Here Comes The Sun … Slap On The Dog Food …

Good Morning

There are all kinds of dreams, yeah? Producing all kinds of reactions and emotions? Last night I had a dream that left me feeling utterly nauseous. It involved a tall, skinny bloke, naked and lying face-down on my bed, requesting that I rubbed sun oil on his porcelain-white body. Nothing overly nauseous about that – if I kept my eyes shut – but then I had to mix the sun oil. Half a cup of olive oil and half a sachet of dog food, mashed and stirred in. Then I had to apply it to his body. I remember retching in this dream and when the tall, skinny, nude bloke turned over to have the oil rubbed on his front, I woke up. Thank God. Not sure this recent migraine preventative treatment is agreeing with me. I couldn’t face Chea’s Sheba sachet this morning and had to cook her chicken instead.

Talking of Chea! She has become a thorn in my side. She has decided that our garden, rambling and long as it is, is no longer sufficient to hold her interest. She now has to go further afield, scrambling over fences, sliding down the neighbour’s greenhouse roof and generally doing all things that will surely land her in trouble. What can we do? I want to protect her with my life. Isn’t that what you sign up for when you take on these lunatic creatures? To protect them to the very best of your ability? I had a very serious conversation with Richard regarding taking her back to the RSPCA so that they could find her a ‘safe’ home, where she could wander freely without harm. Richard, who 99% of the time goes along with all my ideas, wishes and half insane plans, put his size eleven boot firmly down and flatly refused to consider such a thing. He argued that she was now part of us and that he would rather let her freely navigate the globe (with the consequences that it might bring) than send her back to the RSPCA and never know what happened to her.

Sweet? Yes. Very. BUT. It doesn’t work that way. The very second her little tabby body is nowhere to be seen Richard goes into panic mode. He panics by nature. Nothing I can do about it. It is in his genes. So, when Chea disappears Richard comes bleating to me, ‘I can’t see Chea. Have you seen Chea? How long has Chea been missing? Are you going to help me look for Chea?’

‘Give her a chance to come back,’ I say. ‘Leave her.’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘If YOU say so. If YOU think she’ll come back.’

Do you see what he does there? Turns the whole thing around on to  me so that if she falls into a rain-barrel and dies it is my fault because I said to leave her. So this stresses my massively. MASSIVELY! Off he slopes. Conscience clear. Five minutes later and he’s back.

‘I still can’t see her but if YOU’RE not concerned, that’s OK.’

At this point I have two choices. Kill him. Kill myself. Or get in the car and drive to the nearest airport. OK. I know that’s three choices but I’ve only just realised that the airport is a very possible alternative.

She did her longest disappearing trick yesterday afternoon and Richard went into meltdown, peering over fences, ripping holes in the hedge, talking to the neighbours (he’s a bit reclusive usually!) and calling her – loudly. No result. Well, no that’s not true. There was a result. In his passion to find the sodding creature he forced his body behind the chicken shed so that he could peer, goggle-eyed over the fence. All this rustling and bustling scared the shit out of the chucks and they went ballistic, flying and crashing into the wire on the windows. I went out to see what the hell was going on. Richard was hurrying off up the garden, unaware as usual of the destruction behind him and I was presented with two bleeding chucks.  I’m not swearing here. They were literally bleeding. It was then my turn to go ballistic.

By the time I’d found some cotton wool, warm water and wound powder, Richard was coming back down the garden. I let rip. I can’t tell you what I said. Or how loudly I said it. It would ruin my image. Forever.

Chickens swabbed, powered and separated,  or they would eat each other alive, I stropped off back to the house, yelling that if the f*****g cat EVER came back he WOULD take it to the RSPCA or I would be on that plane flying out to my friend Jo’s place in Africa.

When my breathing had steadied to something near normal I took a sneak out of the door. Richard was sitting on his heels, leaning against the chuck cage, looking down at the floor. I think the combination of losing Chea and upsetting me, and the thought that if I did fly out of the country he’d have to get his own food, had flattened him. As I continued to watch him a little tabby, shit-head cat, wandered up to him and started head-butting his knee.

The wanderer had returned … this time.

