Posted by Tania Kindersley.
Too tired to blog. Really am very sorry. Today was just a bit crazy, in the end, and my brain has snapped off. Today went:
Dog.
Today programme.
Filthy filthy filthy weather. Bugger.
Horse, horse, pony, horse, LOVE.
Dog. LOVE.
Breakfast for me.
Breakfast for dog.
Work work work work work.
Speak to agent.
Reassure agent.
Agent pretends to be reassured.
More dog. LOVE.
Ooh, racing at York.
Betting at York.
Disaster at York.
Supposed to take hour off to watch racing and relax; instead felt like absolute idiot as horses got beat.
Errands with World Traveller and Great-Nieces.
Did I have lunch?
Shirty with woman in shop. Was slightly her fault (no bloody medium turnout rugs).
Felt guilty.
Overcompensated for ten minutes by listening to endless story about woman’s daughter’s pony.
Bored.
Horse, horse, horse, pony. New salt licks are a triumph like no triumph before. Great-niece the Older watches in awe and wonder, delight spread over her face like sunshine. ‘Now they will never do anything else.’
Back to DOG. LOVE.
Break boiler. Bugger bugger bugger.
But in absence, last two bets at York have come off, so William Hill account now fat and rosy instead of standing reproach. Wonder quite how much I should be channelling the spirit of my departed gambling father. Meditate on disadvantages of bad blood.
Brain turns itself off.
Supper. Good thing I am bullish about ignoring sell-by dates. Meditate on disadvantages of food poisoning.
Dog goes to sleep.
Bloody cold. Meditate on disadvantages of breaking bloody boiler. Only self to blame. Hopeless.
Swathe self in shawls in manner of crazed Victorian fortune teller.
Watch dozing dog; think of horse; smile.
Too tired for pictures. Just The Beloveds:
As a wearer of knee-blankets Sept-June I can confirm that they give one the feet and disposition of a lovely, but old, lady in the shake of a 100% woollen tassel.
ReplyDeleteStill beating myself up for glaring at a driver who I thought was jumping the petrol queue yesterday. Turned out driver was a woman with a labrador in the back, not jumping the queue either. How, low, can, one, go...? I will do my penance with the turnout rug lady in my head as well now!!!
I read your post from yesterday, we're in the same position with our lovely boy, he's 13+ (a great greyhound age), his sister died 3 years ago.
ReplyDeleteEach day is precious he now only eats rice or pasta with fresh chicken or sardines, and is often carried upstairs.
I haven't got a solution, just best wishes.
This made me chuckle :) especially listening to the boring story.
ReplyDeleteGeorge is six months old today. Eating avocado and toast. George, not me, I hate avocado. :)
Anne.x
Hope the boiler gets repaired! lovely post though. Made me smile throughout.
ReplyDelete