Christmas Past

Once again the stretch-waistband trousers have been recruited in order to help fight the battle of the bulge.

Turkey fed us for almost three days and the boiled ham (which is good for a week after boiling) is stolidly providing the occasional sandwich and, now and again, a tasty doggy treat.

The festivities, such as they were, provided full bellies as usual but, unfortunately, also one day in which the toilet bowl was severely pebble-dashed on a number of occasions by what remained of an over indulgence of brussels sprouts.

I have to be honest ... if it wasn't for the food, cookies and an excess of chocolate, Christmas may have past us by unnoticed.

Ok! Ok!

We had decorations up, you know ... Christmas tree, lights ... that kind of stuff, but only in a 'grown up, no kids in the house' sort of way.

This year, more than any year previously, I felt a yearning for the Christmas's of yesteryear; for the Christmas's I knew as a child.

I can remember snow on Christmas day; an afternoon spent sledging; Morecambe and Wise; fruit instead of chocolate.

I remember simplicity, fun, gratitude for gifts received and strange relatives popping in to say Merry Christmas!

Everything stopped for Christmas. Shop's closed for two days and,in the eyes of the child that I was, no one seemed to do anything other than have fun.

But those days are gone!

I'm getting old, cynical and fed up to the back teeth of the commercialism that is Christmas.

The Christmas's of '61, '62,'65 and '68 were snow-filled wonderlands and no-one ever complained about traffic problems.  Kid frolicked in snowdrifts, built snowmen and pummelled each other with snowballs. They were Christmas's that really made you want to sing carols!

The TV, only BBC1 and ITV in those days, showed programmes that would both excite and fascinate
us kids as we warmed ourselves in front of the coal fire before going out yet again to ride and ride that new bike through the snow.

Oh how I yearn for those simple days; fun without responsibility and a lifetime to look forward to.

My last year of Junior School was however was a Christmas that I remember for only one thing ... the day my voice broke during the singing of The Twelve Days of Christmas at the school Christmas concert.

I have no idea whether it snowed that year or not.

Waiting for Christmas

It is now officially "Christmas" because most, well some of us at least, have already started their Christmas holidays.  I finish work for two days at 7.30 am on the 25th on the and face the daunting uphill battle, as we all do, to get this place ship shape for the arrival of our guests.  We have a tree (imitation, of course ... no screams) but we are opting out of all the tinsel and paper chains that always leave so much mess on the floor ... that's what Clover and the cats are for now.

We have our smattering of Christmas cards lined up on every bit of furniture with a flat surface and we have Sky + so basically, that's all we are doing (the Sky + isn't exactly a festive decoration, but it does let me see all the football I want to see).

No doubt other households around the UK are also spartanly decorated ... that's what always happens when the "kids" become young "adults" and discover the delights of opposite sex and alcohol, and get their driving licence.  It's a shame they have to grow up really ... they should just move out before they reach their teens!

Anyway, Christmas;  "Humbug", "Figgy pudding", "Ho-ho-ho" and all that!  It isn't as exciting as it was when we were little, is it!  It's hard work!  And it doesn't matter how hard you try, someone will ALWAYS find something to moan about:  "This gravy is a bit thin, isn't it!",  "Couldn't you afford proper mince pies?", "Call this a turkey? Our budgie's bigger than this!".

Then there is always the unexpected visitor for lunch, the uncle who you only see at Christmas when he comes to collect his presents, or the aunt who can't stop herself from squeezing out an SBD* every few minutes and blaming someone else.  Has anyone ever had a perfect Christmas? 

We've left those perfect days long behind us, I'm afraid.  The days of the "Singing, ringing Tree" on TV at Christmas are long gone and have been replaced by classics such as "Top Gear Christmas Specials", the never ending saga of the "Great Escape", and "Noel's Christmas ....  (or whatever they're going to call it this year) ... Show"

At the end of the day, whether you like Christmas or loath it, we are still going to go through the motions of having a good time, even though the turkey burns to a cinder, your presents are all naff and someone throws up on your new rug.  And next year we'll all be saying "D'you remember last year when ...." as if last year was something special and magic.

It's going to be a long, hard Christmas day ... I've got the 'outlaws' coming around!

Merry Christmas and Hum-bloody-bug to you all  (with knobs on)






*   Silent But Deadly farts

Another Christmas

It's that time of year and we've spent our hard earned cash,

on cards and presents and a good Christmas bash.

We'll all get presents that will force us to smile,

and the gift that you wanted will be missed by mile.

There'll be books, chocolate, underwear and socks,

just the usual gifts but no great shocks.

Then food galore will be dumped on the table,

and we'll gorge ourselves till we're no longer able.

There will be burps and farts and occasional snore,

until all we ate settles then we go back for more.

We'll sit around the TV and watch the Queen's speech,

and get the usual guest that hangs on like a leech.

When the evening comes there's more food to eat,

at least for those that can still find their feet.

For the sherry has flowed and beer has been drunked*,

for the oldies some tea in which biscuits are dunked.

We'll all sing some hits of a bygone era,

and remember those absent, like my cousin Vera.

Then off the guests go to their own little homes,

waddling merrily like drunken garden gnomes.

The washing up and the mess that they made,

unwashed and untouched in the dining room stayed.

Then it's off to bed feeling ever so stuffed,

my amorous advances ignored and rebuffed!


* artistic license 

Christmas Again!

It's Christmas time,

a time of cheer, 

for presents and food

and dad drinkin' beer.

Broken new toys,

wrapping paper still on the floor,

a visit from those neighbours,

the ones you don't like any more. 

Mum in the kitchen,

strugglin' with the lunch,

trying to prepare food,

for the whole bleedin' bunch. 

Dad's on the bog,

with a can of Newcastle Brown,

lukkin at his Girlie calendar,

n he don't mind that it's upside down. 

The 'outlaws' arrive,

around about two,

and all they can do,

is complain about you. 

At the table it's said,

the turkey is dry,

the sprouts are too soft,

and you just want to cry. 

Then back to the telly,

to see the Queen,

cos she speaks the bestest

English what's ever been. 

Around about six,

there's more food on the table,

and we all start eating

as much as we're able. 

later on,

lunch time sprouts play their part,

as adults sip wine

and secretly fart. 

Over at last,

you sip your brandy

n tell your ol' man

forget bein' randy! 

Off to bed,

straight to sleep,

all that hard work,

and not one 'thank you' peep.

Bog = Toilet

Newcastle Brown = Newcastle Brown Ale (brewed in the North East of England)

Outlaws = The In-laws            

Sandy Hook

My heart goes out to those families who's lives have been devastated by the Sandy Hook shootings.

Those children and their teachers who were gunned down in this sickening atrocity should never be forgotten!