I had a lovely surprise last week. I’d previously posted a picture of Chea on my fb timeline and unknown to me,  Artist – Shara Sartipi had taken that image and from it painted Chea. Apparently Shara has included Chea’s limited print with three others and they are available to purchase, individually, or as a set (The Kitty Kat Collection) from her  fb Artist page. It is most definitively worth a look. Shara’s paintings include various subjects …

 

Take care my lovelies x

 

Shara’s fb link …    https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.136856736508342.1073741831.136409653219717&type=1

 

 

Les Miserables …And Miserable Little Me …

Hi All

It’s been almost a week since I last posted. I’m sure you have all missed me like crazy? But just in case you haven’t I’ll move on.

I was swamped with a massive migraine last Saturday and it rolled on to Sunday and Monday and part of Tuesday. I nearly died you know? OK, a slight exaggeration but I reckon Richard wouldn’t have minded too much. I went berserk and yelled at him because he was unsympathetic to my condition and  I also told him to take Chea back to the RSPCA because she was a sodding nuisance who wouldn’t stop trying to escape from the garden.

Since then I have struggled to the optician to have an eye test, my last one was eight years ago. I know. I’m bloody hopeless. But that’s me, I’m afraid. A rebel. I may have been staggering under the after effects of a horrendous migraine and my eyes may have been slightly crossed but I still noticed the optician had spelt appointment wrong on his information leaflet! APPOINMENT! Haha. Had I been feeling more chipper I’d have pointed it out to him because I wasn’t much impressed with his high and mighty attitude. As it was I let it ride. I’ve ordered some prescription shades because the bright light is causing me considerable discomfort and I’ve just seen my doctor (again) and made an appointment with a neurologist – for July! Don’t hurry on my account, sunbeam. Right that’s that. I’ve been dreadful but I’m back – till the next attack.

Whilst I was ‘poorly’ dear Richard spent time and money in Blockbusters. His choice of films are crap, even when I’m not suffering a blinding headache. On Sunday, as I lay in bed, having finally given in to the pain, he arrived and waddled a Blu-ray DVD in front of my eyes.

‘I’m not interested in this.’ he said, ‘But I know you wanted to see it and I thought it might cheer you up.’

It came into focus – slowly. Les Miserables. Was he frigging joking? Cheer me up? I accept that I must be the only human on the planet who hasn’t seen Les Mis or knows the story but the title is a bit of a give-away.

He placed the said DVD in the player and beetled off downstairs, where he fell hungrily on his new Land Rover mag, which I’d spied tucked under his arm.

Twenty minutes into Les Mis and I almost switched it off. Forty-five minutes in and I still had no apathy with ‘Fantine.’ I didn’t flinch when they booted her out of her job or when they chopped off her locks. As the story evolved I seriously wondered what all the hype and fuss was about. I found dear little Cosette of little importance and not at all worth the trouble and effort lovely Jean Valjean (Hugh Jackman) went to to raise her. I couldn’t help but wonder why everyone had been in tears over this film. Perhaps I was insensitive? Perhaps I’d taken too many painkillers and I was half brain-dead?

And then … Hugh died. And even that was OK.  But then Fancine’s spirit arrived, singing and smiling, ready to take him with her. He rose from his chair and walked towards the spirits of his revolution friends, all standing on the barricade. There was a lump in my throat and the tears rolled down my cheeks. Success. Les Mis did make me cry. And I know exactly why. It’s that dead person coming to fetch their loved one thing. It gets me every time. When Rex Harrison comes for Mrs Muir in The  Ghost And Mrs Muir I sniff and snot like a baby.

Will that happen? Will someone come for me – and you? Take your hand as you step from your old used-up body and you and your someone will walk away into the clouds?

I guess I had to reconsider Les Miserables. The ending did it for me. Emotional. Revolutionary  - in all senses of the word. Brilliant? Yeah pretty much.

I may be a little more focused (literally) tomorrow and I may make more sense. Not promising – just hoping.

Take care my lovelies x

Bring On The Dancing Ape …

Good Morning

Does everything have to be so difficult? Apparently so. Why? Who knows?

Now I’m not only talking to myself I’m answering my own questions!

I may as well stare at my  hand and watch my life trickling through my open fingers. Can I ever justify the time spent on this virtual crap? Can you even have ‘virtual’ crap. Isn’t crap – all crap – real?

I need to stop this before I turn into a whirling dervish and disappear up my own posterior.

This, very near to ‘ripping out my hair frenzy,’ has been brought about by attempting to add  a PayPal button to this site. Easy? Yes – if you are a sodding Einstein. I’m not. Why am I even stating the obvious when you all know me now?

