Two Dinner Syd

Before I went to the course the other evening I fed Syd his regulation one third of a mugful. During the evening my phone was off/turned down/on vibrate so, of course, I missed all the phone calls from Husband asking if Syd needed to be fed.

As a result Syd got a second dinner of half a mugful, which he scoffed down. He is going to be another George.

We have a book in the playroom called Six Dinner Syd where Syd goes from house to house being fed. That's actually about a cat and I really hope we never get to that situation with Syd!

* * * * *

I went to a Macmillan Cancer coffee afternoon in the church hall today. I offered to make a cake but as I'm bored of always making the same ones I decided to take time over it and do something different. It had to be rhubarb because we still have lots but this time it was rhubarb and custard meringue cake.

I either over- or under-whisked the meringue because it didn't keep its shape very well but, even so, I was pretty pleased with the result.

Until I cut it. It seemed a little bit soggy. I don't think it was under-cooked so it might just have been the mixture. 

However I doubt that Nigella ever got into this mess.

Why is my bottom trembling?

 Me and phones, we don't get on.

I use mine mostly to take photos. Also for whatsapp but I have that on my computer too so I often have no idea where my phone is. (I just remembered: I left my jumper in the garage when I was gardening, and now I'm sitting indoors I'm getting colder. Will have to fetch it. BRB.)

So Husband went for his appointment this morning and I went home promising to make sure the volume on my phone was turned up. 

About 50 minutes later I opened my phone to take a photo of Syd and, coincidentally, saw that Husband was phoning me to collect him. And had been for some time.

It seems my phone was on vibrate rather than noise (I did that for the theatre on Friday). But it was in my back pocket so I should have felt it. Either my bottom is too big for any tremor to get through, or I simply thought it was just another sign of old age.

Anyway Syd and I did a good job clearing the raspberry bed of weeds. I say good job but maybe preliminary job would be more accurate. And, come to that, Syd wasn't a lot of help either.

* * * * *

In church on Sunday a man read a poem he'd written. Now, please tell me what comes into your head when you hear this line:

Seeking solace in the carpenter's arms.

I can't be the only person who imagines a man drowning his sorrows in the pub.

* * * * *

Last night's course introduction was good. I've read the book on Emotionally Healthy Spirituality but gave up a bit towards the end so didn't make any progress on myself. Last night focused on slowing down and being silent, and seeing what it is that gets in the way.

That's easy: my brain. It rushes around twenty to the dozen. Any hint of silence and my brain will fill it with anything from what's for dinner to how can there be imaginary numbers, and everything in-between. Even watching the video I kept thinking, I wish he'd stop moving his arms so much. 

Just the thought of spending time contemplating sends my brain off in spirals of panic.

But also the computer gets in the way of me and contemplation. I have no time to 'waste' on stopping and thinking but I do have time to play solitaire. There's nothing wrong with games in moderation but once I start I can't stop. I will play mindlessly.

From the Daily Office book accompanying the course:

The problem is twofold: first we neglect to pay attention to what is going on inside us. And second, we are too busy to stop, slow down, and be with God. (I would suggest - or our thoughts if God isn't in the picture.)

Daughter is coming on the course with me. I have warned her that she may discover that all her problems stem from me!

One of the things mentioned last night, that will be dealt with in greater detail, is the false self. The one we wear for other people. I am guilty of this, caring too much what others think of me and allowing my self-worth to be dependent on what I do or achieve.

Hm, got a long way to go.

My bad

I shouldn't have tried to cook a roast dinner, do the ironing, and keep an eye on Syd at the same time.

The parsnips were overcooked, the ironing didn't get finished, and Syd wee-ed in the hall.

* * * * *

I don't think Syd likes me watching him when he does a poo: he goes around the corner to do it. Which is strange as he insists on watching me.

This morning he came into the shower with me. Right into the shower. Drinking water as it went down the plughole. I moved a bit so he'd get even wetter and realise it wasn't a good idea but it didn't faze him. He was just one soggy doggy.