May they rest in peace!

Sadly politicians will once again hide behind old arguments and the American Constitution to ensure that their  political funding continues to flow from all those that profit from the manufacture and sale of guns.

They will hide behind the argument that Americas should be doing more to help the mentally impaired rather than take a pen and 'amend' the Second Amendment or restrict the sale of automatic assault weapons.

It would be a tragedy indeed if politicians ... family men and women, one and all ... were not to take meaningful action to prevent another mass loss of life by drastically changing America's gun laws. 

Animal Warfare!

Due to on-going 'operations' to repair (once again) my laptop I am forced to hand-feed you a re-post via the 'antique-in-the-corner' PC otherwise known as 'The Abacus'.

For the smarty-pants folks out there, there are some some BIG words to ponder and, for the simpler folks, there's a joke that is as old as I am, if not older, but it is easy to understand. 

You know,  I really wanted to post something snappy with bite and humour, to start everyone's week off in the right way.

But you know what?

I can't really be bothered!

For the last seven days I've been out of the house by 6.30 am and worked hard all day for the traditional wage of Platyrrhine and Cercopithecidae* the world over.

In the evenings (with Julie) I've been decorating!

I am now officially very tired and not in the mood to blog so here's a silly joke for you all instead ...


.....

Animal rights campaigners protested against American forces deploying defenceless sheep onto the battle field.  The protest ended peacefully after it was revealed that the sheep wouldn't be defenceless at all ... they would be armed with Maaaaaaaaaaa-chine guns!!! 

(from my friend Robert, a client)


* Which means I work for PEANUTS because ....
Platyrrhine = Old World Monkeys (Africa and Asia: falling in the super-family Cercopithecoidea in the clade Catarrhini)

Cercopithecidae = New World Monkeys (Central and South America: Callitrichidae, Cebidae, Aotidae, Pitheciidae, and Atelidae)

Li'l Ol' Avat-thingies

 So which one do you like best

A                      or                                  B

or neither?

Let me know!

Splash or A Bus Drivers Guilty Pleasure

Careful observation and a few knocks have led me to the conclusion that some bus drivers in South Wales are having a little fun at our (the passengers) expense.

We all know that boarding a bus can be a daunting experience.

You know how it is;

        you buy your ticket or flash your bus pass

        you turn to head towards a seat, and ...

        the bus wheel-spins it's way back into traffic

        you hurtle down the aisle of the bus, passing your intended choice of seating at
        a very high velocity

        if you are unlucky, your passage down the aisle ends with you sprawled on the
        floor just above the buses rear axle.

It's happened to me many times ... without the sprawling ... and it's damned annoying but, strangely, like everyone else, I never complain.

But there is new game afoot!

I call it 'Splashing'.

Let me explain by telling you about yesterday.

It concerns a young gentleman (he wore a floppy woolly hat and those ridiculous off-the-arse jeans displaying multi-coloured underwear and never took his texting-thumb or his eyes from his mobile [cell] phone, so I'm more inclined to refer to him as 'knob-head') who, realising that he was approaching his point of disembarkation, stood up and began to make his way to the front of the bus. He continued to stare at the small screen of his Blueberry, his thumb still jerking about over the keypad.

The bus was little more than fifty yards from the bus stop but still travelling at about 25 miles per hour.

As knob-he ... sorry, the 'gentleman' ... was half way down the aisle, the driver applied the brakes!

Hi didn't push the brake peddle through the floor to bring the bus to a grinding halt. No!

He applied firm pressure, bringing the bus smoothly, but quickly, to a halt.

Knob-h ... the gentleman ... still focusing on his mobile phone began to accelerate towards the front of the bus.

His left arm flailed uselessly at the hand-holds on the backs of seats and the support post, missing everyone as his speed increased to a level Usain Bolt would have been proud of.

The bus stopped.

So did knob-head!

A fly hitting the windscreen of your car splashes; it turns itself inside out in a fraction of a second.

Knob-head 'splashed' against the inside of the windscreen ... he didn't turn himself inside out or leave a bloody smear on the glass but he did say ...

"Oooooof!" as he rebounded onto his arse.

"You ok?" asked the driver?

"Oooooof!" said knob-head as he picked himself up and, red faced, left the bus.

"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen!" shouted the driver to the sniggering passengers.

"Mobile phones can be very, very  dangerous!"

Snot What I Was Expecting!

It was cold last night.

And I made the mistake of taking Clover for a late walk.

Over the past few evenings the weather has been mild with temperatures of around 5º or 6º C so I didn't think it was going to be so damned cold!

Although I was well wrapped up, there were tell-tale signs of the air's true nature.

In less than a minute my nose began to ...shall we say leak?

I put my hand into my coat pocket to take out the pack of tissues that I always keep there and found myself engaged in a tussle with the pockets lining, which seemed intent on holding onto them.

As I struggled (I really should have removed my gloves, but it was so cold), my runny nose began to prickle.  I felt rather than heard a crackling and pinging in my nostrils as my snot began to freeze.

I redoubled my efforts to liberate my tissues, accidentally tearing the pockets lining in the process.

It was no good!  The glove had to come off!

Once the packet was freed from the depths of pockets, a solitary tissue was extracted and I began to tidy the effluence from my nose.
     

        Effluence:  meaning 'a substance that flows out from something'. 

                           In this instance, however, the flow had ceased and had
                           become a frozen, snotty bridge between my nostrils and
                           my moustache

O-o-o-o-oh!

As I blew my nose a mini iceberg was ejected from my nasal passage.

The pain! The pain!

I decided to cut short our walk and I headed home with Clover.

Once safely back inside I decided to inspect the damage to my nose.

As I looked in the mirror I was horrified to see that pieces of  tissue had frozen to my moustache.

GOD!

On my walk back home I had passed at least four people!

The shame!

In our street I would forever be known as the man with tissue frozen to his top lip.

And this morning?

My nose still bloody hurts!

'm 'ld You Deaf Ba$ta%d!

Every married man has been through this at some stage.

It happens every winter in millions of homes across the world and is, or could be, the reason for many a divorce.

It is a short exchange that takes place in the bedroom on a winters night after the lights go out it goes something like this:

Wife:          'm 'ld!

Husband:   What?

Wife:          'm 'ld!

 Husband:   What? What'd you say?

 Wife:         'm 'old!

 Husband:   You're old?

 Wife:         I'M COLD! You deaf bastard! Need a c'dle!

 Husband:   You need a what?

 Wife:         FOR F&%KS SAKE! I need a cuddle!

At this point a dutiful husband will sacrifice his own warmth and slide across the bed. He will endeavour to wrap himself around his wife and valiantly attempt to emulate the effects of an electric blanket, knowing full well that very soon his efforts will be rejected thus:


Wife:          'm 't!