Mind you, I have to take some credit and a thump on the back because I did actually create a PayPal button. Oh yes indeedy Mrs Tweedy. Created it I did. Then I attempted to put the little darling on this site – for an hour. But that’s nothing for me. If I intend to do something I do it, regardless of time and effort. I rarely give up  - or in. However, I have given up and I have given in – temporarily. I shall regroup my head.

To be honest I have discovered that the problem may not be of my making or stupidity. Apparently, after wading through the ‘support’ section it appears that you can’t follow PayPal’s instructions because they won’t work with WordPress. WordPress has its own way of doing it. Well whoopee-do, good old WordPress. I’ve spent enough time on this today. I shall endeavour to source an intelligent person to dig me out of this mire.

To be continued …

The bottoming of the wardrobes went spectacularly badly. Just as I was closing down the laptop Richard appeared and asked if I would I like to go out for a couple of hours before he had to go to work. Nothing was further from my mind – because I wanted to bin my entire clothes collection and a good few pairs of shoes, BUT if you discourage people from making suggestions they will lose faith and never suggest anything ever again. So off we toddled to … B&Q.

Rocking. B&Q!! Some suggestion hey? At least the hernia wound wasn’t kicking off so the hand remained out of the pant area. And I did buy some colour coordinating plant pots and saucers to pot-on my cacti collection. So not a wasted journey. And we did pass the horse-dung-for-sale place and  managed to pick up another two bags. I seem to have this thing about surrounding myself with shit.

That proved to be the highlight of yesterday and as I said above, today has started in a rather discouraging vein. And now you are all thinking that things can only get better? I wouldn’t bet on it. I have my chiro appointment in an hour, cacti (with killer spikes) to pot-on and a twenty-first birthday bash to go to tonight. Richard will get lairy (silly) drink too much (2 pints) and start dancing (imitating an ape). I will smile and accept the looks of sympathy. 

So now tell me things can only get better?

 

Take care my lovelies x

 

PS I’d like to welcome all new followers/readers of this blog who have recently joined us. Your support/comments/shares are much appreciated.

 

 

 

Forgive The Hand Down The Pants? …

Morning.

I may have lost the plot. I have just turned up the radio to listen to Rod Stewart’s new song. I don’t even like Rod Stewart. Weird that. Thinking about it, I don’t mind some of his warbling. Perhaps I like him a bit? No I don’t.

Yesterday I popped out to have a meander around the shopping complex which is just down the motorway from me. I had also arranged to meet my brother, so managing to purchase four blouses (are they still called blouses these days? Tops maybe? ) in forty-five minutes from three different shops was quite some going. I tried on several pairs of trousers but alas drew a big fat no no. Seriously, I was the big fat no no. My weight gain since my inguinal hernia op over a year ago has been well covered here in the past.

For the last year I have had to wear leggings or combats. Anything else is just too tight and applies pressure to my wound, which in turn makes the whole area very sore and painful. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? A piece of gauze sewn into my groin. I’m a bloody hero really, you know. I battle on from day-to-day hardly a whimper or a whine.

Pants are also a problem but a problem which I consider I have solved. I buy them three sizes too big and then the elastic round the leg doesn’t apply pressure. Isn’t this interesting dudes? Take it as a warning. Don’t go levelling ground and throwing rocks around like The Incredible Hulk. Something will give.

Occasionally, like when I’m aimlessly following Richard around B&Q, the old knickers rub and the whole thing hurts so I have to have a quick slide of the hand down the pants and an intense examination of the area just to make sure I haven’t burst the wound. It’s not ideal and at times has drawn the odd look from other shoppers. Obviously this kind of thing is common place with men but not something I guess you would associate with a lady. Lady? Haha. Seriously though, this thing terrifies me in case I rupture it and I end up back on the slab holding another polite conversation about how to sell designer shoes on Ebay with an op room full of green-coated strangers. I jest not. That was exactly the conversation, last time.

Today I am going to attempt to tidy my wardrobes. I have to. There is stuff hanging in them that has never been worn – or likely to be. Skinny jeans are out. The two pairs of stupid white trousers, that Richard said I should buy, are out. White trousers do not fit into my life-style. Thinking about it, everything  I have ever bought when Richard was with me (a rare thing) needs to go. I always say before you take notice from any one who is slagging off your writing take a look at theirs. And consequently before you take fashion advice from someone take a look at what the advisor is wearing. Richard has a style of his own – as do I – and never the two should meet.