Exercise class this morning. I have to say that I work harder than most people on it. Then this evening I start my course. I have special leave from Zac's for the duration!

Emotionally Healthy Spirituality. I am hoping that by the time I finish this course I will be normal and less of a bundle of insecurities.

* * * * *

Theo of Golden. Have you read it? It is lovely. When I began it I feared it was going to turn out to be one of those nicey-nicey feel-good stories. And it was but there was more to it. I cared about the people and the warmth just shone through. Warning: it does talk about God a bit!

And yesterday I picked up War of the Worlds from the library. I heard a clip from it on the radio and realised I'd never read it. I'm not a sci-fi fan - if that is what this is - but I loved the John Wyndham Triffid and other books. So we shall see.

Driving to exercise this morning I was thinking about my grandfather. He was a great reader. I used to choose murder books for him from the library. My choice was based on the goriness of the cover rather than quality of writing but he got through loads. I don't remember seeing my gran read; she was always too busy. By the time I was choosing books for him my grandfather was retired and quite deaf, so he'd sit in the corner, next to the radio, smoke a cigarette, and read.

My grandmother preferred to go down the pub and have a beer or two with her sister and friends.

Small brown puppy

What made me think that planting bulbs, with Syd in the garden, would be easy? If he wasn't digging up the bulbs he was trying to eat the fertiliser.

Small brown puppy + large garden = "Syd, where are yo...? Oh, there you are, standing next to me."

* * * * *

I had an an  optician's appointment on Saturday. I've been getting white flashes (as opposed to hot flushes). The scans were okay and the optician couldn't see any problems in my eyes but he asked me to come back for another appointment so I could have my eyes dilated so they could get a fuller view. He couldn't do it then as I'd driven there and the drops would have prevented me driving home. So I made an appointment for Wednesday morning when Husband could drive me.

This morning Husband had a phone call from the hospital saying they'd had a cancellation and would he be able to come in for a cataract assessment appointment on . . . Wednesday morning. Of course he will need me to drive.

Much harder to get a hospital appointment than an optician's so I've changed my to next Monday. 

Syd has mummy issues

I bought him a dog with a heartbeat. "It'll remind him of his mother," they said. "It'll help him settle," they said.

He tosses it around the place as if, yes, as if wanting revenge on his mummy for giving him away. 

(And I know from that picture it looks as if we keep him in a shed but that's our kitchen wall. I hadn't realised how scruffy it is.)

We were in the back garden working - Syd helping of course - when Syd heard the gate go. He rushed to the front garden and was thrilled to see his friend the postman. Honestly he was delighted to see him.

It's bad enough that Syd makes a huge fuss of Husband every time he comes downstairs but now the postman gets the fuss too! (I know it's because he's with me most of the time and it's good he shows the love to Husband!)

The postman brought my order of the smallest ever, puppy-teeth-friendly plastic Kong (a dog brain challenging toy). I stuffed it with special puppy peanut butter and gave it to Syd. He's been playing with it ever since.

George had a big Kong. We would put treats in it then hide it in the garden and he would have to find it. He was brilliant at it but then, when there food was involved, George was on the button. (Is that a real phrase?)

* * * * *

Last night we finally got to see Operation Mincemeat, the musical. GrandDaughter1 and her best friend dog-sat for us so we were able to enjoy the evening and not worry. 

It was excellent and I am in awe of their energy and timing. A cast of five playing multiple characters, with no regard for gender, but with wonderful singing and staging. Some laughs, some poignant moments. And based on a true story - that I will look up now - as soon as I've poured my tea.

In the dog house

Syd and me both.

Kept Husband awake from 2 am; I slept through it.

Has discovered how to climb stairs; another big no from Husband.

My fault because he's my dog.

When he's not keeping Husband awake at night nor climbing stairs, he is very sweet. And Husband does love him really. 

