Just landed in Gran Canaria, we go through airport security, or a place where a bored guy just waves us through, while I am using my bag to cut off people who don’t appear to understand the concept of queues. How very British.
We have a cab waiting, and meet the guy. He introduces himself as Jo, not very Spanish I think, and I say my name, to which he immediately responds, ‘argh, you’re a woman’, with genuine surprise. There’s lots of laughing and awkward head nodding. Then he shows us to the cab.
We get in the car and he puts our bags in the boot. It gives me chance to ask Tony, ‘why did he confirm I was a woman’? ‘I don’t know, it shocked him maybe’, ‘Yer that’s not helping’.
Jo comes and gets in the car too and for the first time I actually hear where we are going. Just before you go on holiday people always ask, ‘where are you going’? I can answer as I always know the country, but then they ask, ‘where abouts’? To which my standard reply for all holidays is, ‘not far from the airport’. They must think I like planes. Then its, ‘are you staying in the North or South’? I just pick one. Then its ‘what’s the weather like’? Say a number. The latter, I should have looked into as I am already freezing in my shorts.
We get to the general area of where we will be staying and Jo tells us to stay in the cab and relax while he jumps out to helpfully locate our actual apartment. ‘What’s he want’? I ask suspiciously. He goes down one road and comes back, then down another and comes back, down another and comes back now shaking his head. Tony farts. ‘Great, the poor guy is out there looking for our apartment and you’re in his cab farting. I don’t think he meant relax that much’. Tony’s defence, ‘everyone farts in cabs’, like that’s an inherent virtue of human nature.
Eventually, Jo’s found our apartment. He gets our bags out, tries to stand them up and forces the handle up on mine. Good to see he is having the same issues. Then we start the process of paying. I tip, not knowing whether I have just giving him more money than he will have seen in a life time or have deeply offended him.
He walks us round to the apartment wheeling our cases for us saying, ‘you relax’. The lady who is due to meet us at our apartments isn’t there. Tony calls her. No answer. ‘OMG we’ve been scammed’, you immediately think. Yer that doesn’t go away when he tries another 4,5,6 times with the same result! Eventually he gets through and she says she will be 8 minutes (very precise). Jo laughs at the short time frame we are given and says, ‘haha, Spanish time she will be at least an hour or maybe here tomorrow’.
Jo says he will wait with us for the lady to turn up. I repeat internally, what’s he want and did I just pay his mortgage off with that tip to warrant this interest? He convinces us he will look after our stuff and that we should go and have a beer. Off we go. Not used to a friendly cabbie, we laugh, somewhat nervously at how he is probably riffling our bags or just plain running of with them.
1 hour later, the lady arrives. We say goodbye to Jo and he writes his name and number down so we can get him to take us to the airport when we go back. That’s when we learn his actual name is Panchos. He is lovely and the lady who meets us is lovely. Turns out the island is full of just really nice people, just intent on us having a nice holiday (the two we met anyway)!
Once inside the lady shows us a map and points out all the interesting places to go. We hope our faces politely say can we just skip this part. We are sure your old town is very lovely but we are merely here to drink Sangria.
After she goes I ask Tony if it’s safe to drink from the taps. ‘It’s not 1987 honey’.
We go out to have a nice meal. We sit down and 14 days later the waiter comes to take our drinks order. As he walks off Tony says, ‘jeez what a dream boat’. I laugh my head off. ‘Dream boat, I am a woman and I have never found reason to use that term’. He’s right though, so we just keep ordering loads of tapas just so we can spend time with him and we fight over who will actually place the order. When Tony says, ‘well take one of the small sausages’ please, internally I am dying and want to say, ‘actually, we will take any size sausage, either of us, what ever size sausage you have, will be great. We’ll take one for the team’.
The rest of the meal is spent with me vaguely listening to our conversation while following Dreamboat’s arse around watching like a complete pervert as it bends and straightens gorgeously as he wipes tables. I just want to reach out and stroke it. You have to understand, Tony is my soulmate and my best friend and we just are laughing at this and my interest in him very light-hearted.
