This house is already full of happy memories.  Birthdays, parties, Watching fireworks in the conservatory with my hands over the 6 year old’s ears, dinner parties, drunken games, football in the garden and sleepovers.

You see this house is my best friend’s house, Teacher Friend Mother of 3’s (TFMo3).  The first time I visited this house was 6 years ago, I sat in the same spot as I write this post, holding my three week old baby with the rest of our NCT members. One was still pregnant.

Moving our things into this house just feels right.  The 6 year old who doesn’t do change is really happy … sleeping in her best friend’s old room.  The dog is snoring, The Husband has installed his MAHOOSIVE TV, the Teenager is texting furtively on her Blackberry and the 4 year old is snoring whilst clutching his plastic sword.

All is as it should be in the new Driver house.

Now, where did I put the gin?

She wrote a diary about her week away …

Day 1

Arrive at Uncle Paul’s house. My family abandons me.  Am I bothered?  look at my face.  I note they are storing my stuff (food, lead and ball) in the downstairs loo.

Day 2

Disgraced myself on both walks today by leaping into ponds/streams etc.  Had to be hosed down. Lovelies note the remarkable water retention properties of my fur.

Met baby dog next door, who peed himself with excitement.  Disgraced self again by madly chasing him into next door, skating on their laminate floor and almost careering into the ironing board in the kitchen.

Lovelies have noted my eternal optimism every time someone goes into the downstairs loo – I do my best “I’m very hungry” look.

Tonight they forgot to feed me – dozy lot.  Had to bark at back door for attention.

Oh, and they’ve lost my ball already … great.

Day 3

Despite my doubts about Els and Saraaaah’s advice that going to bed with wet hair would ensure I look very cool the next day, my coiffure seems OK.

Uncle Paul tries to take me for a walk, I sit down on the drive and refuse to budge.  They all wonder if I’m ill or if I just don’t want to risk being hosed down again.

Later Els and Saraaaah take me out so I make sure I do a nice juicy poo for them to pick up.  They think it’s minging.

Everyone goes out and leaves me behind so I do my best suicidally sad face.

Later lots of friendly girls turn up and make a fuss of me – hurrah!  They take me out for a walk and there’s a torrential downpour.  I’m soaking wet … Again … Great.  The friendly girls all sleep over, in the garden, in a big green kennel sort of thing.  Bit mean I reckon.

Day 4

Ooooh, lot’’s more fussing over me by the friendly girls.  Later they leave so I do some sunbathing and general lolling around.  A bit later on, a boy comes round to see Els, but of course he can’t resist my furry charms and I get fussed over.  Then Els (whom I notice has been acting a bit “giddy” since this boy arrived) says to the boy “Sorry if I smell of dog!”  Bloody cheek!  Anyway, it’s never been a problem for me when meeting the opposite sex – if you know what I mean.

The Lovelies go out and leave me in the kitchen. Ho hum.  I do some complex algebra in my head to keep me amused,  When they finally return, Auntie Ems takes me for a little stroll around the block.  She seems a little less steady on her feet and is chatting away to me about some nonsense – I just humour her.

Day 5

Boring, boring, boring, boring, boring.  They were supposed to take me somewhere nice today and just because of a bit of drizzle, they cried off.

Caused much amusement in evening by falling asleep and snoring very loudly, then twitching like a dog possessed.

Day 6

Had a lovely walk down the Magic Path and into the woods.  It was a smellotastic experience.  Nearly got waped by a Whodesian Widgeback – had to do my best “I’m not that kind of girl!” avoidance tactics of dancing around skittishly.

Uncle Paul and Auntie Ems teased me by asking dumb questions like “Where’ Laura?”.  I fell for it for just a second but they got my best reproachful look.

They are becoming familiar with my extensive repertoire of looks, for example; Wistful, knowing, hopeful, Come hither, I haven’t eaten for ages, Throw it now GODAMMIT! and of course the irresistible look of lurve.

Day 7

Uncle Paul walked me out this morning shortly after 8am.  As we strolled down the main road past queuing rush hour traffic, I felt an urge.  Uncle Paul seemed to think I was putting him to the test – to see if he could pick up my gigantic poo in front of an audience of involuntary onlookers.  Naturally he stepped up to the mark.