Last night he managed to overturn two bins, his bed, and move his water bowl to the other end of the kitchen. I've seen pheromone diffusers recommended to bring a sense of calm so shall order one of those. He is actually quite calm mostly. Loud noises don't worry him and he's happy to meet people.

Syd 'helped' Husband to put the winter cover on the pool - and now thinks it's his personal trampoline.

Meanwhile in the garden we have some late roses, and lots of dahlias and chillis.

The unexpected posy courtesy of Syd

P.S. Syd can climb stairs but is not brave enough to come down yet.

This is what I've been missing

I needed to make a birthday cake for Zac's tomorrow so Syd was in the kitchen with me as I made it. I said, "Pay attention, Syd. You could be the first cooking cockapoo."
I explained that I put in the flour then the sugar and then it went whizzy whiz. "Are you paying attention, Syd?"

"I can hear Dad in the garden; he might need my help." (A dog who knows how to use semi-colons, that's impressive.)

Then you put in the marg and the eggs and more whizzy whiz. Syd, stop looking at yourself in the front of the oven and concentrate."
"Is that my bit of twig? I think it is. I'd better play with it."
"Then the best bit, Syd: you get to lick the bowl. Well, I do but you don't. Syd? Syd, where've you gone?"

This is what my blog's been missing: conversations between me and my dog.

Apparently AI can't tell the difference between certain dogs and fried chicken. Hence Elder Son has nicknamed Syd 'The Colonel'. Honestly, Syd doesn't look at all like fried chicken, does he?

I seem to be spending a lot of time wandering around the garden saying, "Are you going to do a wee for mummy, Syd?"

If I wait long enough he usually does and then he gets lots of praise and a treat.

And so it begins

Night 1
Syd slept reasonably well and didn't start crying until 4. Husband nudged me at 7 to get up and sort him out. I can't hear him crying so Husband suffers the most.
Night 2
Syd cried all night.
I mostly didn't hear him and slept but was woken a few times by restless Husband. Everyone very tired. Speaker in church had a quiet voice, not helpful when you're trying to stay awake. Meanwhile Daughter and two grandchildren came round to keep Syd company.
Night 3
Either Syd was so tired after the night before and a busy day and slept, or Husband was so tired he didn't hear him, but it seemed to be a largely peaceful night, Syd starting at about 6.15.

Lots of advice about dealing with puppies and nights. The breeder told us to ignore him. Various websites say to sleep with him at first. Others say, "Give up and bring him to your bedroom." Absolutely no chance of that!

Anyway, yesterday afternoon I had to pick GrandDaughter1 up from work so I left Husband in charge. It was a lovely afternoon so Husband decided to do some work in the garden.

Husband turned his back for a moment and Syd fell in the pool.

Husband yanked him out and Syd immediately walked across and went headfirst into the pond.

This does not bode well for the future. I foresee many Sydventures as I think Boud called them.

Husband will be putting the winter cover on the pool asap, and I think we'll have to put a temporary barrier around the pond.

It would have been George's birthday yesterday.

I think he would approve of me getting a new dog finally.

Distracted

That's what I've been this week as it all led up to this: 

Meet Syd, my new cockapoo puppy!

He's 11 weeks old and we - Daughter and I - chose him and brought him home yesterday. Husband is still not entirely on board but I sense a weakening this morning - even though Syd woke him up at 4 am whining and scratching the kitchen door. 

I slept through it. That is to say I slept through Syd's crying but was woken by Husband's restlessness. He, Husband that is, pushed me out of bed at 7 to go and sort out Syd.

I have to finish now as Syd wants me to go and play with him.

Too young

I was supposed to be having my RSV injection this morning. I'd been surprised when I had a letter inviting me as I thought only 75s and over were eligible, but I assumed they'd changed the rules, and booked.

Yesterday the surgery nurse phoned telling me the Health Authority had made a booboo and I wasn't eligible. 

It was good to be too young for something for once but this jab was one I would have liked to have had. Also as I no longer had an appointment this morning it meant I could go back to exercise class.