Husband:   What?

Wife:          'm 't!

 Husband:   What the hell are you on about?

 Wife:         'm 'ot!

 Husband:   You're not what?

 Wife:         I'M HOT! Are you deliberately trying to wind me up? 'sh 'ff!

 Husband:   What?

 Wife:         PUSH OFF! Leave me alone! You grumpy git!


It takes a strong minded man to brush this off, roll over and go to sleep!

I know!

I do this almost every night!

The Deadliest Place On Earth!

On this side of the pond we watch an awful lot of American TV cop shows.

They first appear on our screens in trailers in which they are described as 'hit', 'epic' or 'cult' direct from the States.

Over the years I have seen hundreds of 'em. From 77 Sunset Strip to Perception ... I've seen 'em all.

Which makes me think 'Is America really populated by gang-bangers, rogue cops, mass murders and little old ladies from Cabot Cove?'

Let us concentrate on a true classic!

Murder She Wrote.

Now, by my calculations, after 12 seasons and four Specials, Cabot Cove must be the deadliest place in the United States!

Assuming (and I haven't researched this) that in each episode (over 260) that at least 2.5 people died, that comes to a grand total of 660 deaths.

Let is further assume that one fifth of the dead (132) came from 'outta town', that still leaves 528.

As we all know, many episodes took place elsewhere ... that is to say, NOT in Cabot Cove ...  and therefore Cabot Covian's would be probably not have been amongst the dead.

Shall we guess again at one third?  OK!

So we can thereby deduce that approximately 176 people from other locations also died during the show's run!

That still leaves us with 352 deadies that could ONLY have been Cabot Coves finest despite the fact that the town's population was supposed to be around 3,560 (Wikipedia, but we all know how wrong they can be, don't we).

OK, OK!

Before you run off to check these figures, let me tell you that 'officially' Murder She Wrote is only said to have killed-off 2 or 3% of it's population.

But I don't believe it! 

By my calculations It's nearer 10%

You know what they say, don't you?

Fiction is nearly always based on fact!

The Innocence of it All!

Remember this one?

Duvet's and Female Testicles

It began with "Can you help me change the dog beds?"

Let me explain about the dog beds.  We, that is to say Clover, has two. One in the living room and one in the hallway.  They are not your run-of-the-mill bog beds. They are in actual fact duvet's folded to over maximum comfort.

What can I say?

I pamper my pup!

Anyway, the request for help meant that the duvet covers were going to be changes and washed.

I put the TV on 'hold' and began the process of  peeling the duvet's.  I was almost done when I heard "Oh-oh! We'll  have to vacuum those covers before the go into the machine otherwise the filter will get full of dog hairs!"

The vacuum miraculously appeared and I found myself standing in the kitchen on one end of a duvet cover with my  feet so far apart that I was in serious danger of damaging some of my most important appendages.

At the other end of the duvet cover, in a similarly precarious position but with less to damage, stood my wife.

She valiantly swung the vacuum cleaner back and forth as if there was no tomorrow.

And as there were two duvet covers, we went through this procedure twice.

After the dog hairs were safely inside the vacuum cleaner, the covers were thrown into the washing machine and I was allowed to return to my seat in front of the TV.

Now I can hear you all declaring that it was 'Just another Saturday evening at home'.

And you would be wrong!

Usually we have much less fun!

Which brings me (not very smoothly) to the story I wanted to tell you before the memories of last nights exertions resurfaced ...

A few days ago, I was talking to a little girl and her mother.  The girl was telling us about her school day.

"And we learned all about testes today!" she announced.

Her mother looked shocked.  Her daughter was only six years old.

"You did what?" she asked.

"The teacher told us that we'll have testes when we are older" said the girl.

I have to admit that it was hard not to snigger as the little girl had such a serious expression in her face and her mother was speechless and her face was turning a deep crimson colour.

 "And then," continued the little girl as she started to become excited. "If we have good testes we can get good jobs an' a, an'a lot of money an' a house".

The girls mother visibly relaxed.

"Do you mean you'll have to do test's and exams?" she asked.

"Yep!" said the little girl.  "Testes and exam-ies!"

I hate kids, but they are good for a laugh now and again!

Old Age Road Rage

Sometimes it can be hard work trying to think of something to write.

I don't have that 'tick-tock' kind of mind that can, at the drop of a hat and with little inspiration,  rattle off something that will interest or amuse those unfortunate enough to actually land on my blog.

(As an aside, I was view my stats and checking out exactly where my 'readers' were coming from, I was slightly embarrassed to find that quite a number visited me via a ladies underwear page ... which, by the way, had a great range in see-through nightwear, knickers resembling tissues and push-up bra's that could make a woman look as if she were sporting a matching pair of goitres.)

I take my inspiration, as advised so long ago by several readers, from my surroundings and from my daily encounters with lesser mortals or from my family and dogs.

Today, whilst driving home after having just completed a shopping expedition which, thankfully, did not burn a hole in my pocket, I encountered the demon driver form Hell.

As I drove along, minding my own business, an oncoming car pulled across my lane.  I slammed on the brakes and liberally coated the road surface with rubber!

I stopped so abruptly that my naked troll-angel good luck charm broke free from it's fastening, bounced off the windscreen and flew back, hitting me square between the eyes.

I fumed, as you would imaging, and was ready for a spot of road rage!

As I stared daggers at the driver of the other vehicle my inner savage beast was calmed as I saw, almost hidden behind the steering wheel of her car, a tiny blue-haired and bespectacled old lady looking back at me.

She had stopped diagonally across my lane in shock, or so I thought!

Appearances can be deceptive and when what I thought was a harmless and remorseful old lady got out of her car, I learned just how deceptive they could be.

"Didn't you f*&king see me indicating, you idiot?"

I was struck dumb.

I expected to have to turn on the sympathy for a shocked old dear, but instead I was harangued!

I tried to diplomatically explain that indicating her direction of travel does not give her the right to turn across another lane unless said lane is clear.

"Don't you f*&king tell me how to f*&ing drive! I've been f*&ing driving since before you were f*&ing born!".  She was on the verge of hitting me with her handbag.

My experience of old ladies told me that after the rant would come the flood of tears followed by a  requirement for some kind words and comfort.

But this old bird hadn't read the 'Grannies Handbook'!

She questioned my parentage!!!

She used her forefinger as a weapon, jabbing me in the shoulder several times.

She was only 5 foot tall if she was an inch, so she had to stretch.

And I stood there, dumbfounded, and took it!

I didn't know what else to do short of giving her a knuckle sandwich!

Traffic was building up behind my car at this point but she continued to rant.