Then, Tony spots a man coming along to the tables selling Oakleys, followed immediately behind by a bloke selling roses. ‘They better not come here, I’m not interested’, he says. The Oakley bloke passes by and doesn’t stop, the rose guy passes by and doesn’t stop. ‘Why didn’t they stop’? He asks as suprised as Jo/Panchos learning I was a woman. ‘I dunno, maybe your face telling them not to. You didn’t want them to anyway’. ‘I know, it’s nice to be asked though’. ‘What so you can tell them no’. ‘They’ll probably burn your retinas anyway’. ‘Yer, just like mine’, I say pointing to the hole in my sunglasses. We laugh.
I tell Tony the worst place I visited for people selling stuff was Barbados. When we arrived I was like, I don’t think that’s right that they move people selling Aloe Vera plants on, it’s their livelihood. Then the next day I was like, right, can you take this seller down and put his coconuts up his ass.
Tony says, ‘this place is like Byron Bay’. That’s were we spent our honey moon. It’s in Australia and is a place with a great energy and anything goes. People dress in all sorts of get ups from suits to hippy shit. Here there are people going by in puffer jackets and scarves, shorts, then some fancy heals go by and sparkly tops and then there was the lady in the red skirt (tutu like) and gold lycra top. Me, I’m in the shorts and full on summer get up. I’m freezing but I have no jumpers or jeans, nothing other than 100% cotton dresses. I want to be the lady that goes by in jeans a jumper and knee high boots.
Tony observes that everyone here is either a runner or a smoker. That’s true, loads of runners and loads of smokers. That prompts a game of ‘runner or smoker’, to everyone going by.
We talk about how, today I’d sent a message to Winston (dog’s) wonderful holiday family to tell them he eats shoes, as we forgot to tell them. As if to prove it I sent a picture of the shoes featured earlier in my blog. I was mortified that this didn’t reach them in time and to basically hear back that yes, they know with a picture of a small child’s eaten shoe. So, not knowing the size, we discuss ideas on what gift we can give in exchange for the shoe. The numerous pen knifes, lighters and the eye burning Oakleys just don’t seem right. Nor does the bikini glad ornament with Gran Canaria splayed across the breasts.
At the end of the meal we move the tip around on the table, both wanting to look like we were the one who left it in case he decides to give us a bit of extra sausage. The coins move around like we’re playing chess.
We walk home and I say ‘Ola’ to the dogs we pass but a bit like a Gentlemen’s Club, I have a no touching rule our of respect for Winston. Though he has shown no respect having pinched a crying small kids shoe. The ‘no touching rule’, has nothing to do with the time I surprised a dog with my ‘ola’ in Mexico that basically wanted to chew my face off.
This blog picks up from us about to take a flight from Southend Airport to Gran Canaria.
We walk up the stairs of the aircraft. The lady in front is dolled up. Toes all done peeping nicely through sandals, a simple expensive bag on her arm and a husband carrying her bag. Her hair blowing gently, elegantly in the slight breeze, her neatly ironed linen trousers slightly blowing in a romantic way. Sunglasses on her head ready to come down on landing or crashing into the sea.
Me, I’m carrying both cases as Tony has MS. So I am sweating, puffing and chewing on my own hair in the breeze. And my sunglasses are slung in my bag with a hole in them as Winston (dog) ate them one Sunday when I had a nap. I’m also stretching the concept of my ‘one size’ fits all shorts. Got no chance of getting anything in the pockets, I thought they were sown up and was disappointed to find they weren’t.
Lugging the cases up the plane steps. I complain, ‘Jeez what the heck have you got in your bag honey, it’s so much heavier than mine’? ‘Er everything we need’. I know he is right so I keep quiet with my tightly clamped pockets.