Big mistake. I can no more 'take it easy on your first time back' than I can say no to ice cream. I will regret this on Friday. Maybe tomorrow but it usually takes two days to really hit me. I was surprised how weak my arms were. They've never been very strong, especially my left one, but I was struggling from the start today.

Then writing group this afternoon. Richard led - very well - and I might have been a bit too honest in my writing. I should have stopped before it went downhill.

Got petrol on the way home and couldn't resist taking a photo of this hare holding a fire extinguisher.

Minor hysterics

It suddenly occurred to me that the show, Operation Mincemeat, was coming to the Grand Theatre sometime soon. I booked tickets for it after Husband's illness got in the way of a London trip to see it.

But it wasn't in my diary.

This was a little alarming.

I googled to see when it's on and it's the last week in September so at least we hadn't missed it. Then I searched through my emails to find a record of booking. Nada! Zilch! Nothing!

Husband recently read about box breathing where you breathe in for 4 (or was it 5?), hold it for 4, breathe out for 4, and hold it for 4. It's supposed to be good to calm you as you try to imagine breathing the sides of a box. Sadly I was past the stage when breathing would help.

"Where is it? I did book, didn't I? I must have done! I' absolutely sure I did! Then where is it? Why can't I find a record? Don't panic!"

I checked my blog and this is what I'd written back in June 2025:

Booked
Tickets that is not me. For Operation Mincemeat in Swansea Grand Theatre in September 2026! (Note for self - they have emailed me e-tickets, must remember this for when I panic and can't find them.) 

Which proves I did book but doesn't help on the finding the tickets email front. It also shows how well I know myself.

Well, I found them but they were in a strange Inbox folder that I never look at that seems to just house some emails. I've now printed out the tickets and will put them 'somewhere safe.'

I need a cup of tea after that.

* * * * *

In Italy they have three kittens and two chicks, the latter born - hatched? -  while we were there.

'Dave' the dad

Mum Helga and one kitten

It was GrandSon4's birthday the day before we arrived in France so he insisted on me making a cake for him when we got back to Italy. He is well into Harry Potter and wanted a book cake. Actually he wanted Hagrid or a phoenix but I managed to talk him down.

Cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen, with an unfamiliar stove, and unfamiliar ingredients, especially when it has to be gluten-free for YS, isn't easy. The cake wasn't the best but it got eaten. The icing was meant to be red like the phoenix but it was coming out pink - red colouring always does! - so I turned it purple on the basis that purple is a magical colour. The only piping equipment I could buy had a wide hole so my writing is very thick and poor, and that's meant to be a feather at the bottom by the way.

The wicked have it made

Yesterday I was leading the service in church for the first time, meaning I did the welcome and introductions, the mc if you like.

Bit of a panic at first as they couldn't get the microphones to work but, thankfully, that was sorted in time and I didn't have to shout. Part of the job of leading is usually reading the psalm for the week. We're working through the book of psalms and we'd reached number 73. 

I don't know if you've heard about the men in black wearing balaclavas gathering at Dover recently to protest about immigration? Or the far-right's war on the RNLI (Royal National lifeboat Institution)? 

The anti-migration parties are calling the lifeboatmen traitors for saving lives at sea without first checking if they have a British passport. 

You may not know that the majority of our lifeboatmen and women are volunteers, who are willing to risk their own lives at any time of day or night, often in appalling sea conditions to rescue those in trouble. In 1947 the Mumbles Lifeboat was launched to answer a distress call and it never came back. All eight crew members died.

So when I read the psalm last week to prepare for Sunday I was struck by how apt the words are. (The R****m party received, over the weekend, £72 million from two crypto billionaires.)

This is an extract from it, from The Message translation:

. . . the wicked who have it made,
Who have nothing to worry about,
    not a care in the whole wide world.
Pretentious with arrogance,
    they wear the latest fashions in violence,
Pampered and overfed,
    decked out in silk bows of silliness.
They jeer, using words to kill;
    they bully their way with words.
They’re full of hot air,
    loudmouths disturbing the peace.
People actually listen to them—can you believe it?
    Like thirsty puppies, they lap up their words.

