The first day of the New Year.  How exciting, all those brand new months stretching out ahead just waiting to be filled, like a new exercise book. 

When I enthusiastically (and rather rashly) gave up the Rat Race way back in April last year and decided to start my own transcription business, I remember thinking, how long will it last?  Will I still be doing it in two months, three months, 12 months time?  Is it just a pipedream?  Will I be forced back into corporate slavery in the city to earn my pennies (aaaaaaaaaaaargh!)? 

But no.  I'm still here, and its one of the best decisions I've ever made.  I did wonder if there would be enough work ‘out there’ to sustain me, but there’s tons of the stuff.

So much, in fact, that I’ve worn out my beloved laptop.  The keys are all dented and not many still have the letters on them.  It’s also a bit slow and decrepit, so I decided to take the pressure off it and splashed out on a new laptop.

First day of the New Year and I'm ready to take it on.  Almost looking forward to ‘going back to work’ tomorrow (in the study, my 'room with a view').  There's no sense of doom or that heavy sobbing of ‘Oh God, back on the hamster wheel again’.

Played on my new laptop all day.

A key fell off!

Wednesday 2

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand back to work.  Taptaptaptaptaptaptap-ping.

The K key keeps flying out of the new keyboard.  I keep clicking it back in.  Taptaptaptaptaptaptap-ping. Click.  Taptaptaptaptaptaptap-ping.  Click.

Slightly annoying.  But I convince myself I can live with it because Middle Son has downloaded and configured all my software with (sharp intake of breath) Vista, and he’s now gone home to the land of far away (Yorkshire).

The CTRL key is also in the wrong place, which slows me down to about 60 words a minute.  And the right SHIFT key is 0.35mm further down than on my old keyboard, so I keep hitting ? or the UP ARROW instead of capitals, which slows me to about 15 words a minute (and also elicits a lot of verbal abuse – the study reverberates to the sound of my foul-mouthed frustration).

But I’ll get used to it.

Sure I’ll get used to it.

Ping.

Damn!

Click.

Thursday 3

Visited one of my workmates over the Crimbo hols.  I’d never been to her house before (us being lunch buddies), so I’d never met her family.

All was fine until my foot, unable to control itself (and apparently being completely detached from the brain stem), shoved itself firmly in my mouth.  Sideways. 

Amazing how much you can insult someone by putting two perfectly innocent sentences together without a suitable pause to separate them.

“Your hubby is very handsome,” I said, because he was and I’m inclined to say things like this.  But then, with barely a pause, I quickly added, “The kids definitely take after you.”

My friend’s eyes widened and her jaw fell open, while my brain screamed You dopey cow, no, really, DOPEY, and stupid, and oh God she doesn’t look amused.

There was a terrible moment of heavy silence, as if time itself stood still and was clenching its buttocks.  I held my breath, she swung her jaw. 

“Bitch!” she cried, and then she laughed, and I knew then that I choose my friends well.

Thank God!

Friday 4

I've lost Friday!  I typed it up and put it somewhere but, like my sanity, its vanished.  With three computers in constant use (I'm just greedy, and a bit paranoid, and usually confused) it could take decades to locate it.  Pretty sure something interesting happened today but, alas, I'll never know what it was.

Saturday 5

I had to bite the bullet with all this taptaptaptaptaptaptap-ping-bollocks!-click business.  I decided to take the laptop back.

I hate taking things back, but there’s only many times you can scrabble across the study floor looking for a K key before you realise its really Not On.

Currys staff usually pounce on you as soon as you walk through the door, jostling each other to ask if they can help you and personally guiding you to all the expensive electrical stuff.  Unless you’re standing in the Customer Service queue, in which case they totally ignore you.

I hate/loathe/detest bad service in shops, it turns me into some kind of hissing, frothing beast.  While we stood at the Customer Service desk, two assistants walked up and down in front of us without a word or a sideways glance.  “That’s amazing,” I said to Hubs, “We’ve discovered the secret of invisibility!”

Eventually, I caught the eye of a girl.  “Can I help you?” she said, sighing (yes, sighing).  “A key fell off,” I said, plonking the boxed laptop on the counter.

“Just a minute,” she said, sighing again and looking at me as if I was really ruining her day, “I’m just dealing with this person’s television set.”  So why bloody ask me if she can help then!

Eons later, she turned her faltering attention back to us and wanted to see the ‘offending’ key which, of course, was clicked back in.  “Looks alright to me,” she said.

“Yeah?” I said (as Hubs took a step away from the counter), “You try typing at 90 plus words a minute on it?”

The girl looked at me with deep, dark incomprehension.  “Look,” I said, and tapped the K key.  It clung to the keyboard like it was glued (the bastard).  I tapped it again, a bit harder – I could almost hear it straining to stay resolutely put.  “Look,” I said again when I sensed her waning attention, and forcefully pulled the key off, tossing it across the counter.  “There!” I declared, “Doesn’t bode well after eight days, does it.”

I expected (and was prepared) to have to fight for my right to return faulty goods, but the girl was so disinterested she simply said she’s get me a replacement.  I said I wanted a different laptop.  She told me to choose one.

After spending a good half an hour typing ‘The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plane’ on every single laptop on display, and then going back to subject the keyboards to some serious abuse (short of pounding my fist down on them to test their integrity), I picked the same make as my reliable laptop at home (Toshiba).  It was out of stock.  They told me to go to another Currys to get a replacement, I told them I didn't have the strength.

“Just give me a refund,” I said.  Which they did.  Except my receipt had been printed incorrectly and claimed I’d had a discount on the original laptop, which I hadn’t.

It was all terribly complicated.

Finally eliciting a full refund, we went next door to PC World and tried to get noticed.  We found the laptop we wanted and stood by it looking ready to purchase (expression of exaggerated expectancy and a bit of tapping of credit card), to no avail.  We asked an assistant for assistance, but he said he was busy.  Another assistant said he’d be with us in a moment, but wasn’t. 

I considered taking all my clothes off to attract attention, but Hubs quickly went off to hunt one down instead.  An assistant lethargically shuffled towards me.  “This one?” he said, with even less interest than the girl next door, “Sold out.”  And off he shuffled.

It was only the firm hand of Hubs that prevented me from leaping on his back and crying, “I hate bad service, you incompetent foetus!”

“I've had enough,” I seethed at Hubs, "Let's go home.".

“No,” he insisted, “I’m not going through this again tomorrow, we’re sorting it today or not at all.”

Oooh, ultimatums!  Hubs Has Spoken.  You don’t argue with Hubs when Hubs Has Spoken.

So, heavy with boredom and throbbing with indignation, I was driven to another Currys shop in Highgate,  contemplating throwing a toddler tantrum.  But, to my amazement and disbelief, we experienced something rather wonderful.  An attentive assistant, who was at our side within seconds.  “This one,” I said, pointing tremulously at the laptop.  “Certainly, madam,” he said, and had it brought to us.  He didn’t even nag us about extended guarantees.