On the final steps, Tony hands me my packet of ‘anti mental flyer pills’ that the Doctor prescribed. We enter the plane and I immediately view it suspiciously for quality of cabin crew and leadership. Not because I am so into my job in HR (though I am) but because I know working in HR there’s a hell of a lot of under performers who need to be performance managed and never are, and I eye each steward suspiciously looking to see if there are any signs of this on the flight.
We get to our seats. There’s a lady sitting in the aisle seat so she has to get out to let us in. Yer, she’s not happy about that! I apologise and she smiles but at the floor in a way that says, I am being polite but you are really pissing me off. I know because I’ve done it. it was the look I gave the premature pee’er on the train when storm Doris hit. Every second delay in getting my stuff for the flight, I fear she will add time on letting me get to the exits in the event of an emergency. I’m already thinking she’s a cow. But I have to say ‘bless you’ when she sneezes as I need her on my side. In the event of an emergency, I will be clinging to her or Tony’s leg like a koala in a tree repeatedly saying, ‘save me, save me’.
Sitting with my head in my hands about to take off, I say, ‘why does everyone have to keep talking. They should just be quite’. ‘Because normal people are excited about going on holiday’. ‘Well I just don’t get that. We should not be in the air. We are not birds. It’s that simple’.
The captain speaks and immediately I am listening out to see how alert and capable he sounds. I am satisfied. Though I’d rather he didn’t focus on telling us about the on-board paninis and just stuck to doing pre-flight checks. I don’t want him to tell me about the hot focaccia capresse (whatever that is). He is about to take up this aircraft with god knows how many people on board. I don’t think he should be concerning himself with bread based snacks.
There’s an announcement about turning your technology to flight mode, but I don’t think enough focus is played on this. I vocalise this. None to quietly hoping to prompt my fellow travellers to check their tech.
They play the usual announcements which include a mention that there are flotation aids on board for children. I ask, ‘why do only the kids get flotation aids because if we crash we all want to float’. It’s met with a ‘shhhhsss’ from Tony very aware of the parents and the small kids behind.
They tell us to fasten our seat belts (no shit) and to keep them buckled in case we ‘hit unexpected turbulence’. I think they should change the language from ‘hit’ to in case we ‘meet’ unexpected turbulence and why is it unexpected I ask myself? It is 2017. We should know this shit. Siri can tell me the likely % of precipitation and if I need an umbrella today for goodness sake.
I ask Tony, ‘can I have your coat please to put my feet on’. ‘Er, why’? ‘I don’t like to feel the vibrations under me and it dumbs the vibrations making it feel more like I am in a car’. ‘Well why’d you want to sit next to the wings there’s more vibrations’? ‘Because I like to look out and see they’re still there. If they are that’s a good thing and I wanted to be near the emergency exits in the row in front (normally I count the rows from my seat to the emergency exit because in the event the cabin fills with smoke, I want an advantage over other passengers as I head efficiently to the exits, trampling across them including parents blowing up flotation devices for their kids).
With my head in my hands, Tony starts to annoy me. Not because his legs look skinnier on the seat than mine, though I do note that, but because he’s munching Pringles. The distraction takes me momentarily away from my own safety and makes me very annoyed. I hope he’s not going to do that all the way, I think to myself. I need to concentrate.
I tell Tony, ‘just so you know I will be telling you to f off during the flight if you speak too much. It’s not fair but I need to concentrate on staying alive and I won’t be helping you off the plane in the event of an emergency, MS or no MS. I’m sorry, that’s just the way it is’. ‘Jeez you already look like you’re in the brace position’.
The air steward asks the passengers in front near the emergency exits if they could read the notices on their seats about how to open them. I don’t care how nice her nails look and how big her smile is, I don’t think, ‘read that’ constitutes an adequate safety briefing. I am beginning to regret taking the tablets the doctor prescribed, on the plane steps. They take an hour to kick in. Shit, I wish I’d had more of that free vodka from fancy neckerchief lady.