Day 8

Another dull and drizzly day for some (whilst others bask, carefree, in the Italian Riviera – or wherever it was they buggered off to).  I take a walk up to Morrison’s with Auntie Ems and Uncle Paul where I’m much admired by staff and customers alike.

Day 9

Only one more sleep to go 0 they tell me – before I’m back in the bosom of my family.  Hurrah!

Although I would say that on balance, it’s not been a bad holiday and I would definitely consider coming to this place again.  The food has been pleasant, although punctuality of service was not always what it could be.  I’ve been fussed over quite a lot.  I’ve also been shouted at a few times – like when I’ve slobbered on Uncle Paul’s best suit trousers just before he goes off to some ‘important’ meeting.

Day 10

I swear Uncle Paul had a tear in his eye when he said goodbye to me this morning – so I did my best to leave a little memento, a nice slobber mark on his suit trousers.  They will be sorry to see me go – they said – and they will probably be wistfully looking for a chocolate brown shadow in the corner of the room after I’m gone.

Of course there will be small fluffy traces of me everywhere so I hope that will be some comfort.

Adieu

Peanut, aged nearly 8 (49 in human years)

It was an intimate venue where guests were told what they would eat and told exactly where to sit; The dog on the floor, me on a skateboard.

I didn’t get to choose my lunch.  I was given a plate of ice cream, lettuce, a solitary crisp and some cheese with a side order of green beans. 

The dog was given a apple topped beefburger.  She wasn’t impressed.

Whilst I ate the proprietor, who had a wild look in his eye, drank vast quantities of tomato sauce.

I’m not sure whether I’ll be going back any time soon.

Poppy was our last family dog and the one I was most attached to. We had to have her put to sleep in Spain. I was inconsolable for days.

We had collected Poppy, a handsome Springer Spaniel, from a house in Huddersfield that was a semi-detached replica of Cold Comfort Farm, thus saving her from the hardship of the life of a gun dog. You and your step-brother sat in the back with Poppy in a cardboard box with your step-mother and I in the front of our car took her home to a life of privilege and comfort.

I remember thinking that our garden was totally enclosed with fences and hedges and that escape would not be possible. I was soon proved wrong when I heard the neighbour (whom I had never met but was about to be, disastrously, acquainted with) at the bottom of the garden shooing Poppy back into our garden where she had deposited a poo on the lawn. I instantly saw the problem; the foliage of the tall beech hedge that formed the boundary between our gardens started from about a foot from the ground leaving gaps which Poppy could easily slip through. The problem would be easily resolved with some chicken wire, staples and a hammer.

Later, on this hot sunny day, armed with the requisite materials and tools I started crawling along the narrow space, carpeted with dead leaves and twigs, between the back of the flowerbed and the bottom of the hedge. As I settled, stretched out full length, about to start my fencing I noticed, to my consternation, the neighbour whom I had never seen but earlier heard, walking across her lawn towards the sun lounger that stood a few yards from me.

Somehow I missed the critical moment when I could have made some sort of greeting and used the opportunity to explain what I was about and avoiding any potential embarrassment.

Perhaps it was the bikini clad figure, but for some reason the connection between my brain and my mouth had momentarily failed. My mouth felt like a deflated rubber dingy, reminding me of the traumatic occasion when I briefly surfaced during a major lung operation and similarly found myself unable to verbalise my thoughts. This failure transformed my situation from that of a harmless DIY neighbour installing some wire fencing to a peeping tom.

I was mortified. Any attempt to extricate myself would not be discrete; would involve dragging my overweight body down the length of the hedge accompanied by a great deal of rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs. My neighbour, hearing the commotion, would break off from reading her novel, turn and see a dirty old man, shriek and run to her house.

With my luck her husband would be an amateur cage wrestler.

Time slowly passed with my growing anxiety heightened by the distant wail of police sirens somewhere across the city. I heard my wife calling for me to come to lunch reminding me that I was hungry and hoping that my rumbling stomach would not draw attention.

Thankfully this all happened before mobile phones became widespread. My ordeal ended when my neighbour, hearing her phone ring in her house set off down her garden leaving me to scramble through the flowerbed and head towards my house to face a cold lunch and my wife’s questions about where I had been, why I had twigs hanging from my clothes and how I needed my hearing tested

He asked me to make him into a pirate (with chicken pox);

Today she asked me to make her into a wolf;

Tomorrow I will change them back into children for school.