“What brilliant service,” I gushed at the assistant, and he beamed proudly.

People, use Currys in Highgate, they’re good.

UPDATE: T’was Marmee’s birthday today and we were taking her out for a meal (Swallows Nest in Romsley, damn good food).  Hubs and I picked her up.  She was, as always, not quite ready, taking a phonecall and then fussing over the location of all her cats.

I showed willing and stroked the white cat.  Then I stroked the grey cat that looked as if it had been blown up with a bicycle pump it was that fat.  Then, while Marmee fussed over something in the kitchen, I wandered into the living room and found the new 'rescued' black cat rolled up into a ball on the sofa.  I stroked its head.  It raised a paw, dug its claws into my hand, and promptly proceeded to sink its teeth into my flesh, repeatedly, like a vicious sewing machine.

If Marmee had not entered the room at that precise moment, I would have dropped kicked the thing at the window, where it would have (hopefully) stuck to the glass like Garfield on a car window.

“It just bit me!” I cried .

“It’s had a hard life,” Marmee said (not hard enough! I thought), “It doesn’t realise that humans can be kind.”

Kind?  The thing needed to be sedated and put in a cage!

Meal was good though, despite the blood.

Phew, finally managed to get FrontPage installed on my new (thooper) laptop - not as horrific as I thought it would be (though I'm still trying to figure out the television control, which has 123 buttons on it - who needs that many buttons!  I may start a therapy group: Control Management for the Technically Challenged).

Monday 7

Hubs and I watched The Worst Film Ever Made last night.  No, seriously, it was so bad we laughed our way through most of it, and it was supposed to be a horror.

I’d bought The Omen boxed set.  One was good, two was pretty good, three was pushing it a bit but okay we’ll go with it.

Four, The Awakening, was just a complete farce.

For a start, the music was wildly upbeat, like something you’d hear on The Adams Family or some children’s programme.  A nun raced down a corridor to what sounded like the Roadrunner soundtrack.

The acting was appalling, the script was abysmal, camera angles were just all wrong, and did I mention how bad the acting was?  You could tell they’d changed director half way through (the original now working on Lazy Town maybe) because the atmosphere of the film suddenly changed, and not for the better.

The best bit, the bit that had me rolling around on the floor in absolute hysterics, was when the ‘devil’ child (who was pretty ugly, incidentally) pushed her nanny out of the window.

“I’ve had a serious talk with her,” said the wooden cut-out that was playing the father, “And she’s promised not to do it again.”

Mwhoar ha ha ha. 

We stopped watching it after that, life’s too short.  I wasn’t surprised to discover afterwards that it had gone straight to video – I’m amazed it made it that far. 

Tuesday 8

I’ve been procrastinating about ‘doing exercise’.  Oh how I’ve been procrastinating!  Too busy. Too … well, just too busy.  I’m a business woman, I don’t have time to sweat.

I copped it in the neck when we went out for my mother’s birthday, with Hubs and mom and sis all ganging up on me and telling me I needed to ‘do exercise’ (they’re fitness freaks who get excited about new exercise videos, so I didn’t stand a chance really).  Okay, I’m not exactly a barrage balloon yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

Working at home all day in a comfortable Ikea chair, only moving to visit the loo or the kitchen, is not the best way to achieve peak fitness.  I know this.  I will exercise, I keep telling myself, whilst staring at the mangled metal thing I brought down from the loft to do ‘push ups’ (but not actually using it).

This afternoon I asked Small Son for a lift in his car to the local shops.  Well, it was absolutely chucking it down with rain.  And blowing a gale.  And just cold and horrible – the sky had ‘NOT WALKING WEATHER’ written all over it.  And I was extremely busy.

“Gissa a lift,” I wailed at him.  Then I cried, “No!  Don’t!  Tell me to walk there instead!  Go on!  Make me walk!”

He wasn’t quite sure what to do, torn maybe between doing something for his mother or calling Middle Son to discuss which home to put me in.

A compromise was reached instead.  I hate walking alone, its just soooo boring (hence my need for a dog).  He brought granddaughter round.  In her pushchair.  And off we went.

It was fun.  Well, most of it was fun - pushing this huge pushchair up a huge hill nearly did me in, but I was able to rest at the top (gasping, sweating, every molecule in my body screaming in pain) to vaguely mess with granddaughter’s blanket – or rather, to slump over the handlebars hoping I wasn’t about to die.

First call, the bank.  Minus three degrees outside, 110 degrees inside.  I nearly melted into a puddle.  At the counter, I did my stuff, then the woman asked me something about my account and suddenly I was whisked into a room to have an impromptu review (which they seem to carry out every couple of months and which I studiously avoid).  I generally wailed, “No, don’t want it,” whilst keeping granddaughter amused and fending off requests to pay £25 a month (a month) for some ‘fabulous’ account or other.

Finally managed to escape by making the woman laugh and then bolting for the door whilst she was distracted.

Next stop, the supermarket.  Now, its been a while since I’ve been out with a small child in a pushchair, and its amazing just how much you forget.  Like, if you put the pushchair too close to shelves, the small person will reach out and pull everything off that shelf.  Every chance she gets.  And she wasn’t too keen on being in her pushchair for that length of time either, but I couldn’t get her out because I’d never have figured out the complicated strapping system to get her back in again.

A couple of people admired her (because she’s so gorgeous).  “My granddaughter,” I beamed proudly.  I was quite offended when they didn’t cry, “Surely not!” or “I thought you were her mother!”  So we went to the chemists afterwards to get some wrinkle-crinkle cream that would take 10 years off my face by morning, but they didn’t seem to have such a thing (my particular beauty regime consists mainly of ‘avoid wrinkles, stay fat’ which fits in perfectly with my no-exercise regime).

We had a great time.  We’ll be doing it more often.

But I still want a dog.

Wednesday 9

Oh woe.  Oh bugger and bugger and bugger.

Small Son came round this afternoon.  Yak yak yak.  And then, just as he was leaving, the budgies, flying free in the hallway, suddenly got spooked and flew around, one straight out the front door!

Oh! My! God!

We dashed outside, just in time to see it flying off towards the parkland at the back of my house.

I immediately tossed the remaining budgies back in their cage and took them outside to try and entice the other one back, but they all went mute, couldn’t get a berluddy peep out of them (they just sat there, looking a bit stunned, thinking Where’s Poo gone?  What’s happening?).  Small Son looked in the back gardens, I donned wellies and went off to search the parkland.

Nothing.  No sign.  Not a tweet, from the free one or from the others who were supposed to show it where home was.

Damn.

And bugger.

I’ve lost a budgie!

Poo has gone!