The captain comes on saying he ‘hopes’ we have a relaxing and safe flight. See this is where it’s a paradox for me. I want to know they are taking safety seriously and all the passengers on board are too. But when they say ‘safe flight’, it implies safety is a concern and we could be potentially anything other than safe and we just have to ‘hope’ were safe.
We take off, immediately I think about my life and what I have and haven’t achieved and how I probably have only a few hours to live. I have been known to text my family at this point and say, ‘you guys know I love you right’. I focus on a pet’s face, today it is Mr Nut (cat), to relax. Shit, if I die what will happen to him. Shit now I’m not relaxed. I’m now worried about flying and the future of my pets.
Slight turbulence. I jump. My hands do this weird thing like they are breaking into an uncontrolled Mexican wave. ‘Jeez it’s like sitting next to someone with MS. Sit on your bloody hands if you’re going to do that’. I should have taken his advice because the next petrified spasm sends my drink all over Tony’s legs. ‘Er, great, I’m soaked’. Ridiculously I say, ‘no, it’s just a shadow on your leg isn’t it’?
Look at Canvey Island honey, it’s like the French Riviera. ‘Er, don’t ask me to look out the window. In fact, can you shut the window blind’. ‘So you want to see the wing but you don’t want to see the wing’. ‘I’ll tell you when I want to see the frigging wing and it’s not now’. I get a token ‘you’re doing well honey’, before Tony puts his head phones in. Me, I pull out my Dalai Lama, The Art of Happiness book. I take it on every flight as I want to die happy.
The woman next to us is miserable throughout the entire flight. I lean in to Tony and say, ‘she even looks bloody miserable in her sleep’. Eventually she wakes up and starts watching a film on her Ipad. Tony says, ‘I need a wee’. ‘What you telling me for, tell her’. She must pick up on the vibe because she unclicks and goes to the toilet. ‘Quick, let’s go for it’. To help Tony get out with his balance, I pick up her Ipad. ‘Shit, shit, shit’, I say as during the action I hit the play button and it moves on from where it was. In a very high pitched voice Tony’s telling me to stop it. After about 4 seconds of it playing I do. We get out into the isle and Tony’s dragged his bad leg out with her handbag hooped over his foot. We piss ourselves.
When we all take our seats again I ask Tony ‘do you think she will notice about her film’? ‘Of course she bloody will, it’s starting at a different point’! Then we laugh about all the important film changing words that could have been spoken in that 4 seconds, ‘I love you’, ‘his dead’, ‘I’m pregnant’, ‘I’m leaving you’. Tony tells me, ‘if she has a go at you, you can argue with her in Spanish with the string of B words you spent 6 weeks learning when we were in Mexico. Never get why you started with B’. ‘Yer bitch might be good to know but I can now only remember butter…and I started at B because it felt less far away from Z and motivated me.
Finally the pills and Prosecco kick in. It didn’t dumb down the words from the pilot with less than an hour to go, ‘we are flying at 39000 feet mid-way across the waters on the coast of Morocco’. Unnecessary! I do not need to know how high I am or that I am crossing open seas.
We’re about to land. ‘How long do you think it will be before people take their seatbelts off after we land’, Tony says. This is how it actually went down, ‘we have now landed at Gran Canaria, please wait for the plane to finish taxying before’…click. Then isle seaters immediately spill into the isle to frantically grab their stuff. The middle seaters move into the freed space and turn into Mr Ticle, just putting their arms out into the isles and grabbing their stuff. The window seaters do a half stand, half crouch awkwardly waiting to grab their stuff at the first opportunity. Tony and I stay seated and pride ourselves on being the last to leave the plane.
I made it! I’m alive. We’re in Gran Canaria!
This blog picks up as from when we arrived at the airport to fly to Gran Canaria.
