I was woken by the sound of Treacle getting off the bed (with
a bit of a thump) at half past four. She shouldn't be jumping with her iffy
leg. And certainly shouldn't be going down the stairs. I hurried after her and
found her at the top of the stairs looking rather pathetic. So I carried her
down. She's quite a lump to carry; let alone downstairs. We got downstairs and
I put her down and went and opened the back door. She stood by the foot of the
stairs looking pathetic so I carried her outside. She hobbled about a bit for
ten minutes showing absolutely no sign of doing that for which we'd come
outside. After ten minutes she eventually squatted, and there was then the
sound of something jumping on the fence (a cat maybe). Treacle shot up
the garden like a bullet from a gun, barking like a thing possessed.
When I caught up with her whatever she'd chased had long
gone, and she was looking very sorry for herself. She'd obviously again
strained whatever she'd strained yesterday.
I carried her back to bed, but I was wide awake. I made
brekkie and watched another episode of "Brassic" in which him
who played "Grumio" in "Plebs" had acquired a
life-like but faulty sex doll, and had the hump that no one would test it for
him. He was keen to give it a go himself, but not until he'd found out what the
fault was. Or, to be precise, until someone else had found out what the fault
was.
I set off to work a tad earlier than I might have done. I
used the time to go round town hunting down points of interest. Mind you these
points were only of interest to Munzee players. Most people would find them
rather dull.
I found fourteen before heading up the motorway to work.
The motorway was frankly dangerous this morning. With
Operation Brock gone for this week there were two lanes of lorries all the way
from Ashford to Maidstone. The slow lane had lorries moving at about forty-five
miles per hour, and the middle lane was full of other lorries overtaking
them... at about forty-six miles per hour.
All the cars were in the fast lane, and I found myself
constantly having to dip in between the lorries of the middle lane to allow
whoever was driving a couple of yards from my back bumper (and flashing
their lights) to get past. You'd think the traffic police would get
involved, wouldn't you?
As I drove the pundits on the radio were talking about how
the police have arrested a fourteen year old child who has supposedly murdered an
eighty-year old chap. Has he? I don't know. If he has, let's have a public
televised execution. Seriously. When I was a lad if we messed about at school
the headmaster caned us. One boy had a sore arse for a day and a thousand boys
behaved themselves for a year. Publicly killing off one murderer would serve as
an example.
Wouldn't it?
Work was much the same as ever. But an early start made for
an early finish. Again road works meant I was rather later home than I might
have been. I got home and the dogs came to see me as they do. Treacle had
obviously just woken up and was stiff and her leg was still playing up. In all
the excitement her leg must have twinged so she snarled at Bailey, and Bailey
tiddled in terror.
“er indoors TM” boiled up a very
good bit of dinner which we scoffed whilst watching episodes of “The
Traitors US”. I’ve taken to watching it in the hope that the contestants I
dislike most get the heave-ho. And the contestants are all so bland and banal
finding one to dislike more than the others takes some doing.
I’ve taken to judging them on the basis of who is wearing
the most stupid hat…
Treacle’s leg still isn’t right.
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