The thing is …what do I do with all this stuff? Car boot? Ebay? Charity bag? Close my eyes and bin it? I know that once I have cleared out the stuff I am never going to wear I will feel enlightened but Lordy Lord, what a frigging chore.

I left Richard in charge of the two chucks and Chea yesterday whilst I was off shopping. When I returned I asked him how he had managed. Responsibility weighs very heavily with Richard. He said he had found the hole in the fence where Chea was escaping and had filled the whole thing with a piece of trellis only for Chea to run up it like a ladder and sit grinning at him from the top of the fence. He sounded quite stressed, poor thing. Welcome to my world!

I can warble no longer. I am going to make a cup of tea and then go and clear out all three wardrobes before my energy level and enthusiasm drops to nothing… and those rather annoying baby cabbages start to call …

Take care my lovelies x

How Not To Erect Your Precious Cadac …

Good Morning All

Well, that was lovely. Two whole days of spring sunshine and today we are back to normal. Grey and threatening drizzle. In fact, it has started to rain.

Richards ‘other’ love is sitting out in it. Shame. Nice weather brings the motorbike out of storage and Richard uses it for work, preferring to abandon me an hour earlier than necessary and going for a ‘ride round’ before work. It is a bloody great lumbering thing – the bike, not Richard – although? Usually it is kept covered, garaged and pampered, but it is a bit of a struggle for him to put it to bed when he gets home at 10.00 pm.

If you remember I mentioned in a post a few weeks ago that Richard had suggested buying a stove like Ade Edmondson’s, in Ade In Britain, so that he could cook ‘up at his summerhouse.’ I had squashed that stupid idea by informing him that he could only cook oven chips and to forget it. He then had the brilliant idea of retrieving his new and precious Cadac from the attic and using that. I offered no argument.

Two days ago, in the middle of our super heat-wave the Cadac was found and brought down from the attic. A Cadac, for those of you who have never come across such a wonder of creation, is pretty much like a barbecue, stands on three legs, has a removable griddle, wok etc etc and runs off gas. Obviously, after ‘setting it up’ at the side of his summerhouse (shed) he wanted to go a step further and disappeared to go rummaging through the deep freeze for something to cook on it. He returned with stir-fry and salmon. The stir-fry was OK but the salmon proved to be cod.

I kindly produced a few wild garlic leaves and chives and took my seat and waited.  And waited …

The stir-fry had virtually disappeared by the time the frozen fish had cooked and the whole thing looked rather … different. On the whole, for Richard, I have to say it was a success. This might sound strange. But trust me. It was a success. This is Richard’s second Cadac. The first one died very prematurely. And this is what happened …

We spent a weekend camping with Richards sister and her family (before she decided I was a stroppy cow and fell out with us!) and Richard, being Richard, decided to erect his new Cadac and cook everyone a barbie – that’s cue not doll! Even Richard isn’t quite that weird.

With steaks and sausages and other dead flesh spitting and burning he performed his little show, in-between swigging gut-rot cider and telling ‘Richard’ jokes, which are really best avoided unless you have recently emptied your bladder. With his eye firmly on the bottom of his upturned cider bottle it was moments before he or anyone else noticed that the Cadac was shrinking and slowly tipping.

Half choking and in slow motion Richard lunged forwards grabbing the steaks as they slid off the grill, burning his hands, and shouting, ‘f**k me, an earthquake!’

Everyone else stared in horror as the whole thing collapsed into a bubbling, melted heap, sending black, toxic smoke belching across the camp site.

Obviously the idiot had put the thing together wrong, allowing the flame to burn through the plastic stand and the whole thing had tipped and dissolved into the grass like the Wicked Witch of the West.

So, all things considered, the second Cadac was a success and lives to cook again … and so does Richard. He is taking a holiday next week and has already informed me that we can pop to Morrison’s and stock up on masses of barbie stuff and eat outdoors every day next week. I just nodded. Best to just nod  - sometimes. 

Take care my lovelies x

 

 

The Great Escape …

Good Morning All.

Today they have predicted a lovely sunny day here in Leicestershire, UK. Doesn’t mean much, frankly, because they usually get it wrong. At least they do in my little corner of Leicestershire. I think it has something to do with the fact that this area is built on an ancient volcano site and we are way up with the Gods.