The first thing I notice getting off the train and walking into Southend Airport is the Air Traffic Control tower. You can see people in it, that’s how small the airport is and how close you are to it. ‘I’m not sure there’s enough people in there for my liking’, I say, the nervous flyer kicking in. ‘Honey, they don’t just use their eyes, they’ve got like radar, they don’t need loads of people. Besides, you’ve spent your whole career streamlining the numbers of people doing a job’. ‘Yes and if I was rating them on efficiency I’d be happy, but I am rating them on my safety and I’m not’!
We get inside the airport and I start to walk towards the check in desks. ‘No we don’t need to check in, we did it online’, Tony informs me. ‘Oh. It’s amazing just how much of my life happens without me actually knowing’, I say at the same point I’m actually thinking, have we got any Euros?
We head towards the departure lounge. ‘Do you know it only took me 16 minutes to pack my case’? I say proudly. ‘Yer, because you spent most of your time filling up water bowls for the cats’. I laugh out loud, like literally lol.
We get to security and unload our liquids into the clear plastic bags. I fill up three. ‘Jeez, how much have you got? You don’t need your bar of soap in there or your makeup brush with powder in it. Take them out’. ‘No, you do, it’s liquid’. ‘What liquid in solid form…you’ve got half your bloody suitcase in them’. ‘Yer, well my suitcase is like a fine wine. It matures over time. I add shit to it each time I travel’. In the queue there are three separate double takes from people looking at the bags I am struggling to hold, each one spewing it’s contents out like its vomiting. One of the double takers is a woman in security, already eyeing me up. Still, I am happy at her level of diligence.
There’s a constant VT with a voice over playing saying, ‘in order to enjoy your security experience, please take your shoes off, your belt, blah blah blah’. I laugh, ‘in order to enjoy your security experience. It’s hardly a red letter day. Can you imagine. Merry Christmas honey, I got you a security experience at Southend airport’. ‘Ridiculous’, Tony agrees. ‘Like we will be remembering this for some time to come and saying throughout the rest of our life…do you remember the time we went to security at Southend airport. It was such a great experience’. We laugh. ‘What’s so funny is look, no-one is actually listening to the VT, they are all wearing belts and boots and being told to take them off and holding the queue up’, I joke.
We go through security and the security woman who’d been eyeing up my bags asks why I have so many. I neglect to tell her it’s because my bag is a fine wine. ‘Is this all yours’? ‘Yes’. ‘Ok. That’s quite a lot and the bags must shut and you don’t need your soap and makeup brush in there’. Tony was right on both counts, doh! I’ve now become that annoying person in the queue holding everyone up. ‘Are you travelling alone’? ‘No, I’m with my husband’. ‘Ok, it should be fine on this occasion. Just take the lid off the toothpaste so the bag can shut’. That frigging toothpaste lid!
Once through security, we go past the duty free area. A lady in a far too fancy neckerchief stops and asks if we want to try different flavour vodkas. Of course we do, der. There’s 4. We keep her talking and entertained and get to try all four. Even though I have no taste. I don’t tell her that though because I don’t want to be judged for just wanting to drink free shots of vodka.
We sit down and have a coffee. Tony moans, ‘it tastes like shit. Did they pour it from a flask’? We get chatting, you know, just about stuff. ‘Have you ever heard of Lone Charlie honey’? I ask. ‘No, whose that’? ‘Well I think his name is Lone Charlie. He was the last person to kill using a bow and arrow on the battle field’. ‘And when was this’? ‘First world war I think. Apparently he didn’t agree with guns’. ‘No, but he was ok killing people’. ‘Apparently so’. ‘Well I wouldn’t have thought it was an effective form of fight against machine guns’. ‘No, me neither. He worked that out though because he pulled out a knife and slit the throats of loads of Germans’. ‘Right, thanks for enriching my life pre-holiday experience with that’. ‘Your holiday experience was already enriched going through airport security remember…remember that time we went through airport security’, I joke. ‘Anyway, what made you think of this Lone Charlie bloke’? ‘Dunno, just interesting I spose’.