I feel quite bad.  Despite the fact that they’re messy and noisy and totally impossible to train en masse, I’m upset.

Spent most of the night standing out in the garden hoping I’d see it or hear it.

To no avail.

Poor Poo.

[And no, my birds aren’t ‘clipped’.  I quite like the non-cruelty aspect of having little helicopters flying around … although, obviously, not out the door.]

Thursday 10

Worked in the study with the windows wide open in case I heard Poo – nearly froze to death.  As did the budgies downstairs in their cage who I’d placed next to the open living room window.  Went over to the parkland twice to have a look around (so at least getting some exercise).

Nothing.

Pea, who’s Poo’s buddy, spent all day making a big budgie noises, the same screaming sound he makes when Poo flies into another room and can’t find his way out again.  He sits on his own with the other two just staring at him as if to say, “Where’s the other one gone?  Didn’t there used to be more of us?”

It snowed tonight.

I’m losing hope.

Later, I heard little tiny budgie sneezes coming from the cage, so I’ve probably given them all double pneumonia.

Friday 11

Rang the local RSPCA.  “Has anyone brought in a grey budgie?” I asked.

They laughed.  Yes, laughed.

Rang the local pet shop.  “No one’s mentioned finding a budgie,” the bloke said, but he did ask for my name and number just in case, which I thought was nice of him.

Pea still crying for his mate.

I resisted the urge to dash out and buy him a new pal.

Saturday 12

Okay, enough.  The bird is gone.  The bird is no more.  The bird is most definitely not coming back.

Only one thing to do.  I’m putting my foot down.  I’ve waited to nine months and endured the somewhat disappointing substitute of four (now three, sob) budgies.

I.  Want.  A.  Dog.  I am a dog person (clearly not a budgie person).  I need a dog.

Threw coat at Hubs this morning and said, “Let’s go!”

“Where?”

“Birmingham Dogs Home.”

I wasn’t taking no for an answer.  There were no excuses I couldn’t brush aside with the force of my Need For A Dog.

With Hubs still slightly stunned at this unexpected turn of events, we headed off towards Digbeth.  Which is where the dog’s home is.  Somewhere around there.  Not sure where exactly as, in my haste to get Hubs out the house before he went all manly and obstructive, I hadn’t looked up the exact address.  But how hard can it be to find a big dog’s home in the middle of Birmingham city centre?

Bloody hard, as it happens. 

Drove around the Bull Ring a couple of times, each time marvelling at the hub-cap horror that is Selfridges.  Stopped and asked a woman for directions but she didn’t know.  Drove around some more, passed the oldest pub in Birmingham several times and around so many traffic islands we felt quite dizzy.

Asked for directions in a remote newsagents, and set off again.  Got lost again.

Absolutely no sign of the city’s dog’s home anywhere.

Eventually we came across it purely by chance, down a remote side street.  Outside, it looked nothing like a kennel, it was just a building.  Inside, it looked nothing like a kennel, more like a four storey office block.

But they did have dogs, on three levels with ramps leading to each of them.

The noise was astronomical but, according to Hubs, it didn’t smell at all despite having no outside area.  We started looking in the individual rooms that housed eight to ten dogs each.  Some of them were berluddy enormous, like wolves, barking and lunging at the cage doors (with people outside the beasts cage going oooh and aaaah whilst holding the hands of small children – insane).

Most of them seemed well looked after, if a little boisterous.  A few nearly had me in tears they’d been so neglected.

I found what I was looking for, what I’ve dreamed of for the last nine months.  A Labrador.  Black.  Exactly like my old Labrador (sob).

Hubs, however, realising he’d been tricked into coming here before his brain had fully realised the enormity of the situation, found another dog.  Small.  Brindle.  Staffordshire Bull Terrier.

We went back to look at the Lab.  It barked this time.  And lunged at the cage door this time.  And looked less Labrador-like this time.

We went back to look at the Staff, which licked out hands and lay down on the cold, concrete floor to have its tummy rubbed.

We took the Staff into another room to ‘bond’ and discuss its merits, of which, according to Hubs, there were many.  I had to admit, it was pretty cute.  Okay, I’d imagined working in the study with a big black teddy bear at my feet, but a small brown lump of muscle with a smiley face would suffice.

We reserved it.  They’re coming out to ‘check my house’ on Monday.

I may well have a dog by next Saturday.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Monday 14

They came to check out my house for 'canine suitability'.  It consisted of a man entering the house and saying, "Where's yer gardin?"  I showed him the garden.  He stood in it for approximately 3 seconds before declaring, "Yes, looks alright, its too berluddy wet to be standing out here."  And then he left.

So I guess we've passed.

We're keeping our fingers crossed that the owner (if it has one) doesn't come to claim it before Saturday - I've heard some people throw their dogs out for a week while they go on holiday then claim them when they come back, which apparently saves on kennel fees.

Getting a bit excited now.

Unrelatedly, there was a news item on Midlands Today (news programme) tonight.  Bearing in mind it’s January and everybody is broke, broke, broke, it showed a woman who just ‘treated’ herself to clothes and shoes whenever she felt like it; “At least once a week”.  She regularly taxi’d into town to buy stuff (“Whether it’s in the sale or not”), and the reporter declared that she’d spent over £200 that particular day.

Well good for her!  That’s exactly the kind of news item we want to watch on a bleak January night as we play with our stale bread and water, some vacuous woman going shopping.  Bet it really cheered a lot of people up.

It didn’t exactly say where this shopaholic got the money from – my guess is some rich sugar daddy.

Or she could have been a hooker.

My money’s on the hooker.

If I had any money, that is.

Tuesday 15

Hubs and I are, just like Eddie Murphy (who I can’t stand) Coming To America this year.  Arizona, we thought, to fulfil my ambition of riding through the Grand Canyon on a Harley and Hubs ambition of riding a horse cowboy style (which will also fulfil my ambition to see him in chaps, and cowboy hat, and cowboy boots, but mostly the chaps hubba hubba).  And also visit some cowboy towns that appear in the films Hubs watches (endlessly – “Is this a cowboy film?” I ask him, because I don’t like cowboy films.  “No,” he says, as the sound of gunfire and horse stampedes echoes around the room.  “It looks like a cowboy film,” I say.  “No,” he replies, “Definitely not a cowboy .  Even though its got John Wayne in it.  And lots of horses.  And men with guns.”  “How much longer is it on for?” I ask, and Hubs always, always, says 10 minutes, even if its just started.  So at the first sign of cowboys, I generally dig out a book.)

Anyway, I digress.  Arizona, we thought.  But I’ve had emails from Americans (no less) telling me that Arizona is ‘berluddy’ hot and has nothing but snakes and gnarled old cowboys, that it’s a dull state full of tourists because nobody no self respecting American wants to go there, that we’d be much better off visiting Montana/Wyoming/Florida/California/South Carolina/Georgia (one email said “Come to Adelaide” which I’m pretty sure isn’t in the USA).