It is a long-standing joke amongst friends and family that as soon as they leave the motorway the weather changes and it is like entering another world. I like that. It appeals to my sense of humour to think that I live in another world - physically as well as mentally I mean!

Talking of other worlds, and vistas beyond perimeters, I can now bring you the inevitable news that Chea broke free from the garden on Friday and went walkabout. Admittedly my mind was temporarily distracted by levelling out a barrow-load of gravel at the time but when I realised that I hadn’t seen her chasing the chucks or attempting to walk on pond-weed for the last ten minutes a warning bell clanged.

I’d noticed her on the top of the old chuck cage and daringly venturing up onto the top of the fence over the last couple of days and had in fact mentioned to Richard that we needed to move the chuck cage. She had always jumped back onto the cage as the drop the other side was over six feet. I knew she had gone. There was an unexplainable eerie emptiness about the garden. I also knew that the neighbours side gate was locked and that they had gone to work.

Erecting a tall fence that keeps out all invaders is great. Erecting a tall fence which prevents your own cat from getting back is a bad move. Eventually, by standing on a chair and resting my chin on the top of the fence, I saw her drifting through the neighbours hedgerow, where Lauren, the dog-groomer lives. Chea has yet to meet a dog!

Waving a ‘treat’ and cooing in loving tones I attempted to encourage her back into my neighbour’s garden. All went well and she appeared next door. Still cooing to her in encouraging tones, telling her what a lovely little girl she was, I held my fast growing annoyance under control  - until she decided to flaunt her tabby-hide up the neighbours path, waddling her bum, ignoring me totally and with an air about her that clearly said, ‘bugger off, I’m not coming back.’

I contemplated another hose pipe incident but dismissed it. No point in making her run if there was nowhere to run.

There was one weak link in the fence. A part of it that hadn’t been replaced and still had trellis covered with ivy, so I dropped to my knees, scratching around in the debris, attempting to make a hole large enough for her to get through and stuck my hand through, waving a treat and sweetly sing-songing,  ’Cheee-aaaa. Cheee-aaa. Come on sweetie. Treat. TreeeeATTTT. Come and get THE SODDING TREAT YOU BAG OF SHIT!’

Nothing!

I climbed back onto the chair and she was nowhere in sight. I regrouped my head, my attitude and my temper and realised that there was nothing for it but to attempt to raise the fence panel in its concrete posts, chock it, thereby exposing a gap, crawl through it and fetch the little bugger. After summoning up super-hero strength I raised the panel and chocked it. Through the gap I could see Chea so I found a piece of straw and making ‘quick-quick’ noises ( it’s a cat person thing!) I tricked her back to the gap in the fence. Half dragging the creature through I grabbed her, marched her down to the  house, launched her through the door and left her in the kitchen.

Richard dared to ask how my day had been!

Saturday morning, up with the lark, Richard set about dismantling the chuck cage. Then with lump hammer in hand he began smashing his way through the cage base which was a foot of solid concrete. Poor thing – all this with a calcified shoulder.

The sound was deafening as he thwacked the concrete time after time. When the job was two-thirds done he bent to remove a corner which had broken off and stopped. ‘Ah,’ he said.

‘Ah? What’s ah? What is it?’

It’s a mouse,’ he said.

I retreated ten steps. ‘Shit! Is it? Don’t let it run this way.’

We both watched as a little field mouse staggered off, heading towards the rockery. It looked shaken and stirred in equal measures. Richard then picked up the corner of concrete and a little nose, followed by two, blinking, light-sensitive eyes, poked out.

Richard downed tools and said, ‘That’s it! I’m not moving the rest of it now.’

We placed the concrete back, leaving just enough space for the baby to get out and/or for  mummy mouse to come back, and we called it a day. At least the baby was old enough to leave the nest. How in God’s name they managed to survive the sound and vibration of the lump hammer is amazing. We both felt like utter shits having caused the poor things such obvious stress but how were we to know they were there? And it was all bloody Chea’s fault. If she hadn’t decided to start using the chuck cage as a way out of Colditz we would never have dismantled it.

Chea sulked all night by the way. Cat’s don’t let it much when you prove to be more intelligent.  

Richard checked the mouse site first thing Sunday and the baby had gone and no bodies were found. So now I live with the fact that I have field mice living in the rockery next to the chucks shed. I suppose it is too much to expect Chea to keep down the mice population? Actually, I’m not too sure I would want her to? She still pats at and chases bees. Being the recipient of a wasp sting last week has taught her nothing. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if she is half as smart as she thinks she is?

