject of bitter gossip in the filling station was nowhere to be seen this
morning. That was something of a shame; whenever I go into Sainsburys in the
mornings I've taken to smiling at her and asking innocuous questions just to
provoke her. You'd be amazed at the nasty and spiteful replies she gives to the
most innocent remarks. I have complained in the past (to no avail) but
winding her up is much more fun.
I got to work where I
had something of a "glandular fever" sort of day. I blame the
kids getting bored during the half-term holidays.
For those of my loyal
readers who aren't up on the intricacies of virology, the virus which causes
glandular fever is a rather weedy thing. It dies when out of the human body for
only a few minutes. It is spread by close contact; most easily by snogging. A
few years ago I was telling the trainees about glandular fever. One young lady
trainee proudly announced that she'd had glandular fever. Another looked her up
and down with great contempt and announced "yeah... you look the sort".
They didn't actually
come to blows, but things were tense for a while.
And talking of not being up on the intricacies
of virology, “Daddy’s Little Angel TM” remains diseased. To
be fair to her, viruses are rather small things so it is easy to lose sight of
the little blighters. But whilst she remains moribund we get to keep hold of “Darcie
Waa Waa TM” for another night, which is far easier to write
about than to actually do. It has to be said it would be a lot easier if she
weren't constantly trying to snog the dogs. Poor Bailey looks absolutely exhausted
with it all.
As I write this “er indoors TM” is doing
bath time with “Darcie Waa Waa TM”. All three dogs are in the
bathroom too. I think they are gloating as they probably see bath time as some
sort of punishment; in their world it probably is. The sounds emanating from
the tub all sound rather traumatic, but I’m enjoying a wonderful moment of peace
and quiet.
It won’t last long.
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