I’ve got 13 American brochures.  Our plans for two weeks in Arizona have now expanded to 9 different states and 36 places to visit, which will take us roughly six months.  Its all getting terribly confusing.

So, my question to readers over the pond is:

Where shall we go?

Wednesday 16

Felt like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland today … no time to say hello goodbye I’m late busy I’m late busy I’m late busy.

Ye Gods above, some days just come charging at you like a testosterone filled bull elephant and mow you down, turn round, then mow you down again.

The sun came out today.  It was nice to see it.  Hasn’t been in our skies since, ooooh early November, late September?

Right, I told myself, I’m berluddy well berluddy going berluddy out.  I’ll just finish this piece of work first, then 10am I’m SO outta here.

Finished.  Ping.  Another email.  ‘Could you just do this before you go?’

Tap tap tap tap.  I’ll just finish this, then 11am I’m SO outta here.

Finished.  Ping.  Another email.  Bog Right Off.

Just about to get ready to go out (find shoes, find coat, find handbag, try and locate dust-covered purse) when the phone rings.  Neighbour.  Photographer from the local paper that came to Gambia with us last November is there, come round and say hello.

Went round, said hello, yak yak yak.

Back to house.  Going.  Now.

Doorbell.  Window cleaner.  “Weren’t you here not long ago?” I asked, as he held out his hand for some dosh.  “Come every three to six weeks,” he said, cheerfully.  “Make it every six, willya?” I said, counting out ma pennies.

Going.  Now!

Doorbell.  Sister looking freakish in her cycling gear.  Yak yak yak. 

Phone.  Dad.  Yak yak yak.

Push Sis out door.  Phone rings.  Ignore it.  Rush out.

“How much to Harborne?” I asked the bus driver (when the thing eventually turns up).

“You know we only go to the bottom end of Harborne now, don’t you,” he says.

“You go down the High Street though?” I asked.

“Yes,” he says, so basically the bus is going the same route it’s been doing since the dawn of time!

“How much?” I ask again, as his attention span is that of a dung beetle.

“One pound mumble,” he says.

“One pound how much?”

“One pound mumble.”

“£1.20?”

“You won’t get anywhere for £1.20,” he suddenly bawls.

“No,” I said, “That’s why I was asking how much it is.” God damn it!  Why is public transport so complicated and frustrating, still!

Felt funny to be back on a bus again.  Felt funny to be out in the real world again after slogging my guts out in the study for the last three weeks (the world’s rather big, isn’t it).  Felt funny to get off and go shopping in the middle of the afternoon.

People haven’t changed though.  The woman behind the counter in the post office was Stalin incarnate, barking at customers as she served them.  “Put your parcel at the end!” she barked at me.

As I’ve been to this post office maybe twice before in 37 40 42 years of living, I asked, “Which end?”

“That end!” she roared, and the counter top reverberated from the sheer force of her snarling gob.

Well okay then!

Assistant in the card shop was on the phone as she served me, gave me wrong change.  I held the change out and shook my hand for more.  She randomly threw a few more coins into it.  I resisted the urge to keep shaking until I had more than I'd gone in with.

Assistant in chemists didn’t know which special offer ‘miracle cream’ was advertised on the six foot poster outside the shop, seemed loathed to find out until I pierced her with a look that’s kept three sons in check all their lives.  (Sounds good cream, promises to make me look younger in three short weeks.  I’m hoping for maybe 19 year old skin, but I’ll settle for 23 at a push – will keep you posted).

Opticians for spare set of glasses.  “Give me bog standard lenses in these frames,” I said, “And bear in mind its January, I’m broke, and I need cheap.”

They quoted.  I whinged.  They quoted less.  I said to use polythene if it would be cheaper.  We eventually settled on a price that didn’t make my teeth cringe.

Starving, no food all day, dashed into Greggs the Bakers.  “Steak pasty,” I said to the girl behind the counter, getting out my purse and quickly adding, “No, wait, run out of money, put it back.”

Bugger.

Home again.  More work arrived in my absence.

I’ll do it tomorrow.

Thursday 17

WARNING: TAKE NOTE, THIS IS NOT A JOKE

All you ladies, beware!  Read this and stay safe.

You may have read about people whose kidneys were stolen while they were passed out. Well, read on. This is worse and its happening all over the world.  It’s happened to me and countless other women.

My thighs were stolen from me during the night a few months ago. I went to sleep and woke up with someone else's thighs. The new ones were the texture of lumpy porridge. Who would have done such a cruel thing to my legs?  Whose thighs were these, and what had happened to mine?

I spent the entire summer looking for my thighs. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans and those tights that pull everything in. Then, just when my guard was down the thieves struck again!

My arse disappeared in the night! I knew it was the same gang, because they took great pains to match my new posterior to the thighs they had lumbered me with before. I couldn't believe it, my new arse was attached at least three inches lower than my original, and complemented my thighs lump for lump. Frantically I prayed that long skirts would stay in fashion.

Last week I realised my arms had been switched. One morning I was brushing my hair when I watched horrified but fascinated as the flesh of my upper arms swung to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush. This was getting really scary. My body was being replaced one section at a time. In despair I have given up short sleeved t-shirts.

Last night my neck disappeared faster than a Christmas turkey, which it now resembles.

I can't take on the medical profession by myself. WOMEN OF THE WORLD UNITE AND FIGHT BACK! That really isn't plastic those surgeons are using. You KNOW where they are getting those replacement parts, don't you?  Yes, from US, and it has to stop!

The next time you suspect someone has had a face 'lifted' look again. Was it 'lifted' from you?

I have finally managed to locate my thighs, I just hope Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them!!

THIS IS NOT A HOAX. THIS IS HAPPENING TO WOMEN IN YOUR TOWN EVERY NIGHT.

WARN YOUR FRIENDS!

P.S. How paranoid am I ? Last night I thought someone had stolen my breasts. I was lying in bed and they were gone! As I jumped out of bed I was relieved to find that they had just been hiding in my armpits as I slept. Now I am keeping them safely tucked into my waistband!

So yes, I've got my walking regime worked out (cue dog), my super-expensive youff cream applied, and my calorie intake organised (I've hidden the Crimbo tin of Quality Street).  I'm fighting back.  This time next week I'll be waif like and gorgeously young - I can't wait!

Flood Fears: Thousands Braced for Rain Soaked Weekend.

So what's new.  Its January.  Its winter.  Its not like we're all thinking, "Oooh, isn't the weather crap/atrocious/appalling for this time of year!"  Howling winds and lashing rain seems to happen every year, doesn't it.