* * * * *

Not many flowers left in the garden now but I managed a little posy.

A question for you

I think I've mentioned that our writing group is producing an anthology to sell in aid of Ukraine. I am in the process of putting all the text together, I have a designer working on the cover, and all we need now is a title.

In the car yesterday, on my way to the library the 'hiraeth' came to me. I don't think I was thinking about the anthology in particular but probably about books in general. Hiraeth is a wonderful Welsh word that doesn't have a direct translation other than homesickness but it's much more than that. It's a deep-seated longing for a time or place, especially when that time or place no longer exists.

It felt very appropriate for a book to be sold in aid of country that will never be the same again. 

Browsing in the library later I flicked open the pages of a novel to the foreword, which gave the definition of hiraeth: a deep, bittersweet longing for a home, place, or time that is lost, unreachable, or never actually existed. That was a bit spooky!

Anyway, later that day I read the essay submitted by our Ukrainian writer and it's all bout the summers she spent on her grandparents' farm in the south of Ukraine. So the title Hiraeth felt very apt.

But then this morning I was talking to the designer and he asked it it was a good title if you had to keep explaining it. So I thought I'd ask you what you think.

I quite like the idea of having to explain it, to emphasise the changes that will have been wrought in Ukraine. Also most of the buyers will be Welsh and will have an inkling I believe. So, your thoughts, please.

* * * * *

Having come back from very hot temperatures to Welsh autumnal temperatures I am feeling the cold. I even put a vest on this morning!

Meanwhile back in the south of France. One day we went for a wander around the town of Frejus. It's become a very popular resort these days and has its upmarket marina and promenade area, as well as its historic and arts centre. 

French singer Johnny Hallyday

An olive tree about 1,000 years old.

Yarn-bombing!

Scots men skipping

I'm sure it shouldn't be every day that I say the words, "Now where was I when I took off my bra?"

But you know what it's like. Sometimes the pressure just gets too much and the bra has to go.

* * * * *

Some people doom scroll. I waste time by watching Grey's Anatomy clips, cute videos of fluffy puppies, and hunky Scots men in kilts skipping.

* * * * *

So back to the holiday.

We normally travel to Italy mid-week but this time we were meeting the family in the south of France for a Eurocamping week. This meant travelling on a Friday and Saturday. Never again. Usually the French peages (toll roads) are a delight to drive along; this time they were crowded with French people going on holiday! I mean, come on!

We spent our honeymoon near Frejus and returned there for our 40th anniversary trip so we were on familiar territory although Eurocamp has changed a lot. In those days it was all tents with communal shower and toilet blocks; these days it's chalets ranging from basic to luxurious all essentials included.

There were lots of pools with slides, which the children loved, and, indeed, they seemed to enjoy spending most of their time under water rather on top. And there was the sea, my place. Not like beaches on Gower on the whole but more little stony coves. The one big sandy beach at Frejus itself was very popular and we only went there once but it gave me time to spot the Beach Library! How civilised is that?

But we preferred the coves, difficult though it was to walk in the slippery stony sea, especially with children dragging you along!

The stones were fab though and I began collecting them with a view to making a picture. Then the grands starting helping and now I can make a huge masterpiece.

The stones had a glittery look and when I found one that had what looked like a sheet of silver on its surface I put it on the edge of my towel to keep until I moved it to my bag. Then we went for a swim.

On returning, Husband, for no apparent reason, picked up my towel and shook it. My scream of, "No! My stone!" came too late.

I might have become just a tiny bit irrational and obsessive at this point and spent most of the rest of our time on the beach picking up and discarding stones in my search for my 'precious'. It was such a lovely stone. I still mourn its loss. It would have been the focus of my picture. Oh, big sigh. 

That reminds me, I saw a post on Jabblog's about the Ig Nobel Prize, where someone got a prize for researching what causes people to sigh. I do that a lot and would be interested to find out why.