‘I wonder whether they will extend this airport’? I enquire. ‘Dunno, they’ve already thrown the vicar out of his church over there’, Tony tells me pointing. ‘Have they’? ‘Nah, I’m just kidding, but his sermons are interesting now I bet especially his weddings and funerals…dearly beloved we are gathered here today’, he says in a shouting way, then making the sound of a loud low flying aircraft. I piss myself.
Southend airport is the equivalent of having all your family over at Christmas. It’s a bit crowded and there’s not enough seats. But it is close by and I like it. Not many flights take off from there.
Our flight gets called and we’re off. ‘Are we in the right queue honey’? I ask. ‘Well there’s 4 gates and one flight being announced, what do you think’?
Tomorrow my blog will pick up from the actual flight itself. Complete with accounts of romantically blowing cotton trousers and trashed sunglasses.
Not really Ibiza. Gran Canaria actually. Today we go.
First words I heard from Tony were ‘get up’. I ignored them for a while and snoozed until I heard them again.
I got up and went down stairs to do shit. Shit unrelated to travel, which prompted from Tony, ‘it’s 8.03am, the cab comes at 9.30am and your in your pyjamas and faffing’.
I carried on faffing. This results in Tony coming into the kitchen and asking, ‘what’s that’?’ A satsuma, I’m eating a satsuma. That OK? ‘.’Great you now have an hour and 20 mins and you think now’s a good time to eat a bleeding satsuma’. ‘Everyone needs breakfast’. ‘Yer everyone is packed by now and ready to go and then they have breakfast’.
Shit I thought to myself, he’s annoyed. Maybe now isn’t a good time to ask if he knows where my travel bag is.
Clearly his words did motivate me as I rushed into the shower/there was no actual rushing. When I got out and reached for my towel I’d soaked a triangle of it. Yer I didn’t realise just how much I relied on that actual triangle to dry.
I packed. Total packing time 16 minutes including time to locate a second blue sandal. For some time it looked like it would take much longer as I had one blue and one orange fliplop, both left feet. Oh and my sun hat is completely flat. Looks like it’s a pizza base. Continue reading “Yeah we’re going to Ibiza “
So my day started like any other. I put my contact lenses in, now housed in an upturned Colgate lid because my contact lens pot has, well, gone. It’s gone with one boot and my front door keys (fortunately I have 4 of the latter for this very reason).
I do not recommend this storage method for lenses, especially if you have cats that knock shit over. I already lost a set too soon, waking up to find them dry and crispy on the carpet next to the Colgate lid.
I came downstairs and for the 4th day on a trot asked Tony to ring my mobile as it had gone (no doubt on some sort of rondevouz with the boot and keys). My request was met with simple words, ‘fucking again’.
I tried to find my shoes.Er, they’re fucked. I found them chewed to shit next to the dog’s bone. So when last night I said ‘Argh honey Winston is actually eating his bone’, he quickly progressed to my shoes when I wasn’t looking.
Given his bone is 8 months old I should have been suspicious at his continued interest in it but I just thought he was thinking ‘oh shit yer, my bone, I forgot about that. Nice one’, and muching it all night.
Shoes are a premium at the moment. We have no wardrobes so most of our shoes/all our belongings are in the summer house and you have to pick your pants and shit up from piles on the floor. It’s a good day when there’s no pet nesting on top. We get wardrobes in a few weeks and I just can’t wait to get reacquainted with my stuff and hopefully reestablish a relationship with my boot!