"You could have f*&ing killed me! Do you hate old people? Do you?"

A man from the car directly behind me joined the fray.

He explained, as I had, the rules of the road pertaining to crossing over the on-coming traffic lane.

"Oh!" she said.

She never bloody screamed at him! Why didn't she scream at him?

Anyway, placated somewhat, she returned to her car and started the engine.  But as I returned to my car I noticed her passenger window rolling down.

I saw her lean over and look out as she slowly moved away.

"Wan&er!"  she shouted and was gone.

I know, I know!  I should have written down her number and reported the daft old besom to the police ... but I was stunned!

She was in her late 80's ... maybe even in her 90's ... and she was ranting and blaming me for her mistake.

And all I wanted to do was a bit of shopping then enjoy the rest of my day off!

Mind you ... blog fodder is blog fodder however you find it!

Early Morning Frosted Slippers

It was 5.45 am on a very cold morning.

And it was my day off!

Aaaaargh! And I was up at 5.45 am!

Ok, so I needed to go pee, but ...

Usually I can go to the loo in the middle of the night by memory. With my eyes closed and still in semi-sleep-mode I can find my way to the bathroom, aim and 'destroy the evidence' without the aid of a light.

But on this particular morning, I awoke to a bladder that seemed to be about ready to burst, so the zombie-trot was out of the question.

I was in a rush!

All my senses responded to the pressure of what seemed to be several gallons of pee waiting to exit my body via the 'hosepipe'.

It was as if a switch had been flipped and my tired, much in need of sleep body had been transformed from a tired little Fiat 500 to a Ferrari 458.

Long story short; I was awake!

Having spent what felt like fifteen minutes in the bathroom playing at being a fireman, I went downstairs.

Clover, our dog, was pleased to see me and began to bounce up and down the hallway, her tail wagging in a circular motion.  Once she had my attention she made a dash for the back door, which I opened, and she disappeared into the darkness to take care of her own pressing problems.  

Some ten minutes later Clover came back looking a lot more laid back and relaxed. She made a bee-line for the living room and her big, soft cushion by the radiator. She was snoring in a matter of minutes.

I was awake!

Telling you why I was awake wasn't strictly necessary because all I wanted to say was that on that cold, very cold, morning when I was awake at 5.45 am, I decided to empty the kitchen waste bin.

So there I was ... in dressing gown and slippers ... and I decided to empty the kitchen waste bin and put throw it into the bin outside.

So, trash bag in hand, I stepped out though the back door.

At this point I should have been paying a little bit more attention.  If  I had been, the quiet crackcrackcrackcrack noise emanating from beneath my right foot as it hit the patio paving slab would have stopped my in my tracks.

But, momentum being what it is, I continued my movement through the doorway and my left foot also landed on the patio.

crackcrackcrackcrack!

Momentum was still the villain here and, once again ignoring the noise beneath my feet, I continued my march towards the outside dustbin.

This time though, it was my bare foot landed on the frosty slab of concrete. My slipper was frozen in the spot where it had landed.

I hopped ....

                 my foot was freezing

... right out of my second slipper, which had also frozen to the slab, and for several seconds I 'danced' on ice with bare feet.

I was only two or three feet from the safety of the kitchen, but for some reason I seemed incapable of steering myself through the door.

By the time I managed to hit the laminate floor of the kitchen I had lost several small patches of skin from my feet.

Pieces of my skin, along with my slippers, were still attached to the thin layer of ice that covered the patio.

And my feet were sore!

The has to be a moral to this story ... somewhere!

If you spot it, let me know!

Traditional Political Comedy

So it's  all over and the Americans have re-elected Barack Obama as president.

I told you so, didn't I?

But, since then, I've done a spot or research...

Did you know that Presidents elected to a second term in office have far less effect and are less successful than they were in the first?

Traditionally  ...and it doesn't matter which party's candidate is in office ...  a President in a second term will suffer greater resistance to his policies from the opposition than he did in the first.

Sour grapes perhaps?

It is also traditional (in British politics too) that those people in office will try and push though a  very unpopular policy at the end of their term, sometimes very quietly so as not to be noticed.

The British Labour Party were very good at that, or so I've been informed. I did try to find an example of this but I failed to find any evidence but Conservatives are sure they did it.

Politics seems to be a 'point scoring' game.

I'm sure that if politicians put aside their differences for just a few years they would be able to nail down some strategically plausible policies that would lay good foundations for a stable and viable economy .... but nooooooooo!

They follow their own agenda (and I'm not just talking about the Americans!) which see's them sniping at each other across the political trenches; picking one another off in ambush after ambush.

Their constant tit-for-tat bickering is reminiscent of the school playground.

At times you just want to put them across you knees and give them a good smack!

And the sad thing is that politicians at some time in their careers will all say the same thing ... but only about the opposition ... never about themselves or their party colleagues!

Let's face it.

Politics is the 'Ultimate Sitcom'

Big Rocks and Obama's Romney Challenge

... and the other nun said "It does, doesn't it?"

Hahahahahaha! How I laughed at that one!

Oh, hello! I didn't see you there.

Well ... I'm back!

I've been think about the universe; on it's creation, it's contents and, of course, it's size.

Now, I'm not a scientist or anything of that ilk (whatever an 'ilk' is) so my conclusions are presented to you here in a non-scientific way, without any big, hard to spell words.

Ok ... there was big bang - TA-DAH! - universe!

There were lots of rock in it, which begs the question "How do you make a rock from nothing?"

My theory is simple ... there must have been an 'old' universe ... which was already full of rocks ... and it went BANG!!!

And it's bloody big!

And it's probably all existing in the mould on some supreme being's forgotten sandwich!

There!  Told you it wasn't very scientific, didn't I?

Oo! Oo! Oo!

I also took an interest in the election going on in the States!

Some of you may have heard about it.

Apparently Mitt (silly name) Romney is going head-to-head with Barack Obama for the presidency.

I don't want to try and influence anyone (as if I could), but do you really trust that man Romney?

I have to admit that I don't know much about him but, after listening to him speak and watching the face-to-face debates, I have some serious doubts as to whether or not he is capable of doing the job.
Reading between the lines, it would seem that he is intent on undoing the majority of the things that Obama has set in motion. Now that smacks to me of rich money protecting rich money by spending an awful lot of poor-people money!

But the thing that really get's up my nose about both candidates is that they are both trying to sell their campaign with the "Our Great Nation" slogan.

Sadly, the days of American 'greatness' are long gone!

They (possibly you) are now in the same economic mess that the rest of us are suffering.

But, at a time when there are more people living below the bread line than ever before, to still claim that America is 'great' is an insult to all those that are suffering.