Later

Went to the library to return books and pick up a reservation. Went in determined not to choose any others as I have plenty to read but came out with three, and photos of lots of books to put on my Want-to-read list.

I do online suduko and my game has recently started flashing up encouraging words, like 'Smooth move' and 'You've cracked it!' Now I feel I'm letting it down if I make a mistake.

A lovely walk with Daughter and Louie yesterday to Pobbles and back the long way to avoid the cows on the golf course, road, and pavement. A grey but mild day.

The 'veins' of a dried out cactus on the cliff near the cove in France.

Husband does magic

Unsurprisingly I didn't manage to read as many books as I took. One I finished on holiday had an excellent opening paragraph:

First off, I'm not a violent man. Quite the opposite. For example, I've never once in my life gotten into a fight. And I didn't even kill anyone until I was forty-two.

The book might not be to your taste but you've got to admit that's a cracking opening. It's called Murder Mindfully and I notice there's a television adaptation on Netflix at the moment. It's quite gruesome but also funny and strangely logical. 

I also read Butter, an international best-seller according to the cover. Another strange one where a journalist wants to interview a woman accused of luring three men to her and then killing them. The accused is an unpleasant woman with ideas I don't agree with but I couldn't help wanting her to be proved innocent. She could be thoroughly nasty but there was also a naivety and neediness about her.

There's a lot of food talk in it. The journalist mentions on several occasions buying onigiri for her dinner so when I spotted it in a Lidl in France in a tiny Japanese section I couldn't resist buying it. I assumed from her description it was a sort of savoury ready meal. The one I bought was raspberry and white chocolate and not horrid but not very nice. Maybe a fishy one would be better.

* * * * *

This morning I sorted the washing and put it in the machine only for the machine to appear dead. I shouted up to Husband to tell him it wasn't working. He came down the stairs a few minutes later saying, "It's fixed now."

And it was.

* * * * *

A letter arrived while I was on holiday telling me an appointment had been made for me to have the RSV vaccination. Trouble was, it was for last Saturday.

I've made a new appointment. I've only just become eligible to get this jab and I'll take anything that's going and that promises to help me stay healthy. Or at least not as ill as I could be.

The good news

I didn't lose my bra when on holiday. 

It turns out I hadn't packed it, which is a relief as I had wondered if, in a moment of forgotten flippancy, I'd thrown my bra to the wind and sea.

Anyway I'm back so prepare for lots of holiday photos.

Yesterday I consumed:
a pain au sucre and orange juice (France);
a cinnamon bun, and mango and passion fruit cooler (England);
the best part of a bag of crisps and when I say bag I mean sharing size of course (car);
and a bowl of crunchy nut flakes (Wales).

Today our healthy eating regime starts!

Unfortunately I said last week that when we got home we'd have three days 'off', and would eat ready meals. Holidaying with grandchildren is the best but also exhausting; we need a holiday to recover. But as Husband pointed out, ready meals will be okay if we only eat those, and not add the extras we're inclined to add on the grounds that ready-meals aren't big enough for two people. (They are of course.)

Pain au sucre

Must stop

Have downloaded three - um, what do you call them? - read aloud books? To keep me happy on the drive. Plus two books for kindle. That's as well as four paperbacks and two library books. I'm not going to get through all of those obviously but I like to be prepared, hence the knicker equation. (Number of knickers to pack = number of days x 2 + 3 spare.*)

* * * * *

Today is GCSE result day and GrandDaughter1 has done well and got the grades she needs to go to sixth form college. She had a few difficult years in senior school so I am especially pleased for her. 

Apparently it's now a thing for the year below to go in and get their grades as well, as they count towards the final result of next year's GCSE exams. So GrandSon1 also got good grades and is well on course for next year.

* * * * *

There's only been a tiny bit of rainfall but already the back lawn looks greener and I swear the grass has grown.