The memory of the exhumed hamster is buried deep in my mind. I can’t recall the house we were living in. I do remember the funeral in the back garden attended by small tearful child mourners and afterwards, sitting in the dining room watching the recently deceased dead rodent flying through the air in a cloud of soil, followed an excited dog who worried it for a while before sending on a return flight. I rushed out, scolded the dog and deposited the bedraggled corpse in the dustbin. The dog may have been Winnie or Tessa but it was not Winston.

Winston is a dog I remember all too well. Your mother, on a whim, bought a dog to replace Winnie . This was a big mistake, as bitches in my opinion, are much more biddable whereas dogs spell trouble; but for some reason, long forgotten, I was not consulted and arrived home to meet the new male canine member of the family. The puppy stage was fine but when, in time, Winston reached puberty my worst fears were realised. In this period of his short life almost all his waking hours were devoted to escaping from the garden with the intention, presumably, to woo the local bitches. Keeping him indoors was not the solution as Winston devoted his remaining conscious hours causing expensive mayhem. Winston was a dog I could not bond with; would not be my best friend.

 Inevitably, due to his total lack of road safety, Winston, on one of his romantic assignations met his end. As I drove home one Friday night I came across the scene of the collision. I accepted the condolences of the traumatised driver and helped gather the scattered pieces of his front bumper before loading the inert body of Winston into the rear of my Astra estate car. Concealing my relief, bordering on joy, behind a doleful mask I broke the news to your mum and told her I would dispose of the body at the local RSPCA on the way to my office the next morning.

 On arriving at the RSPCA depot I was surprised to find Winston was as stiff as a board. This turned out to be useful as it was easier to carry a stiff dog under my arm than the floppy body that I had lifted into the car the previous night. I walked down to the entrance door only to find the depot was closed for the weekend. My first thought was to just leave Winston leaning, propped against the door and someone would deal with him in when the reception opened; I could report back to your mother that, with a thin smear of truth, the RSPCA were dealing with the disposal. But, as I turned to leave I found myself under the surveillance of an old lady with a shopping trolley and an equally old man. Under their withering and distasteful stares I decided leaving Winston propped up against the RSPCA reception door was not one of my better ideas. Putting Winston back under my arm I walked back to the car, laid the body back in the car, bade the elderly couple “good morning” and set off to the office with a new plan.

In the compound, outside the joinery workshop at the back of the office, there were a couple of skips used to dispose of the waste material. During the quiet of the Saturday morning this was where I eventually disposed of Winston with the result that I had to tell a complete untruth when I returned home.

On the following Monday I was talking to my boss in his first floor office, and watched mortified, as the skip lorry, having collected the full skip, rumbled slowly passed the window. Winston stood proudly at the front of the skip enacting a canine version of the film Titanic, his ears gently flapping in the breeze. It was a constant problem to the company; local people disposing of their unwanted household goods and appliances in the skips. My boss looked incredulously at the passing skip with its figurehead and muttered “f***ing hell, I thought I’d seen everything but this takes the biscuit!”  “A Bonio?” I suggested.

Winnie was the first dog that I had since childhood. She had the markings of an Alsatian combined with the soft ears of a Labrador and ownership went some way to completing the perfect life of house, children and dog.

She was about three years old when you were born. Later, as you grew older, one of her tricks was to run alongside you in the park with your arm in her mouth to the amusement of onlookers. Although less amused were the couple whose child dressed in the same ‘Don’t look now’ dwarf’s red coat was mistakenly grabbed by Winnie.

Winnie’s demise started with a blow to the head. She had run out of the garden gate and collided with a car. I knew that it was a car by the tread mark on her head. She seemed none the worse for the experience and we just assumed that her skull was pretty thick. It was later that Winnie started to act in an odd way although at the time we didn’t connect her behaviour with the accident. We began to notice that she would stand stock still in a room for long periods and stare into the corner; always a corner. This is actually quite handy behaviour if your dog is wet and you don’t want it jumping on the furniture or if you are visiting people uncertain of dogs. Still it was odd and an appointment with the local vet was duly arranged. I forget what his prognosis was but it involved a lot of orange pills and wads of money. The treatment went on for a long time with mounting fees and no recovery. It was during a visit to my brother in Scotland that we discovered the answer. Encouraged by my sister-in-law we sought a second opinion from their vet who instantly diagnosed a brain tumour and to my great sadness Winnie had to be put to sleep.