The Midlands (of whence I come - not sure if that's grammatically correct but I'm too sun-deprived to care) has been told to 'brace itself', so I'm clinging valiantly onto my Ikea chair, ready for any eventuality.  The tree outside my study windy is like a metronome (worrying, since its an enormous Elm and quite close to the house/greenhouse/shed/me), and the rain is spectacular in its enormity.

Birmingham (of whence I commeth) is built on a plateau of rock, so we'll be alright apart from localised flooding, which will no doubt bring city traffic to a standstill, again (any excuse).

I was quite intrigued by the above article, which says we should "prepare emergency kits".  A canoe in the living room, perhaps?  Or a surfboard for those of a excitable nature?  Those green waders that come up to the chest would probably be a good idea, and maybe utilise the increased moisture in your house by buying some goldfish to make the place look nice.

Yes, I can joke because I'm on a plateau (nah nah nah).  I feel quite sorry for Tewkesbury and Bridgenorth, which always seems to cop it - residents haven't yet returned to their houses which were flooded in July.  But then, as Hubs pointed out, what do you expect when you buy a house on the edge of a river (and on a flood plain no less, the clue is in the name).

Roll on Spring, I say.

DOG NAMING CHALLENGE

Yes, its come to this.  Despite magnificent suggestions, I still can't decide.  What shall I call the Staffie we'll be getting tomorrow?

Saturday 19

So today’s the day.  After four years of hankering after another dog (and four ‘substitute’ budgies later – like that was ever going to work) I’m finally getting a dog.

Kennels haven’t rang to say anyone’s claimed him, but we called this morning to check.  He’s still there.  Went shopping to buy an obscene amount of dog paraphernalia – the people in our local pet shop were marvelously helpful (as well they might considering how much we spent).

Then off we went to collect him.  Our new dog.  They actually give you a ‘doggie bag’ of goodies at the kennels, which I thought terribly funny (couple of toys, bag of food, a couple of doggie-do bags, and a keyring).  Then he was brought down to us.

Felt quite nervous, actually.  Would I still like him?  Would he be okay?  Was I doing the right thing?  Was I ready for the responsibility after years of child and pet freedom?

No going back now though.  We were here, we’d paid, we’d committed ourselves.  One of the kennel girls brought him down and, without even glancing up at us, he was out the door, hauling us off down the road as if to say Let’s get outta here like now.

He’s quite a good size, not big enough or strong enough to drag me off my feet, very manageable.  We opened up the car boot and whoosh he was in there like a heat seeking missile. 

Thought he’d whine or bark all the way home, but he settled down after a couple of minutes (good sign).  And he didn’t try to chew my arm off or piddle relentlessly either, also v. good.

In the house he was excited for about half an hour, then settled right in.  We’d stocked up on disinfectant and kitchen towels, fully expecting him to geyser everywhere, but he actually whimpered to go outside.

House trained!  Woohoooo.

Marmee popped in, three minutes of excitement then he settled.  Middle Son came, same again.  Nothing over the top, more a case of Do you live here too do you do you do you?

This is one fab dog.  Someone has looked after and socialised him, done all the hard training work.  Utterly amazing.  And he has a nice face.

Took him out for a walk later.  A slight puller, but nothing terrible.  I’ll be taking him to training classes anyway (if anyone knows of a good one in South Birmingham, let me know).

Super, super animal.   Really pleased with him.

Oh, and his name?

It had to be Sam.

Sunday 20

1. Expected him to howl all night when we went to bed, but I just took him out the back where his bed is and never heard a sound.
2. Expected him to have left lots of ‘presents’ when I got up this morning, but nothing.
3. Expected him to be a bit possessive/aggressive with his food, but he’s not.
4. Expected him to lunge at offered titbits like our old dog did (think Jaws about to take off your arm), but he’s surprisingly gentle.
5. Expected him to bark a lot, but he’s not the least bit gobby (mostly, I suspect, because he has kennel cough).
6. Expected him to go for the budgies in the hallway, and I was right, but who can blame him.

Hubs lost him out the front door this morning (would ya berluddy believe it).  Sam ran straight to our neighbour’s house where they have a Staffie on heat, he had to be hauled away from their door.  So yeah, we’ll be having him ‘done’ at the earliest opportunity.  And ‘Barn Door’ Hubs is going to have to learn to close a door behind him

Took him for another walk (oooh this time next month I’ll be as thin as a rake), I think he’ll learn to walk to heel quite quickly.  A dog of monster size proportions suddenly came charging out of somebody’s house towards us and I thought Oh my God its all over they’re gonna fight and there’s be blood and stuff, but Sam didn’t bark or fight or anything. 

Good with dogs! Woohooooo.

I planned to give him a couple of days to settle in before we introduced him to granddaughter, but they couldn’t wait to see him and came round.  Granddaughter was like Woa slightly bigger than the cats at home, Sam was like Do you live here do you do you?  They got on great and he was only mildly interested in her baggy nappy.  You have to watch granddaughter anyway or she’s apt to run off with onions from the vegetable basket or escape out the back door, so they’ll never be left on their own together.  It was a good meeting.  This dog is used to children.  Amazing.

I think he’s going to be just fine.

Monday 21

I like to start work early or motivation disappears by 9am (or earlier on ‘lazy’ days).  So I was up at 6.30am and out of the house by 7am with Sam, muttering ‘Oh God its early.’  It was still dark.  And raining.  And blowing a gale.  But off we went anyway.  Then introduced Sam to the Study Where He’ll Be Spending Most of His Day.  Seems perfectly content.

All was fine until we put him to bed on the night.  Out the back.  In the space between the loo and the back door, where our old dog slept.  Put him out there, went upstairs.

The barking started.

Tried to ignore it, but Small Son rang from next door.   “We’re trying to get to sleep,” he croaked.

What to do, what to do?  Couldn’t let him out or it would set a precedent.  Couldn’t leave him or he’d wake the entire neighbourhood.

Compromised instead.  Opened back door, he shot out, I grabbed him and put him back and just stood there with him, next to his bed, not touching him, not talking.  He calmed down after a few minutes, which gave me ample time to study the lino he’d chewed off the back step.  Nice.

Left him.  He started barking again.  It was 11.30pm and I was berluddy knackered so, just as I was pouring some ‘decorative’ stones into a plastic pot to use as a deterrent, I yelled, “Sam!  Enough!”

And then there was silence.

I lay on the sofa for a while clutching the plastic pot, but didn’t need it.  He settled down.  I went to bed.

And all was well with the world once more.

Tuesday 22

Sam the Staff is just brilliant.  The perfect pet.  Seems very bright, attentive, picks things up fast.  Knows how to sit (even does it at roadside kerb before crossing - you look down to say sit and he’s already doing it).  Friendly, gentle, obedient.  Doesn’t use the house as a loo or bark a great deal, and doesn’t chew up everything in sight. 

