Five people on my “Facebook Friends”
list had a birthday today. “Facebook Friends” are odd things; only one
of these five has made any effort whatsoever to keep in touch over the last few
years.
After my usual dull
morning routine I set off. I didn't go round the town Points-of-Interest-ing
this morning. Instead I drove up the motorway and into Aylesford where I capped
a Qrewzee and deployed a carrot on the appropriately named Bailey's bridge.
There's never a dull moment when playing Munzee.
As I drove the pundits
on the radio were talking about how the Princess of Wales has admitted to tweaking up her family photo
that was all over the news yesterday. I can't help but feel that real
princesses run round in their undercrackers bashing things with a great big
sword, and don't ponce around with PhotoShop. That's what real princesses have
flunkies for.
And there was a lot of
talk about how much vets are charging for their services. It
was mentioned this morning that fifteen years ago ninety per cent of UK vets
were privately operated. These days most are part of large corporate chains,
and don't actually advertise that most or all of the vets in any given area are
all part of the same company. They certainly don't advertise that they have a
monopoly and so can charge what they like. Back in the day when Sid needed his
teeth taking out, “Daddy’s Little Angel TM” shopped around
for the best quote, and there was quite a bit of difference in the prices being
quoted. But nowadays with every vet being operated by the same bunch, they are
all going to quote the same price, safe in the knowledge that they won't be
undercut.
Some woman phoned in to
the radio this morning claiming she'd just spent seven hundred quid having her
dog's teeth cleaned. My cousin is facing a two thousand pounds vet bill at the
moment.
Vets have never been
cheap (My little Fudge cost me a small fortune towards the end) but their
prices are getting rather out of hand.
I got to work; there
was cake. Chocolate ring donuts. Given a choice, chocolate ring donuts would be
a long way down on my list of preferences, but the choice I was given was
"have it or go without", so I had one. It was rather good
actually.
I came home to find “er indoors TM” had the
builders in. She wants the bathroom doing. I don’t. I want the bathroom done. A
subtle difference. The kitchen is rather good now it has been done, but the
actual doing was rather painful.
“er indoors TM” boiled up a very good
bit of dinner which we washed down with a bottle of cheap plonk which was
certainly better than stuff three times the price. And with dinner scoffed I
shared cheese and biscuits with the dogs. They had biscuits, I had cheese.
Sadly just mousetrap. The camembert I’d had my eye on expired three months ago
and smelt rather grim.
And again Treacle showed how she understands every word I say. When
all the biscuits were gone I said “all gone”. Morgan and Bailey hung
around looking hopeful; Treacle immediately went off to sit with “er indoors TM”. She understands
every word. Treacle that is; not “er indoors TM”.
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