Fortunately I did have another pair of work shoes easily to hand that still had backs to them! I brought them from Clarks a few weeks back but I was so taken by the guy who served me I didn’t focus as much as I should have on the shoes buying process. They’re a bit loose. It’s like I’ve strapped flip-flops to my feet. I had slip ons when I went in and as I took them off I thought christ when did I last cut my toenails coz he’s hot! They were fine but still my feet were unattractive. I am a size 6.5 but I am a 2 in the actual foot and a 4.5 in my toes. It’s like having an extra set of hands. They even look like a pair of hands. Sometimes when I look down at my bare feet I wonder if I’m actually doing a handstand. But they have their uses. I can pick things up off the floor with them. Coins (even a penny the grip is that precise), corks, even a knife. When I first did this when I got with Tony to reduce bend time, he was like that’s so endearing. 8 years on and now my husband he’s like ‘er can you stop doing that funny shit with your feet and pick stuff up like a normal fucking person instead of some sort of person/monkey hybrid’.
I said goodbye to Mr Nut’s arse as it disappeared through the cat flap and I left the house to to walk to the station to catch the train to work.
By the time I met Mr Nut out the front again and said ‘hello Mr Nut’, he was in full cat mode and just looked at me as if to say who the fuck are you?You are of no relevance to me or life on this planet more generally. And then he fucked off.
I got on the train into Liverpool Street. The large lady next to me spilling into my seat and knocking me towards the Isle. So much so I had to over use my right butt cheek to balance and grip on the seat and had one leg extended into the Isle holding myself in place. She was definitely over the mid point line between the seats because when I stood up to take my jacket off there was a definite thigh over hang and it was none to slight.
When the lady occupying a third of my seat got off at Stratford it was like a plunger being pulled out of the toilet. I’m sure the action lifted me up temporarily with her.
At lunch time I spoke to a friend who asked me if the picture of the mouse from my previous blog was one I’d sourced from the Internet. ‘No, it’s the actual photo’. ‘Fuck, do you think you killed it, like actually rolled over onto it’. ‘Shit I didn’t even think about that’! ‘You might have brutally murdered it’. ‘Great so not just potential murder, but brutal murder… Oh god I could have got up with it stuck to my back wearing it like a rucksack’.
I also returned a call to a local animal hospital. I’ve been helping out with a staff disciplinary on a voluntary basis. This could be a blog in itself but all you need to know today is that the person disciplined has made several requests for me to shove things up my arse, lots of things really, lots of times and quite far up I think based on her ferocious tone. Her tone so aggressive I flinched every time time she said ‘shove your job up your fucking arse’and there was definitely above average arse clenching each time she suggested it.
After work, I came home and we got ready to take Winston to his foster carer where he would stay for a week while we go on holiday. As part of this preparation, I tried to put his new harness on him. He never walks on a lead as we live next to a large nature reserve, but I didn’t think his poor disciplined lead walking when he’s not in the fields was fair to inflict on the wonderful lady looking after him. I should have tried the harness out when it arrived weeks ago because it took me a while to fathom it out and I thought I was going to chuck it like the previous two in a big strop. Anyway I wrestled with him like I was trying to take down a large mammal (not the cavalier/toy poodle he actually is). It was like trying to get a thong on a teddy bear. At least I imagine. Thong in place and feeling I could confidently talk through how to get it on him, we took him to his foster carers and said goodbye and I cried quietly on the way home. I love my pooch even if he did have some role to play in the mouse ending up in my bed whom I spent a night with.
When we got back our two cats where on their back legs doing the conga to ‘celebrate good times’ at the absence of the dog. I have 2 cats but I don’t think I’ve mentioned Wills my girl cat yet. That’s because, though only 6 years old she sleeps on the wardrobe all day and only comes down for 45mins a day for a snack, a dump and to demand a shit load of running water from a tap (in that order). She will only drink running water or from a glass. She was clear about that from a kitten. We were so worried about her recently, I took her to the vets for tests. I paid £147 for tests only for the vet to call me a few days later with the results to say ‘there’s nothing wrong with your cat, she’s just lazy and probably drinks so much because she’s in all the time and dehydrated by the central heating’! The vet had been convinced it was serious and for two whole days I cried every day telling her not to give up. She’s still fucking lazy and the only way I know sometimes if she’s alive is to tiggle her whiskers when shes on the wardrobe and wait to see if they twitch.