You see, if America was still great, those people suffering at the bottom of the food chain would never have been forgotten in the first place.

Yeah, ok! It's a very simplistic view... but, hey! I'm a simple guy!

And I don't mean 'stupid' simple.

Anyway, whoever wins, there may be no noticeable change for the man on the street.

Whoever you have thrown your hat into the ring with, I wish you luck ... and a change of fortune for the better.

Stay Calm ...

... will be returning soon!

The Less Written, the More Said

I began this blog as a means of keeping a record of daily events.

But it never actually worked out that way.

I ended up writing almost anything that came to mind ... mostly memories, observations and stories about dogs.

I used to write every day, or at least every other day, until one day words were spoken...

You and that damned laptop!

Only a few words, but very much like a dagger in the heart.

In the beginning my writing took place in the mornings, usually between 6 and 9 am until my work pattern changed and I began to write after everyone had gone to bed, usually after 11 pm.

Sometime thereafter my work routine changed yet again and I found that time for writing was reduced (usually) to between the hours of 4 and 6 pm.

Then came those words!

To be fair, I did always get so wrapped up in writing that I nearly always over-ran the time I allocated myself and, as the household's one and only cook, the rest of the family were often left close to starvation. Being so wrapped up in writing, I was oblivious to the rumbling of empty stomachs.

Those words ... let me remind you of them - You and that damned laptop! ... had a meaning far greater than just the sum, as it were, of the words.

They said subliminally "You and that blog of yours are a pain in the backside and we never speak any more because you are always writing or reading. It's taking up all your spare time and I'm getting sick of it and I want to spend more time in your company rather than with a zombie-fied typist"

Of course, subliminal as those words were, I imagined them liberally punctuated with some very colourful expletives.

Anyway, once again I must cut a long story short ... in an effort (might I say a supreme effort) to reintegrate myself into the family, I have reduced my literary output to once or twice a week.

I think 'She who must be obeyed' bought it!

I'm definitely back in favour with regards to certain aspects of married life!!!

Celeb's on a Bus

Over the past week or so I have taken several buses to various places.

I have experienced foul-mouthed tirades, suffered smells that not even a dog could create and found things that one should never find on a means of public transport (to-wit, one used condom).

My fascination with bus travel began after I read some articles on Peggy's blog.

I discovered that people watching on a bus can produce an almost unlimited supply of blog material which I now endeavour to utilise at every available opportunity.

So let us start from the beginning.  Try and keep up, because I don't have long. You ready?

Let's go!

Firstly, there was the tirade I spoke of.

It occurred only moments after Andy Griffith (Matlock) boarded the bus.

Now, when I say 'Andy Griffith boarded the bus', you do realise that I mean a look-alike, don't you?

I do not see dead people!

Anyway, he got on and the first thing he did was to open a window, before taking a seat next to Roy Orbison (ditto the look-alike bit).  It was a cold day and the rush of cold air through the bus caused a bit of a stir.

It took a little over a minute before the recumbent figure in pink jerked awake, stomped down the bus and slammed the window shut.

The figure in pink was female.  Her lower lip was pierced and ringed. Her hair dark and matted and seemed to be partially dread-locked.

She mumbled.

"Mmnff bukkin mmmmnff window! Bastard!"

Andy, being Andy, got up and opened it again.

From the lady (and I use the term loosely) in pink came "Ya fuggin ar'so! Fink ya fuggin own da fuggin bus, ya twad! Jeez! Mmnnfff nmmmft pffft, unt!"

The mumbling, interspersed with a liberal sprinkling of colourful language, continued until the next stop, whereupon the driver got out of his seat and approached the lady (still very,very loose) in pink.

He warned her that he wouldn't tolerate her abusing the other passengers and she should behave herself,at which point Andy Griffith piped up "Kick the {insert word sound like Duck}ing {insert word sounds like Hunt} off the (Duck word again) bus!"

I should point out at this point that Roy Orbison sat quietly and took no part in the exchange.

To cut a long story short, Andy and the lady (loose, remember) in pink were ejected and we proceeded on our journey.

Sadly no other celebrity look-alike's boarded the bus, but I do believe we drove past the Fish & Chip shop where Elvis works!

As for the smells and mislaid item's ... let's just say they were memorable for all the wrong reasons!


R.I.P.And and Roy!

The Dog-walk Chronicles (Part two)

Biggles Flies Again or Hotrod's Pleasure ... Take Your Pick!

Today I was privileged to meet a little brown and white Jack Russell terrier called Biggles.

Biggles is a two year old cutie belonging to an elderly couple that I met whilst out and about in the town of Cowbridge.

He was named after James Bigglesworth (a pilot and adventurer, who was the title character and main hero of the Biggles series of youth-oriented adventure books written by W. E. Johns) because of the brown markings that covered his head and eyes and resembled old fashioned flying goggles and helmet.

As I watched Biggles interacting with two other dogs, I noticed that he was very, very keen to 'mount' them ... the dirty boy!

As I approached, the old man said "Watch it! He'll have your leg."

He was right too!  I had barely reached them when Biggles made break for it and tried to hump my leg!  After shrugging off his amorous advances, he turned his attention to a shopping bag, my client’s leg then his owner’s legs and finally, as the excitement grew too much for him, to thin air.

Passers by were in fits of laughter as poor old Biggles dry-humped himself to satisfaction.

His very embarrassed owners hastily explained that they were taking him to the vet as they were at a loss as to why he always did such a thing, especially as he had long ago lost his 'baubles'.

"My son thinks it's funny when he does it" said the old man.  "He's doesn't call him Biggles anymore".

"What does he call him now then?" I asked.

"Hotrod!", came the reply.

Poor Hotrod had to be carried back to their car!  

He was exhausted! 

Bless him ... the randy little sod!

…

Walking the Dogs in the Rain

All dogs need exercise and a dedicated and responsible owner will  always ensure that their pet gets it, every day, rain or shine.

I love my pups and I take them out every day, whatever Mother Nature throws at us.

Recently though, dog walking has been very much an 'under water' event, requiring waterproofs and wellingtons.

Of course I'm no stranger to adverse weather and my dogs ... well, to be blunt ... they couldn't give a hoot!  They just love being out.

But yesterday ... oh dear, oh dear ... I made a amateurish mistake.

I had the right outfit ...

Waterproof hat ... check
Waterproof jacket ... check
Waterproof trousers ... check
Wellingtons ... check

... but I tucked my waterproof trousers into my wellingtons ... where rainwater collected in the folds at the point they entered my boots!!!

Half way around the park the folds, having collected a significant amount of water, moved allowing rainwater to gush into my boots.

I squelched my way around the park with cold, wet feet and, for some reason it never occurred to me to pull my trousers out of my boots, so the rain kept on running down my legs.