But he doesn’t like his sleep area out back (not outside, an enclosed space between the back door and the loo).  He barked again last night.  I stayed downstairs saying, “Enough!” every time he barked.  Quiet for a few minutes, and then he’d barked again and I’d say “Enough!” again.

For 45 minutes.  Then he eventually settled down without me having to go into him.  And I staggered up the stairs absolutely berluddy knackered.

He doesn’t go anywhere near the back door during the day now.  His food and water bowls were out there, but he doesn't go to them unless we we're well away from the door (told you he was clever – You ain’t locking me out there again!).  So we’ve moved them into the kitchen.

Hubs and I discussed our options.  Continue with the ‘enough!’ training.  Or let him sleep in the living room (risking ablutions and possible carnage the following morning).

We decided to risk it and went to bed, leaving Sam in the living room.

It was surprisingly nerve wracking, but he didn’t bark.

[It's ex-husband's birthday tomorrow.  First Small Son rang me to say, "Is it dad's birthday tomorrow?"  Yes, I said.  He rang again later asking if I had his address so he could send him a card.  I hadn't, so I said I'd email Middle Son and ask him.  He didn't have it either, so rang Small Son back and told him to ring his dad.  Then Middle Son rang to ask if I had his dad's postcode.  "Instead of you two going through a middle man, aka moi," I said, "Why don't you try going direct to the source?" I don't think it occurred to them - need knowledge, ask mom.  Tsk.]

Wednesday 23

Sam didn’t chew anything up last night.  And he didn’t leave wet patches or steaming piles on the carpet either.  All he did was rearrange the cushions on the sofa, and slept there.  Perfectly happily.

He’s picked his own sleeping area.  Hopefully this will be okay when our new three-piece suit arrives in a few weeks!

“Take him out in the car,” I said to Hubs tonight, when Hubs said he was ‘nipping down t’road’ for some cigarettes.  “Come straight back if he plays up.”

15 minutes later, dog and master returned, master with a huge smile on his face.  “He’s as good as gold,” Hubs declared.  “Just sits there on the seat.”

There is no end to the joys of this dog.  Which, of course, makes us wonder what on earth he was doing in a dog’s home in the first place, since he’s such a good little animal.  New baby, perhaps? (he’s obviously used to children, just watches my granddaughter when she walks passed him to make sure she doesn’t fall on him).  Old person died?  Emigration? 

We can’t figure it out, why someone would mostly train a dog and clearly look after him (he wasn’t starved, his coat is glossy, there are no marks on him), and then take him to a dog’s home.  He does try to run off through doors when they’re open (except the back door of course), but that’s something you can easily train them not to do (and testicular removal also helps, which is happening next Tuesday).

There are some strange things about him, though.  He’s terrified of the vacuum cleaner, so he’s obviously never seen one before.  He was mad for people we walked passed in the street, just wanted some fuss off them, as if he'd never seen people before, but he’s getting used to that now.  And getting used to walking on a lead, too, so I guess he’s never been walked (and yet he’s healthy, he’s had some form of exercise).

He’s not good with other dogs either, again just wants to play with them, but a bit of training will take care of that.

And on the subject of training, when I had my lovely Labrador 18 years ago I bought books to help me with training, and also took him to doggie classes.  This time round I thought, I wonder if there’s anything on YouTube.

There’s loads!  Hundreds of people want to show you in video format how to teach your dog to sit, walk, heel, everything.  Amazing.

I love modern technology.

And I love this dog.

[Middle Son rang to say his dad - my ex - was going out on his own tonight to celebrate his own birthday, alone (he lives miles from anybody else).  MS said he was coming down on Friday so he could take him out properly, which I thought was nice of him.  Me being a jolly nice person (and after asking Present Hubby of course), I said it would be okay for them both to stay here Friday night so they wouldn't have to travel miles home afterwards.  Isn't it great to be mature and adult about things.  In the end, MS decided to stay at his dad's house.]

Thursday 24

The weirdest thing happened today.  I mean, really weird.  Quite spooked me out in fact.

The phone rang.  I answered it.  Someone was speaking on the other end of the line, but not directly to me, they were just talking.  It quickly became apparent that they were talking to a group of people, like in a formal meeting.

It was a bloke’s voice, terribly posh.  I thought he’d probably knocked his mobile in his pocket or something and rang my number by mistake.  The phone was close to him because I could hear everything very clearly.

And then he said the company’s name.

Only the same law company I used to work for!

How freaky is that?  Why would some posh bloke, clearly a partner or higher, have my phone number in his mobile phone, or had coincidentally dialed an ex-employee by mistake?

But it gets freakier.

The posh bloke cracks a couple of jokes, the poor type that you’re used to hearing in meetings where people laugh politely in the hope they’ll keep their jobs, saying he was sad to see this person leaving.

So it was someone’s leaving do.  In the company where I used to work. 

And then the posh bloke said how much this person was going to be missed in that particular department.

The exact same department where I used to work in, in the exact same legal company!

I have to admit, my heart started pounding a bit.  It started pounding even more when the person who was leaving the same department at the same legal company said a few words – in pure Brummie.

So it was the same law company, the same department, and it was in Birmingham

Which is precisely where I used to work!

What are the odds, eh?  That a high-up bloke had called my number by mistake, without realising it?  I’d call that pretty berluddy freaky.

I listened for a few minutes, wondering what the hell was going on.  I tried to hang up, but when I went to redial for the last caller’s number, they were still there, this posh bloke and a group of people from where I used to work.  The leaving do came to an end, you could hear people walking off, chatting.  The posh bloke stopped talking.

And then the ultimate freaky bit.

Someone put the phone down.  It wasn’t a mobile phone in someone’s pocket that had dialed my number by mistake, this was a proper phone, a desk phone.  You could clearly hear the clash of a plastic receiver onto a plastic telephone.  You don’t dial wrong numbers on a desk phone.

Someone had dialed my number and then left the phone off the hook so I could hear everything.

Oh yes, I was spooked.  The last caller’s number was ‘withheld’, which happens when you dial out of a big company.  I emailed a mate who still works there to ask who was leaving that day.  There was only one person in that department, and I didn’t know her.

But I do know some of the women there, and a couple of them are mean little minxes, quite capable of pulling a stunt like this.

But if they had done it, why?  Why would anyone want me to hear the leaving do of someone I don’t even know, almost two years after I’d left?

Almost two years?  When I thought about it, its exactly two years since the incident with those little minxes which caused me to leave.

Strange, very strange.

I’m not worried, just curious.

Coincidence?  Or deliberate?

Who knows.

Freaky though.

Friday 25

Had loads of photoframes for Crimbo, so set about choosing some pictures to print out.  We now (finally!) have wedding photographs on display.

While I was looking, I came across these: 

Marmee delving into her handbag (the contents of which are many and legendary)

Marmee delving into her handbag again (isn't Sis gorgeous, the cow).