* * * * * 

Husband has been very productive these last couple of days. He's made twelve jars of tomato chutney, four jars of fig chutney, and four jars of fig jam, all from home-grown tomatoes and figs.

*Maybe a slight exaggeration. (And I can never remember if it's one 'r' and two 'g's or vice versa.)

Having failed to marry

"Having failed to marry Stephen . . ."

That was the start of the precis of the episode that was on the radio and it puzzled me. It's a weird thing to say I think. How exactly did she fail? 

Was she a wicked temptress who had tried to ensnare Stephen only to have him find out and refuse to marry her?

The story is A Pair of Blue Eyes by Thomas Hardy, and I've just googled some synopses, which suggest the reason she didn't marry Stephen was either  a case of cold feet or the disapproval of her father. I wouldn't see either of those as failure on her part.  

Perhaps I need to get a life and not stress about word usage.

I've just begun reading Murder Mindfully, which has one of the best openings. 

First off, I'm not a violent man. Quite the opposite, For example, I've never once gotten into a fight. And I didn't even kill anyone until I was forty-two.

So this busy lawyer is given an ultimatum: he has to sort out his work life balance or his wife will leave him taking their daughter with her. So he goes to mindfulness classes.

I managed to get a last minute 'squeezed me in' hair appointment this morning. The realisation that after three weeks holiday my hair would be, well, a disaster spurred me on. So I am sitting in the chair having my hair coloured feeling as tense as having my hair done always makes me and I thought I'd try some mindfulness breathing exercises. 

It must take a lot of practice. Impossible to cut out the music and other people's discussions - particularly when they're so fascinating. Stepping into the hair salon is like stepping into a different world. A world where people drink. A lot. The woman in the next chair was 42 (her son is 10 and she had him when she was 32) and she was preparing for her annual long weekend in Benidorm trip with three friends, where their main objective seemed to be drinking. I mean my hairdresser's in his early 50s and he still goes out with the boys and gets drunk.

I lead such a sheltered life. Thankfully.

From there it was back to Rough Edges for a final push at clearing. Nearly there.

And as it was before.

Knickers and books

I've posted it.

* * * * *

I have bought ten new pairs of knickers and ordered books from the library.

That's my most important holiday prep done.

* * * * *

I have got into the habit of going up to strangers, usually men, and asking what sort of dog it is they have. Usually cockapoos as I suspected but wanted confirmation. All owners speak highly and recommend getting one.

Husband has become even more vocal in his insistence that we're not getting a dog. "I mean it! You'll have to do everything. You'll have to get up in the morning to let him out!"

Now, Husband is always up first and he brings me a cup of tea in bed but, apparently, even though he's up he isn't going to let the dog out. "He'll run away!"

I've tried to reassure him that not all dogs have a wanderlust like George did. (And Louie it now appears.)

My children and, in particular the grandchildren, are of the opinion I should just go and buy one. 

And here's a photo of George.

Under the whispering door

Trying to make sense of a legal document. Really no need to use whereas or whereby quite so often. Feeling rather tetchy with owner of the building next door to Zac's trying to claim things we didn't agree to.

Anyway, recently I found a notelet and envelope in one of my charity shop books. It's dated 2014 and it seems was meant to accompany a gift of a book of short stories. The envelope is addressed so I'm wondering if I should send it?

The problem is that the note mentions an appointment with a consultant. It was a reassuring report apparently but what if either the sender or recipient is now dead? What do you think? 

* * * * *

On the car radio I caught a part of the dramatisation of Noel Streatfield's The Growing Summer. In it, it's 1965 and four children are sent to live with their eccentric great-aunt in a run-down mansion on the west coast of Ireland. I was so taken with it I've ordered the book. Didn't we all dream of running wild and living in almost derelict mansions?

Then because I needed to order another book so I wouldn't have to pay postage I opted for Under the Whispering Door by TJ Klune, who wrote The House in the Cerulean Sea. 

* * * * *

And here's my latest article in which I disagree with Job.