At the end of the walk I had enough water in my wellingtons to make at least two cups of tea.

Anyone fancy a cuppa?

…

Cold Weather and the Light Speed Snot

Tissues are essential when you go out in the freezing cold to walk the dogs.

I mean, I have a moustache and, believe it or not, there is nothing worse than a 'tasche' full of snot.

Oh yes, you can sniff your way around the park, each sniff requiring more effort than the last and seemingly drawing less and less back into the snot sanctuary, otherwise known as your nose.

The trouble with sniffing ... I mean, the danger of sniffing ... well, it's micro-fractures to the inside of you skull, isn't it!

If you are a sniffer, then you will have experience of at least one, if not more, of those high velocity, quick release, double density snots.

You know the ones!

They are the ones that with every sniff move inside the nostril but only just enough to cause a modicum of irritation, not enough to release them from their anchorage.

Then, when you have given up all hope of ridding yourself of the unwelcome nasal guest, the 'quick release' is activated as you try to sniff your top lip free of dribble.

There is an audible 'THWUCK' as it releases, followed a fraction of a second later by a very quiet 'TOK' as the snot, travelling by this time at the very high speed, seems to make contact with the inside of the base of you skull. The micro-fracture!

OK!  So the irritation is gone, but you are then faced with that awful feeling as you realise that the snot has nowhere to go but down.

There is a gulp, a grimace and, perhaps, then a few seconds of nausea, as you try to come to terms with the latest addition to your diet.

They say "Shit happens" but, my friends, so does the 'bullet' snot!

Any sniffer will tell you  ... it really is worth checking your pockets for tissues before you go out in the cold!

The Dog-walk Chronicles (Part one)

Kamikaze attack in Hailey Park

It was warm.


It was Sunny.

There was no breeze to speak of and all seemed well with the world.
I was walking the dogs around the park as usual ... throwing a ball for Sym, encouraging Clover to keep up and calling to Sox in order to stop her running back home.

It was an absolutely perfect day and for an hour or more we enjoyed the sunshine and quiet (very few people out that day) of the park.

It was as we were about to cross the rugby field, by the changing rooms, when the incident happened.

I had just thrown the ball for Sym and he'd charged after it in his usual, bullish manner; Sox was halfway across the field looking at me just in case I changed direction; Clover was at my heels.

As I waited for Sym to bring his ball back and exchange it for a piece of cheese when I noticed what appeared to be swarm of light coloured flies coming towards me. The little buggers were flying fast and before I knew it, the swine started pinging off my glasses and face. It all happened in just a few seconds ... then they were gone. But not ALL of them had made it past me ... my glasses were covered in dead flies, as was my face!
I counted at least five dead flies squished on the lenses of my spec's and when I got back to the car and looked in the mirror there were at least another six or more flattened on my forehead and cheeks.

I've had many a dead fly on the windscreen of my car after a fast drive, but I've never suffered such an 'attack' whilst standing still.

It was disgusting! All those bugs using my face as a means of killing themselves!

It reminded me of that old joke;-

What's the last thing to go through a fly's mind when it hits the windscreen?


It's arse!

...

My boy and his ball

I am beginning to realise that my boy Sym has a closer relationship with his ball than he does with me.

If his ball goes into the long grass or bushes on a walk he will spend ages looking for it, but if I hide from him he tends to wait until Clover and Sox locate me first before he comes for a look.

The good thing about him searching for his ball (and nearly always finding it) is that it saves me money on tennis balls! On the negative side, when it's raining, he won't leave until he has found it or is dragged away.

I have noticed though that when another dog is near, he will forget his ball all together and leave it somewhere out of sight in order to go and sniff around the other dog. Then, when 'sniffs' have been exchanged, get back into a "throw the ball for me" position totally forgetting that the ball is still where he dumped it.... and he nearly always dumps it in long grass.

This morning’s early walk was no different. When we met a group of four women and their pooches, he dropped his ball and went to exchange pleasantries.

Sniffing over, I called him back to where he'd last had his ball and told him to find it. He sniffed and snorted through the grass for about five minutes, unearthing not one, not two, but three tennis balls before turning to me in triumph with a fourth (his own) ball stuck in his mouth.

Now that deserved a bit of cheese and he knew it!

I know lots of people have dogs that are clever and do all sorts of tricks but I think my boy Sym, although he doesn't do all the doggy-dancing or party trick stuff, is pretty smart too.

...

The Last Laugh; It's a Dog's Life

In the vain hope that the weather will brighten up, I have just hung out
the laundry. Sym, our Border Collie, went into "guard" mode as I struggled to get the king-size duvet covers and the rest of the laundry onto the line.

I really did feel safe in our back garden.

My boy Sym

Sym has a growl and a bark which make him seem larger and more aggressive than he actually is and has scared the be-jeezus out of any amount of postmen and those annoying people that keep putting fliers through our letter box.


He really is a big soppy wuss though and loves attention from any quarter ... except tall men wearing black, for some reason. They send him into "don't touch me or I'll kill you" mode, although I hasten to add that he has never actually killed, or even bitten, anyone.

I think this aversion to tall people dressed in black dates back to an incident in the woods around Cardiff when he was about one year old. Someone, who was obviously not dog friendly, gave him a kick and he has never forgotten about it.

Anyway, I didn't log-in this morning to prattle on about my laundry or my dog ... well, not just one dog anyway.

'Her Ladyship' Sox

The story I would like to tell you all occurred two days ago when I was walking Sym, Sox (Border Collie X) and Clover (Lab X) in Hailey Park.

As you can probably imagine, this involved much ball throwing and the dispensing of cheddar cheese treats.

We were on our first lap of the park heading, as we always do, towards the old railway bridge that crosses the river Taff.

And there is a hole at the side of the path. As far as I can recollect, this hole ... not deep, but well hidden by long grass ... has been there for at least 5 years. It was probably the work of a dog, rabbit or badger, but it was never completed ... that is to say, no rabbit or badger ever lived in it and no dog buried a bone in it.

As I mentioned, it was over grown and hard to see, but we knew it was there ...somewhere.

As we strolled along the path towards the bridge, Sox took up 'point' and lead the way as she always does. Sym hid himself at the tree line and waited for his ball to be thrown and Clover (bless her) stayed at her 'daddies' heels and kept him company.

I lobbed yet another ball into the skies and Sym took off, intending to intercept it further along its trajectory, thus causing startled Sox to spring sideways and off the path into the long grass.

As I looked, Sox's head and front legs disappeared downwards and her hind legs and tail went straight up into the air.

She had found 'the hole'!