Marmee in her handbag ... again!

Marmee in her handbag ... yet again! 

Marmee with one of two bitter shandies which rendered her giggly and intoxicated
(but made her forget about her handbag, which was a relief to us all.)

Is this lurve or wot?

Berluddy enormous Preying Mantis on our window in Africa.

"Put your hand next to it to give an indication of size," Hubs said, while I screamed.

"HAVE YOU TAKEN THE BERLUDDY PICTURE YET?" I hollered, then completely freaked
when it touched me.  Argh!

The Cadbury coloured children in Africa - that's me at the back, looking very Doctor Livingstone I presume.

This is my Lovely Little Aunty, who's had five children and still looks like a glamour puss.
Hereditary cheekbones are a wonderful thang.  (Oh, and its the bulky jacket of voluminous proportions
that make me look that enormous, just in case you were wondering - I'm miniscule underneath).

Sisters at Marmee's birthday meal.  Bit grainy (phone photo) but I quite like the olde worlde look.

Its terrible when you have to wear glasses just to see people sitting next to you.

Like mother, like daughter.

Sunday 27

As it was a pretty nice day, and because we felt a bit brave, and because it was the weekend and we could go ‘further afield’ than the parks and walks in our area, we decided to take Sam out in the car.

“Where shall we go?” said I, as Sam lay on the back seat as good as gold.

Hubs wouldn’t tell me.  Oooh I do like a good mystery.

We ended up in the Lickey Hills.  Nice walks up the Lickey Hills, as the hundreds of people already there proved.  Small families and dogs.  Lots of dogs.  As we weren’t totally sure what Sam would be like surrounded with dozens of dogs running loose after balls (not to mention all the kites the kids were playing with), I was a bit nervous about his reaction.

His reaction was immediate.  He was delighted.  Delighted in a lead lunging, collar straining, arm pulling Lemme-at-‘em kind of way

Hubs – being a Yakky Yorkshireman – immediately struck up a conversation with a woman with a Staff Bull Terrier similar to Sam.  He wasn’t averse to asking her questions like, “Did you have his balls removed?”  (She hadn’t, the dog kennels had done it – with her posh voice and expensive clothes, she didn’t strike me as being a woman who would holler ‘Off with his balls!’)  Her dog was well behaved.  Our dog was not.

Ecstatic almost to the point of heart attack, Sam was thrilled to be amongst so many dogs.  He wanted to play with them all.  At the same time.  We just had a normal collar on.  Ha!  Big mistake.  Small dog as he is, he has the muscle structure of a champion body builder.  We were pulled this way and that as Sam launched himself towards other dogs.  I feared for my arm sockets.

At least he wasn’t aggressive, just furiously exuberant.  The collar nearly strangled him, but that didn’t stop him.  Oh no.  On he lurched, panting, gasping, tongue lolling, digging his front feet into the ground and hauling himself forward.

As I was being dragged across an open area, praying his collar wouldn’t snap or his windpipe collapse (whilst vainly trying to look composed and vaguely in control of my dog - and counting down the minutes until we could attend obedience classes), someone very kindly mentioned that her incredibly well behaved Staffie much preferred the halter rather than a collar. 

It was rather like being at a crèche where your child is the one bashing all the well behaved children on the head with a metal tractor.  We raced off to a pet warehouse in Northfield to get a ‘non-pull’ halter.

Then spent the rest of the day trying to figure out how to put it on.

Monday 28

Fortunately, Sam is infinitely patient and just sat with a bored look on his face as I tried to figure out the halter on this morning.  It actually works, he doesn’t pull at all, does exactly what it says on the box.  Walked to our local shops, where we sat and (smugly) watched all the unfortunate people rushing to catch buses to work.

He’s a bit odd though, this dog.  He won’t walk on grass if it’s wet or mud if its squidgy.  There was me, happily strolling down the grass verge in me wellies, with Sam adamantly refusing to follow.  He just stood there, on the path, looking at me as if to say Not a Chance in Hell. 

He’s also very clean.  Almost catlike in his ablutions.  He’ll lie in front of the fire meticulously cleaning his paws after a walk.  And he stretches like a cat, arching his back.

And he doesn’t like water.  I splashed a few droplets on him when I was in the bath the other night.  BIG mistake.  He hasn’t been anywhere near the bathroom since, so visions of me calmly bathing him were shattered the instant a droplet hit his nose and he went running.

Doesn’t like rain either.  I opened the front door the other night and instead of being all excited to see the great outdoors, he just sat on the mat, staring at the rain lashing and the wind howling and the crispy sound of my face icing up.  I had to tug him out, and he sort of scrunched himself up into a ‘minimal surface area’ ball and walked down the road like some sad, abused dog.

Just as we were walking passed a bus stop, Sam lunged into the shelter and sat there, shivering.  I called him out, but he wasn’t budging.  In the end – to the immense amusement of the waiting commuters – I had to haul him out.

We went home to defrost.

Tuesday 29

Today’s the day.  Big day.  For Sam.  And also for Hubs, who keeps saying, “Poor dog,” and clutching his lower area (his own, not the dog’s!)

Testicular removal.

Nothing to eat after 8pm last night, so when we came back from our morning walk Sam bounded excitedly into the kitchen to his bowl, looked at me, looked at the bowl, looked at me, looked at the bowl.  I feigned ignorance.  Nuffin to do with me.  He sulked.

They have fabulous flooring in the vets waiting room.  Its not slippy to us in our trainers and boots, but its an ice rink for dog paws.  Sam raced in, all excited that there were a couple of dogs he could launch himself at, and his feet just did the motions on this floor but didn’t actually get him anywhere.  He was going full pelt without moving an inch. 

“Can you lift him onto the table?” the vet said.  Yes, I could, because I’d watched how to do it on The Dog Whisperer* only the night before.  Go me.

I was having him chipped and they waved a machine over him.  For one horrible moment it occurred to me that he might already be chipped and we'd have to hand him back to his rightful owner, but fortunately the machine didn’t beep.  Phew.

The vet gave him a shot and told us to wait outside for 10 minutes for it to take effect.  We sat and watched Sam go from excited, to calm, to comatose, and eventually he splayed out on the floor like a lion rug.  “I want what he’s had,” I said.

They took him away.  He looked back at us and Hubs winced, covering his manhood.  I yabbered, “Oh, do you think he thinks we’re getting rid of him?  Do you think he knows we’re coming back for him?  Do you think he’s upset that we’ve apparently abandoned him so soon?  Do you think he’ll be okay?  Do you - ?”

“Shhhh,” said Hubs.

I stopped faffing.  For a good five minutes.  Spent the rest of the day in the study, my silent, empty, just-me study.  It was dead boring.  And quiet.  And boring.

