This morning amongst the various rantings and
ravings on Facebook I saw something that made me smile. And then think. The
calls for Britain to pay reparations for the
slave trade
are growing. I’m in no way trying to belittle the horrific trade that went on
for years, but I didn’t do it. I’m in no way responsible, and I’m being asked
to pay for something which happened hundreds of years before I was born. So…
the suggestion has been made that the UK funds its reparations by suing Norway
and Italy for the Viking and Roman invasions.
Why not?
If I’m responsible for
something that is nothing to do with me and happened hundreds of years before I
was born, then so are today’s Italians and Norwegians. And if that sounds
ridiculous, then so is expecting me to take responsibility.
And then there was
someone asking for prayers for her dog who had a kidney infection. Recently the
same dog has had liver issues, surgery to remove a toy that he’s swallowed, and
back problems. Why pray to a god to solve an issue that this god could have
prevented in the first place?
Meanwhile there was
quite a bitter argument kicking off about whether the cartoon character Scrooge
McDuck had ever fathered children.
We got the dogs organised and set off to Repton and Dog Club. As we
drove we played Steve’s “Guess the Lyrics” competition on the radio. I
hadn’t a clue; “er indoors TM” thought it sounded familiar.
“Mother's got her hairdo to be done. She says they're too old for toys”.
It was the Pet Shop Boys.
There was a road accident on the way to Dog Club which
delayed us; there was quite a queue of people waiting to get in when we arrived.
Dog Club was great fun. One of our regular attendees described it as “Disneyland
for Dogs”. The dogs had great fun, and bearing in mind it is actually “Ashford
Dog Socialising Club” we had one or two results as well. Dogs who
previously wouldn’t leave their owner’s side were wandering around with the
others. Dogs who really didn’t like other dogs were playing. When she first
started Treacle really hated us having anything to do with other dogs; now she
tolerates them, and joins the throng when treats are being dished out.
As we drove home Steve
was doing the “Mystery Year” competition on the radio. The music sounded
familiar, and in the news that year was the opening of the UK’s first nudist beach. I remember that place
opening; it wasn’t far from the disused sand quarry where we used to play as
kids, and a dozen or so of us would regularly traipse down to the nudey beach
at Fairlight Glen in the vain hope of seeing some really foxy young ladies in
the nip. All we ever saw was fat old blokes; one of whom would regularly
partake of an al-fresco joddrell, but we weren’t deterred.
We had a cuppa and a
bit of cake then I made a start in the garden. Not-so-nice-next-door’s
tree had dropped white petals all over the place so I got the garden vacuum out
and voomed around. Then went round with the lawn mower; if nothing else dog
turds are so much easier to spot in a mowed lawn. I then pulled weeds from
gravel and bodged a repair to not-so-nice-next-door’s fence. The thing
is slowly collapsing; I’ve offered to pay to have it replaced but I think my
doing so caused offence.
As I kicked shingle
about to cover the bare patches, I saw Bailey nosing at a small hole in the
fence. Fortunately I could see the hole was far too small for her to get
through. I carried on with what I was doing, and five minutes later I watched
her climb back into our garden through that hole.
I’d saved some slats
from a poggered fence panel which we replaced a while ago; they came in handy
today. Building a stopper for that hole only took half an hour.
I then drove “er indoors TM” to the
station. Together with her mates she was off to London for some big Abba
tribute concert thingy. Dressed in what I can only describe as a “wipe-clean”
outfit, had it been “Daddy’s Little Angel TM” I wouldn’t have let her
out of the house.
We dropped “er indoors TM” off; the
dogs all started crying. They were sobbing; they were so heartbroken that she’d
gone. We came back, then after another cuppa and more cake I cracked on with
fence painting. As I painted so the dogs would come to see what I was doing
then go back inside. I went in a couple of times to see what they were doing; they
were sleeping. After four hours and five panels painted I reached a sensible
stopping point so I stopped.
I cleared up, washed the paint off of my hands then spent
an hour or so ironing whilst watching episodes of “Friday Night Dinner”,
then over a dinner of KFC I watched a film on Netflix. “Three Day Millionaire”
was a comedy. I know it was a comedy because it says so on Wikipedia.
I’m glad Wikipedia told me it was a comedy; I would never have known.
And then a message. “er indoors TM” was
on the train home. Could I collect her from the station. I popped a fleece over
my pyjamas. I had a plan to leave the dogs sleeping, but they saw me putting on
the fleece, so I took them for a little ride.
“er indoors TM” had a good day. I did
too, but I suspect hers was rather more relaxed.
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