Take care my lovelies x

 

 

 

Go Boil Your Head …

Good Morning

Good news – the missing orfe appeared. It slowly floated into view yesterday afternoon as I stood by the pond attempting to unblock the stone toad which spouts, or not, water into the pond. We had  a dozen fish in the pond twenty years ago but the numbers have dwindled to three orfe and one goldfish. They used to produce fry but not any more. I think these survivors are same-sex  guys or gals. 

I’d decided that when these remaining fish pop off I wouldn’t restock the pond, but instead turn off the pump, save on the energy bills and just leave it as a natural wildlife oasis. But now I’m not so sure. I thought, yesterday, that it might be nice to start again with another dozen babies? I have never added to the pond because new fish and fresh plants can bring disease. A decision for another day.

I was thinking this morning, in the early hours, about the kind of person I am. Wondering if I am a little too independent? Can you be?

I’ll give you an example.

In the last days of pregnancy my blood pressure shot up through the roof, mainly because we had just moved into our new cottage and I refused to let go of the paint brush or stop retrieving chucks from the farmer’s field, by way of climbing over a barbed-wire fence. I was taken into hospital for a week. It did zilch for the blood pressure because I never stopped fretting about my animals and would my husband look after them properly. They let me out at the weekend (short-staffed) and just before I was due back in on the Sunday evening I went into labour, due I am sure, to me moving a massive pot urn, which my husband had brought back from his two-year stay in Africa, all the way up the stairs and on to the landing.

My husband dropped me off at the hospital and I then spent the next sixteen hours in agony. And I mean agony.

The staff was overworked, tired and couldn’t, it appeared, come to the same conclusion to the outcome of my labour. They asked continuously if they should fetch my husband and each time I said no. I’ve always been this way. A sole battler. Matt was born at eight am on the Monday morning He looked liked a raspberry. They’d had to suck him out by vacuum extraction. He stared at me, unblinkingly, from his fish-tank cot and if the little guy could have spoken I reckon he would have said, ‘Of all the mothers in all the world … YOU’RE my mother?’

The point I am making is this, I had Matt at eight in the morning and I didn’t tell his father until four in the afternoon. There was no point at which I wanted him there. I needed to do it on my own. Give birth. Have time to see that Matt was OK. That’s strange isn’t it? I don’t really know why that is. Perhaps I’ve inherited my father’s stiff upper-lip gene. Maybe I’m just weird. Or maybe I’m scared of dropping the stiff upper-lip around the people who know me? As they say …whatever!

Then I got to thinking about my ex husband.

We first met when he came out to examine a horse of mine. He wasn’t a horse vet. Pretty scared of them, actually. We got chatting and we toddled off to the cinema on our first date . I met him at the cottage where he lived. I thought, on arrival, that we would be late for the cinema because he was dressed in a non-ironed pink shirt and purple cords and I thought he still needed to change. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Would anyone go on a first date dressed like that? Don’t they say dress to impress?

I needed the loo before we left so I tottered off in my cool dress and posh heels. I never wear a dress now. I don’t possess one. I found the bathroom and almost had a heart attack. In the bath, soaking in something foul, was a badger pelt. He explained later that he collected ‘things’ and that he’d come across the dead badger two nights ago, on a country road, when he’d been on call.

He had a weaver bird’s nest, again from his stay in Africa and many trinkets. But his love was for skulls. He would often be found, deliriously boiling the flesh from a curlew’s head or from some other ‘precious’ find.

We were boating in Cambridge and came across a dead swan. The temptation to take its head was huge but not realistic. Anyone finding the decapitated creature would have assumed that was why it had died. Thugs. Bastards. Unholy shits. So that was a no no.

He was also an entomologist and had many collections of pinned creatures.

Funny – the things your mind digs up from the depths and brings to the surface for you to have another little think about. I think my thoughts are random. Is that a random thought?

The washing machine is bleeping at me. Back to Earth. Nothing more grounding than pegging out pants and socks. And that’s another thing. When Richard comes home today he is in for a roasting. How many times do I say (bellow) don’t leave your socks screwed-up in balls and inside out? Do all men do this? Should I really have to poke around in his smelly socks? Lord, the boxers are challenging enough.

Take care my lovelies x