For a long time afterwards I harboured a deep antipathy towards our local incompetent vet who had failed at great expense to diagnose Winnie’s illness.

In parallel with Winnie’s problems your big sister’s goldfish developed a strange white fungus and pieces of rotting fin were floating about in the murky waters of the bowl as it swam around in a lopsided way. Your mother told me to flush it down the toilet. This, I decided was pretty inhumane; the better way was a quick and painless end by electrocution. In the garage, away from your mother’s prying eyes I placed wires in the water and switched on. There was a dull thud and the goldfish instantly stopped swimming around and peacefully floated to the surface. Pleased with my humane killing I went off to lunch intending to dispose of the dead fish later. To my utter amazement I returned to find the fish vigorously swimming around like Mark Spitz albeit with incomplete fins. But the Lazarus effect soon wore off and days later it did die.

 The connection between the dog and the fish was that your mother found me placing the body of the goldfish in a box with the intention of anonymously posting it to the incompetent vet with a note asking him for a diagnosis. Needless to say I was persuaded not to and the fish was unceremoniously flushed down the pan.

Straight from the horses mouth I pass you over to Gramps …

Unfettered by your mother’s good sense and guidance I was adrift in a sea of confusion and chaos and I was applying, sometimes, bizarre ways to deal with household chores. Washing the dog was an example.

Tessa our dog had to be washed for a reason that I can’t recall now. She had probably rolled in some indescribable substance; otherwise I wouldn’t have thought it imperative that she had to be washed. Applying the logic that as I, the owner, needed a shower too, (Just for reasons of normal hygiene, not because of rolling in any indescribable substances) Tessa could join me. This was creative thinking; this would save my clothes from getting drenched, the usual result of dog bathing.

All went well. The bemused dog was shampooed and rinsed along with the happy owner.

The drying was where it all unravelled. Wrapped in a towel and crouching behind Tessa, with my back to the bathroom door I started to vigorously dry the dog and failed to hear the door, which unwisely I hadn’t bolted, swing open.

“Hi Dad! What are you doing?”

I looked round (probably furtively) to see you, my eight year old daughter framed in the doorway. Worse still, your two friends from across the road were standing behind you and I could read in their expressions that this sort of thing didn’t happen in their household.

“Washing the dog.” Me, hopefully stating the bleeding obvious.

“Right.”

“What are you doing?” Me, trying to sound as though everything was quite normal.

“Going to play in the garden”

For days I worried if news of their friend’s father’s perceived peculiar practices had reached the parents. It was a real concern; you had told me tales of how their mother would pounce across the lounge to turn the television off at the merest hint of swearing or inappropriate nudity, indeed any exposure of flesh at all. I could be in deep trouble.

A couple of days later, when in the front garden engaged in some minimalist gardening activity I saw the mother walk out of her drive and set off down the road.

“Hi Margaret!” I called out in a friendly but nervous greeting to her retreating figure.

No reply. “Hi Margaret!” I called again; again no reply. Oh God, I thought, she knows!

I looked down at you and say in a light hearted jocular way “She’s not talking to me”.  

“That’s because her name’s not Margaret, Dad.” you reply in that smug way that eight year old daughters speak to their dim fathers.

… and then I received the following email to myself and my sister from my Dad who has just arrived in Spain and it all fell into place.  Sharing too much information is clearly hereditary.

For the record Millie is his dog.

Buenas dias girls

We have arrived in Spain safely.  The only drama was Millie crapping in the Ibis Hotel reception. Luckily it happened below the sight line of the receptionist so I was able to bag the turd unseen quicker than Billy the Kid drawing his pistol. Unfortunately its not so easy to bag a smell with the result I received a funny look from the receptionist. A poo bag was always at the ready at every other hotel when walking the dog from the lift to the exit door.

I’m off up to the villa to meet an electrician as all the electrics have failed – and we have renters in! This will be some shit I can’t put in a poo bag.

Lots of love

Pops