That afternoon, I burst into the vets office and cried, “I’ve come for my dog!  Give me my dog!”   They insisted on getting my money first – quite a lot of money as it happens – and I emptied the contents of my pockets onto the counter (while one half of my brain screamed How berluddy much? and the other half screamed Gimme my dog!)

Sam was brought out with one of those plastic bucket things on his head (for which they’d charged £5).  He looked stupid.  Apparently he’s supposed to wear it for a week.  But at least he looked pleased (relieved?) to see us. 

Took him home.  He crashed into the coffee table, crashed into the door frames, got stuck on the stairs, and couldn’t reach his food bowls until we’d raised them.  And when I took him outside for a wee, he looked like a waddling woman wearing a bonnet - I nearly wet myself laughing.

He didn’t seem to be in any pain though. 

Hubs, however, winced all night.

[*On the subject of dog programmes, we also watch Dog Borstal.  Yes, it gives some good doggy tips, but I watch it primarily because of Mic Martin - huuuuuuuuuuuuubba huuuuuuuuuubba!  Oh, and this is funny too.)

Wednesday 30

Yes, I have a dog.  I also have a life, such as it is.  Planned to meet Best Mate up town for lunch today.

Having previously owned a rather large Labrador who was too lazy and lacking in motivation to leave the ground, it was funny to see a Staffie face at the living room window when I left the house.  He sits on top of the chair, staring at me as if to say Where ya going? When ya coming back?  Can’t I come?

First time I'd left him on his own.  I tried not to think of the consequences.

“Day return to town,” I said to the bus driver, very clearly because sometimes they can’t speak English (not necessarily because they’re foreign.)

“£1.50,” he said, and inwardly I sighed.  Okay, so you don’t expect bus drivers to be members of Mensa or try to split the atom in their spare time, but some communication skills would help.

“£1.50?” I queried, “For a day return?  Daysaver return?  All day return to town?”

“No,” he said, frowning.

I could actually feel the will to argue just drain out of my body.  I tossed £1.50 into the machine and hoped for the best.

Another sector lacking in communication skills are coffee house staff.  Having gotten used to local, friendly shopping, being served by some Iranian/Canadian/Brummie in the city centre is akin to being slapped round the face.  “CAN I TAKE YOUR ORDER?” some world-weary bloke behind the counter bawled, obviously hoping we'd all just curl up and die.  Once my hair had settled around my face again, I politely asked for two cappuccinos.  He bawled the order to the bloke standing next to him, then hollered, “£3.85.”

My brain briefly twitched – two doesn’t go into £3.85, and a please or a cheery smile wouldn’t have gone amiss either – but I just handed over my note.  This is town, Birmingham city centre, and this is as good as it gets.

Mate arrived.  We sat outside, at the top of New Street, with our coffees and our fags, wrapping our coats tight around our frozen bodies but stoically puffing away in the Great Outdoors.  Yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak pause for breath yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak drag of fag yak yak yak yak yak yak yak yak.  We discussed the strange phonecall from my old office, but came to no conclusions.

Her lunch break over, she raced back to the office, and I, surrounded by frantic, time-poor, harassed office workers, sauntered against the tide down to Waterstones, where I perused books with all the time in the world and thought Ah, this is SO the life.

It was only on the bus going home did it I realise I’d forgotten to remove the budgie cage from the living room, where Sam had been left.  I expected to find the carpet covered in bird feathers, wet patches, dollups of poo and chewed up furniture.  But Sam had just slept.

Berluddy good dog, this.

He won't pose for the camera unless distracted by a bowl of food.

Thursday 31

My routine has changed.  I now get up earlier than some ungodly hour when its still pitch dark.  I slither downstairs and partake of a coffee (and a fag), while I try to remember who I am and what I'm doing here.  My body is limp, my brain numb, and Sam definitely needs a poo.

Unlike my old dog, Sam won’t empty bowels or bladder on the paving slabs out back. No, Sam needs grass to plop onto.  Not just any old grass, but special grass with a particular smell.  It has to be a certain shade of grass, a specific length, not too close to bushes but not too far away.  It can take an entire walk for Sam to find the Perfect Spot, and then he circles so much the lead twists to one third of its length and looks like a dog attached to a spring.  While I stand there, limp and numb, wishing I had one of those metal coffee cups I could sip from, as gale force winds lash around my body, in the dark, in the cold.  And then, when he does finally decides to … well, you know, he’s ready for the off again, while I have to put my hand in a plastic bag and Pick It Up (its still warm – remember that come lunchtime to assist the weight loss regime).

He’s put on weight the last couple of weeks, has folds of flesh around his neck and is filling out Staffie style.  I, on the other hand, have lost weight (HALLELUYA!).  Oodles of weight (HALL-E-LU-YA!).  I’m almost invisible side-on (will wait while the laughter dies down … tum te tum ... yeah, okay, you can stop now!)

I’m in a constant state of achiness from all this unaccustomed exercise.  Every muscle in my entire body throbs, even on my face (from squinting against the gale force winds).  I now have a reason to go out, to walk, to take constitution and fresh air.  I now have a dog that needs walking twice a day.  Slothfulness and slovenliness are things of the past.  I’ll be jogging and entering marathons next!

And something odd happened today, something I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before.  I was in the study, working away, Sam asleep on his cushion-bed, merrily tapping on the keyboard (me, not the dog, although it would be helpful if he could type too).  I looked up and saw the view from the window, the trees and the grass.  And it was all bathed in glorious light.

The sun came out!

It was midday.  I had loads of work to do, some of it deadlined.  But I put aside my computer and stood up.  I said, “Let’s go, Sam.”

And I went out for a walk. 

And the walk was good.

It’s a life changing experience, getting a dog. 

Some things don’t change, though.  Like Hubs’ complete inability to put on a coat and leave the house without pithering.  He’s worse than any woman.  Sometimes he has to change his clothes.  Sometimes he needs to check his pockets and make sure he has everything – if not, he’ll go and look for it.  Sometimes he needs gloves but doesn’t know where they are.  Sometimes he’ll just seem to wander from one room to the next for no apparent reason.  While me and Sam patiently wait by the front door (me shouting “Come! On!”).

So technology-challenged moi has come up with an idea that I might actually be able to cope with - EMAILS!  Send me an email with the heading TELL ME WHEN YOU'VE UPDATED and every time I update the blog I'll email y'all with a lil link.  Neat, eh?

DISCLAIMER: This is a personal weblog.  The opinions expressed here represent my own and not those of my employer(s), work colleagues or family.  My experiences are written purely from my point of view and are intended to be a humorous depiction of my somewhat chaotic life.  No malice is intended in any way, it's not in my nature. The names of real people and companies have not been used (for which I'm sure they're eternally grateful).

This page and all of its contents are copyrighted (c) Brummie Blogs 2008.  All rights reserved - that's all of 'em so don't even think about nicking anything unless you ask first, y'hear?