George is at the vets' at the moment.
When we took him in at 8.30, they said to call at lunchtime to find out when we could pick him up. At 11.05 our phone rang. I stared at it for a moment then answered it cautiously, 'Helllooo.'
'Hello, this is Tawe Vets.' Oh flippity flip flop, my heart did a bungee-jump towards the floor: why are they phoning me? Something's happened! Oh no ...
'George has had his operation and you can pick him up in about an hour.'
Heart sprang up again through my mouth towards the sky.
'Okay,' I squeaked.
Last night on the phone to Husband we were talking about George's pending operation.
'I shall tell him it's your fault,' Husband said.
'You agreed we should!'
'I didn't really agree. I didn't think we should but you seemed set on it.'
Then coming out of the vets' after leaving george there this morning Younger Son said, 'I've always said he didn't need this operation.'
Oh that's right, just put the blame on me!