Willow (Wills) in particular is happy not to have Winston around. He is sexually attracted to her and is either shagging her or pushing her along by her arse hole as he sniffs it over zealously and for a prolonged period. I am always intervening with the arse hole pushing telling him this is not an effective mode of transport for a cat. She is always in wheelbarrow position with her back end held up and controlled by his snout.
Now I should be packing but instead, I’m drinking wine. Lots of wine. Too much wine and reading about how to generate traffic to my blog via Reddit.
Apparently Reddit works on the basis of karma. If someone clicks to indicate they like your blog, you get karma points. If they click to indicate they don’t like your blog you loose karma. If you get into deficit with your karma your account is blocked. All professional bloggers tell you to post pictures of stuff on their first that will build your karma so when you have enough karma you can then post your blog and the credit hopefully cancels out the negative clicks. If you have no karma when you post your first blog just one person clicking they don’t like it can get you band.
Now I should have listened to the advice. Instead, I just went ahead and posted it. Instantly someone clicked to indicate they didn’t like it, I immediately went into the red with khama points and was immediately blocked! I am now thinking of myself as a fat twat!
Can’t wait for tomorrow for holidays!
Saturday morning, I woke up to the dog next to me furiously licking his paws. This morning (Sunday) I woke up to the dog next to me furiously licking his paws. Except this time I realised he wasn’t licking his paws. About 1 inch from my face was a dead fucking mouse which he was licking! Yer, a dead mouse, which had been wrapped up in the duvet with me it appears, and judging by yesterday’s dog licking behaviour too, I have slept next to it, like actually next to it, for 2 nights!
Horrified, I jumped out of bed and went to get the rubbish grabber to get it off of Winston (dog) as his growling basically said, ‘I’m fucking having this’. I learnt if you over grab a dead mouse with a rubbish grabber you basically crush it and if you don’t grip it tight enough you keep dropping it. With the cat and dog walking along side me I took it along the landing and down the stairs. I dropped it three times. Each time I screamed and jumped and the cat shit himself.
Tony (husband) crashed on the sofa last night after we had some friends over for drinks. With the mouse outstretched in the rubbish grabber, Winston, Mr Nut (cat) and I tip toed past him into the kitchen, where I dropped the bloody mouse again and screamed again and then all hell broke loose!
Into the kitchen comes Tony, ‘what the fuck does someone have to do round here to sleep? What’s all the commotion’? ‘I’m sorry if my screaming woke you up but I just woke up basically spooning a mouse’! ‘What!…and why the hell are you holding it in the fucking rubbish grabber’? ‘Well, because Winston wouldn’t give it up. He picked it up in his mouth and the tail was hanging out like an extra whisker, so I had to poke him with the rubbish grabber until he dropped it. I used these to quickly grab it just now because I dropped it, but when I did the action flung it across the room into Mr Nut’s path, he shit himself and dashed across the room knocking into those empty beer cans from last night by the bin. The dog chased him and I grabbed the mouse’. ‘Right, well can you just be quite please’.
As we walk back upstairs, I say, Tony, ‘I’m worried about the volume of mice’. ‘Honey it’s hardly a plague of biblical proportion’. ‘Yer well that’s easy to say but you didn’t wake up tucked in bed with one…still I suppose it was better than when Winston was a few months old and we had visitors and Winston dropped a pair of knickers on the bed that he’d gone and sourced from their room when they’d gone out early sightseeing. Do you remember that honey? I had to pick them up on the end of a pen and put them back in the owner’s room but I didn’t know whether to fling them randomly back in or fold them and put them in the case? Get that wrong and they basically think you’ve been fiddling with their pants when they’re on the London Eye’. ‘It’s 6:30am, can we just go back to fucking bed please instead of you walking around with a mouse in a rubbish grabber talking about people’s knickers’.