For two or three panicked seconds, she flailed about until she could get some purchase and pull herself out. As she did so, she looked left and then right in an "I hope nobody saw that" sort of way, then looked back directly at me.

I was laughing!

Sox did not look very pleased and walked off in disgust.

Later, on our second lap of the park, we were walking as a fairly tight little group across the area known to some as 'the conservation area', but known to me as 'the place where very few people pick up their dog's doo-doo', when Sox had her revenge.

For some inexplicable reason, someone had taken a grass sod out of the path. It wasn't as if it was good quality grass suitable for a lawn or anything, but it was gone and it left a hole!

Sym was once again restless and eager to be off chasing his ball, so I sent it hurtling along the path in our direction of march. Sox strayed a few yards ahead of me and Clover was ... well, was where she always is ... at my heels.

Clover

As I walked, I bent down to give Clover a pat and some encouragement (she has had a difficult past prior to living with us), when suddenly my left foot hit a spot that should have been solid ground, but turned out to be air.

I had walked into the hole left by the grass-sod thief!

Now, to be fair, my reactions were pretty damned good and,

although I stumbled, I never hit the ground!

I did a "Sox" and checked that there was no one around to see me looking stupid.

There was no on in sight ... just Sox!

She was staring straight at me with her wide, Jack-Nicholson's-Joker-like grin and her tail wagging.
I could tell she was thinking "That'll teach you to laugh at me, you ba$t&rd!".

She then went on her way along the path in such a jaunty, bouncy manner that it would have been very hard for anyone watching to believe that she is, in fact, and very old lady.

As we completed our walk, Sym went to chase the squirrels, Clover decided to follow her 'bro', but both Sox and I continued across the fields checking the ground before us very, very carefully indeed.

...

Doggy Report and the Hailey Park Thick Ear

Those of you that have had the pleasure of meeting Clover when she first came to us would remember a timid and very scared little lady that was afraid of her own shadow. Now she is a confident (to a degree) dog that actually looks forward to outings in the park.

She has come on in leaps and bounds (literally) over the last year and a bit and is now confident enough to go towards people for a little fuss and attention. She no longer has her extraordinary fear of cars and vans and no longer attempts to run into every drive way in order to hide or get into someone else's house. She will run after Sym, or Sox, and has been known to go on her own little explorations into the wilderness. She always keeps her daddy in sight, though, and comes straight back when she hears a whistle.

I am very proud of her achievements.

Sox, on the other hand, is her usual cantankerous old self. She always keeps an eye on us when we go out, but likes to be a little way ahead at all times and, although she knows our route well, always manages to look surprised and somewhat annoyed when we change direction and she has to run to catch up.

Sym, of whom I am the daddy in name only, runs around the trees looking for squirrels to aggravate. After his initial 'scare the buggers to death' charge, which never seems to result in a squirrel snack, he positions himself some distance from me and strikes the typical collie '"I'm waiting" pose. This is my cue to throw his tennis ball as far as possible for him to chase after. This routine, minus the squirrel part, is repeated again and again on out circumnavigations of the park and is only interrupted by the discovery of a puddle, new smell or poo-time (yes! I pick 'em up!).

Today's walk was no different and we were about to set off on our third circuit when I decided to do something I normally wouldn't do ... throw his ball over the bushes to let him search for it (which he would successfully do).

On this occasion I threw the ball and he took off after it. As I stepped off to follow him, something heavy struck my shoulder then bounced up and dinged me in the left ear! I nearly sh....had an accident!

At the same time my ear was being dinged, a voice from behind the bushes said "Oi! Watch what you're doing"!

Still hearing the ringing of many bells in my poor old ear, I set off to investigate, taking with me the object that struck me: a solid rubber, multi-coloured ball.

On the other side of the bushes, I found not only Sym (ball in mouth), but also an elderly couple with a golden retriever.

"Was that your ball?" demanded the man.

"Yes" I replied. "Didn't hit you, did I"?

"No, but was damned close." came the vexed reply.

I showed the man the hard rubber ball and asked "Is this one yours?"

"Yes. Thanks" he said, now slightly sheepishly.

My ear was still smarting as I said "I wasn't so lucky and I copped it right in the lug-hole, mate. Ta very much"!

We parted at that point.

The rest of our walk was, thankfully, painless and uneventful.

Peculiar History or Saved By The Bop or The Japanese Invasion of Ireland in 1942

History is quite often depicted by authors and historians as a horizontal line with the occasional sticky-uppy or droppy-downy line and a date which indicate important events.

Unless of course it's a vertical line, in which case there will be sticky-out-lefty or sicky-out-righty lines with dates.

In the case of Brian - an acquaintance (not through choice) who now and again, when least expected, turns up and attempts to 'explain' things - the 'line', with all it's stick-uppy (and downy) or sticky-out-righty (or sticky-out-lefty), has been well and truly scrunched up into a ball and left for the cat to play with.

I must stress that Brian is NOT a client!

He is the friend of a friend's cousin's next-door neighbours friend ... or something like that ... and is, contrary to popular belief, highly intelligent but, sadly, easily confused.

I bumped into him on Tuesday!

"'ere!" he shouted when he saw me. "You was the Army, weren't ya?"

I sighed! It was not going to be easy extracting myself from a conversation with Brian.

"Yes", I answered."But not all on my own."

"Yah! You got your arse kicked, didn't ya? Them Russians kicked your butt!"

It was going to be one of those conversations. I winced.

"What?"

"The Crimea ... " he continued. "When you nicked those Russian cannons to make them Victoria Cross's. They kicked your butt!"

My protestations, in which I denied all responsibility for any theft of cannon's at any point of my military career, fell on deaf ears.

"You British ..."

"You are British too, Brian"

"Na, mate. I ain't your kind o' British cos I never killed no Irishman to steal his potatoes. And then after you killed 'em, you made 'em join the British Army and fight your wars against the Chinese."

Confusing, isn't it?

"And all them Chinese and Japanese and ... and ... 'ere! I reckon I know why there are so many Japanese in Ireland!"

Sudden and unexplainable changes of conversational direction were commonplace with Brian.

"Why?" I asked, knowing full well I should be making my excuses and going home. What can I say? I'm curious!

"It was on the History channel!" he said. "They was looking to invade England in 1942  and they landed on the wrong island!"

I was not surprised.

"Anyway, why did you kill all the Irish then?"

At this point my phone began to belt out Cyndi Lauper's She Bop.

I was saved!

I took the call.

"Sorry Brian. Have to dash.  Emergency at work. See you again soon."

It was all I could do not to sprint away from him.

Saved by the Bop!

Behind me I could hear Brian begin another verbal assault on an innocent passer-by.

"'ere! Phil! Phil! Wassat what them Vietnamese did in Burma when the French ..."

