No excuses

My mother says: 'I do like your blog.  I get very cross when there is a day without anything on it.'
I say: 'Mum, I did projectile vomiting in the night. Everything hurts. Even my fingers hurt.'
She says: 'Yes, well, drink a lot of water.' I can tell she would quite like to say, but does not: 'But a blog would be nice.'
First the baby got sick, and then the little Dancing Queen, aged seven, threw a fever, and finally, yesterday, the Random One (my godson, aged ten, who tells me proudly of his randomness, which I greatly encourage) developed a chest infection. Never mind,  I thought, I shall sail through it.  Then came the projectile vomiting in the night.
But as my mother implies, I cannot just leave you with nothing, so I type this from my bed with arthritic fingers, feeling like a very cross, very old lady.  All I can give you are some pictures, until I feel like a human again.

The sweet fellow I have been riding, a little scruffy from the field.  He is the most tremendous gentleman.

All the dogs, together.  Those are my cousin's puppies on the left, and my old ladies on the right.  Quite amazing how much they look as if they are related, even though my girls came from Fort William, and the puppies were born near Stroud.

My lovely godson, the Emperor of Random, all curled up with one of my old girls.

The baby, reading her favourite toy catalogue (she loves a catalogue) while my other dog sits guard.

The little Dancing Queen, named for her extraordinary sense of rhythm, with both my dogs.

And one more of the dogs, because you know I can't resist.  Mine in the middle, puppies flanking.
And now I am going to have a little rest.