The Waiting Room

The bus journey I took yesterday sparked some rather strange thoughts.

My 'companion' fell asleep on route so I was free to let my imagination run,as it so often does, riot.

My attention was first drawn to The Bucket Man.  He was in his fifties, I would guess, and carried a red plastic bucket with a white lid.

I couldn't help but imagine that bucket being used, in the absence of toilets on board, for 'personal' use.  I also imagined a queue of desperate, jogging-on-the-spot passengers forming behind him.

But my thoughts were hi-jacked when we encountered a broken down bus at the side of the road. The engine cowling had been raised and the driver stood shaking his head as he awaited recovery.

In my mind I saw the driver, a saddle thrown over his shoulder, saying his goodbye's to faithful friend before drawing his colt 45 and putting a bullet into the bus's radiator to end it's pain and suffering.

But then I saw an article (over the shoulder of the man in front of me) in the local paper.

This is the result of what I saw...

The Waiting Room was white walled without any apparent doors to facilitate entrance or exit.

Over thirty people, including Hitler (sitting next to Genghis Kahn and Julius Caesar), Mother Theresa, Gandhi and Andy Williams sat on chairs lining the walls.

They chatted amongst themselves until, as if by magic, a man dress in a white robe seemed to walk through the wall.

"Hello" he said. "My name is Desmond. I'm here to facilitate your transfer to your next plane of existence,be it Heaven or Hell."

Mother Theresa raised her hand.

"Yes?" Said Desmond."You have a question?"

"Isn't the Arch Angel Gabriel supposed to meet?" she asked.

"Well, normally, yes. But I'm afraid he's had to pop out and do a spot of smiting, so I'm standing in for him" answered Desmond.

"Smiting?" she said. "He's fighting the Devil?"

"Not exactly" said Desmond. "I believe it has something to to do with the Lady Gaga tickets he was sold and their, erm,legality. He's a big fan!"

He shuffled his feet for a moment then said "Shall we, erm, crack on, as it were?"

An iPad appeared in his hand.

"Don't you just love technology?" he said.

"So! Hitler ..." said Desmond as he scrolled down the iPad list. "Oh dear! It doesn't look as if there is anything you have never done! Bad, bad, bad!"

"I've never worn a women's underwear!" blurted Hitler.

"Erm, 14th of February 1932, I believe. Oh dear! You ... you ... What on earth did you think you were doing with that carrot? Definitely Hell for you!"

"Hell?  What have I ever done ..." protested Hitler as he faded away to nothing and departed for Hades.

"Next ..." 

Desmond called out name after name, declared them good or bad, saint's or sinner's, and despatched them to their destination.

"And now we come to ... Oh dear! Tooth Fairy?"

"'ry"

"Speak up!" ordered Desmond.

"'orry!"

"Oh my word.What have you done?"

"'m innocent!"

"Innocent? You stopped collecting children's teeth"

"'orry!"

"Instead you concentrated on removing the gold teeth of the American Rapper community! Where are those teeth, may I ask?"

"I ain't saying nuth'n!"

"Well you leave me no choice, Tooth Fairy! I hereby sentence you to 1 year rehabilitation and re-training. Hurry along to the Training wing! Mr. Disney will be waiting for you!"

The Tooth Fairy faded.

"And that just leaves you, Mr. Williams. Oh,I see you were a singer and entertainer. Oh well, no problem there then. Yes! Yes! An exemplary life. You seem to have handled yourself at all times as a gentleman and all round nice guy."

"Why, thank you!" said Andy Williams. "That's very kind of you to say so."

"Yes" continued Desmond. "It seems to be a foregone conclusion that you are destined for Heav... Oh my word! Oh dear!"

"What? What is it? What have you found?" said Andy as he began to sweat.

"Well, erm, this puts .... erm, oh dear! I thought Ed Sullivan was to blame for that! But it was YOU!!!"

"What? Am I going to Hell? What?" screamed Andy.

"Two words, Mr.Williams ...

THE  ...

OSMOND'S!!!!"

"Oh shit!" exclaimed Andy as he faded. "I'd forgotten about them!!!


I grew up watching the Andy Williams Show and much preferred his kind of entertainment over that of other singers and entertainers more appropriate to my generation. He was a much admired man and talented man who will be sorely missed.

I hope no one deems this post disrespectful! That is not how it was intended!
   

My Dream

I have made no bones about missing my dogs Sym and Sox.

In fact, I may have bored you all rigid with my tales of their exploits over the last few weeks. There is more to tell, but I'm going to wait for a little while before renewing my trip down doggy memory lane.

After this...

Last night I had a dream.

It was a strange dream but it was very vivid and seemed very real. I remembered it all, which is very unusual as normally I only remember fragments that leave me sometimes frustrated, but mostly curious.

This dream took place in a grassy area, which I took to be the fields of Hailey Park where I often took the dogs for their walks.

I was surrounded by a wall of fog some twenty yards away from me in every direction.

I heard no sounds.

As I stood there, the fog began to swirl and two dark figures walked out of it into the clearing carrying something between them..

One, obviously male, was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. The other, obviously female, wore a dark waist length jacket, white blouse, dark gaucho-style trousers and black knee length boots.

Nothing particularly strange there, until I realised that both figures had dog's heads.

As they drew nearer I say that the male had the head of Sym and the female the head of Sox. 

They stopped directly in front of me and I then saw that the object they carried was a babies carry-cot.
They put it on the ground and stepped forward and began to hug me and lick my face, all the time making 'wrowowow' and whining sounds.  

As they made those sounds ... and this bit is weird ... white subtitles appeared before my eyes.

"We have missed you so much!" they said. "We are doing well and taking care of each other. And we've been watching you".

I told  them how much I was missing them too and as I did so, the subtitles changed to series or written growls, yelps and barks.

They turned away from me and pick up the carry-cot indicating as they did so that I should look inside.

The Sym figure pulled back a small blue blanket and the Sox figure said "This is Leo".

I looked inside the carry-cot and saw a black, grey and white dappled puppy lying fast asleep on his back. 

"He is going to be yours one day and you are to look after him as you looked after us" the Sox figure said.

When I asked when that would be, they just said "You will know when 'Leo' comes alone, but you won't have to wait very long."

With that they said their goodbye's, there were more hugs and lick, and the took the carry-cot with the sleeping Leo back into the fog.

I woke up just after 5am.

Everything was fresh in my mind and my face was wet.

I'm not a great believer in dreams as pre-cursors for coming events, and the wet face ... well, I sweat at nights ... but to be able to remember the entire dream? That is strange.

I know one day I will have another dog!

I think I know he'll be called Leo.

But will he resemble the puppy of my dream?