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)

They play together every day.  He throws her ball, he follows her around, he sits with her and some days he just lies on her. He hits her and she paws him back.  She plays with him as she would another dog, sometimes putting her teeth round his arm gently. They play cricket together, she is his fielder.

He loves his dog and I think she quite possibly loves him back.

When I looked back last night they were all fairly typical of her, random things around the house;

…… and then I happened upon this little beauty.

Never actually witnessed before, Peanut the dog jumping up to get something off the work surface in the kitchen.

That bloody fecking dog.

Dog Grooming, the care provided for a dog’s physical appearance (especially its coat and nails), or specific work done to enhance its appearance for a show

I received the following email from the husband today;

“Just caught the Postman with his hand through the letterbox stroking Peanut, calling her ‘darlin’. He had 5 earrings, bald head and was about 55 years old.”

Really, he’s not her type.  For starters he is not made of cheese or frozen mince.

He will ask to sniff them, you will let him, he will spill them all over the floor, the dog will want to eat them and then he will have to sweep them up.

The novelty of sweeping up 200 peppercorns will wear off in approximately 30 seconds and you will spend the following five minutes trying to sweep up the little blighters whilst swearing under your breath.

You won’t be sure if the dog did manage to eat any and whether or not you find a deposit of sick on the kitchen floor in the next 24 hours.

It’s so not worth it.

I had another birthday last month, I am now 31 years old. Of course with this quiet passing of birthdays I discovered that I like Emma Bridgewater mugs and that I have bingo wings. The latter was more of a shock than the former. When I pointed out my wingage to the husband he said that it may be more the shoveling of excess food into my mouth than my turning another year older. I can hear you all saying ‘HE SAID WHAT?’ and limbering up for some man bashing, but actually he’s right.

Whilst I work out how best to tackle my shovelling problem without having my jaw wired I have decided to wrap my bingo wings in cling film at night. This will surely reduce them if it is tight enough and the heating is cranked up

With my birthday came the dawn of the pyjama. I haven’t worn pyjamas since I left home at 18, opting for nakedness and then when I had children just plain old big pants. I am now going for comfort. I perused Marks and Spencer online and clicked the wrong button because I was confronted with one of my worst fears … ‘older’ ladies wearing quilted bed jackets. Recoiling in horror I decided that it would be best to go to a real shop where I could avoid such atrocities.

I had some time off last week to bridge the gaping childcare hole. It was lovely to spend some quality time with …

The 5 year old, who was suffering SHF (Summer Holiday Fatigue). Being passed from one form of childcare to the next all Summer has not done her any favours. She has loved the school holiday club which was a relief. She did have to be peeled off me each morning, but then each evening I had to drag her screaming to the car because she didn’t want to leave.

She has more imaginary animals. We have the two dogs, Molly and Sarah who walk with us every night with our REAL dog and then there are some unnamed cats. She still wants a real guinea pig and I am still refusing. When I suggested she get herself an imaginary guinea pig she looked at me as if I were mad. Other than that she is continuing to stalk the neighbours ten year old daughter daily and is now getting the …

… the 3 year old involved in peering in their front windows too. There will be a restraining order arriving shortly.

He has acquired a new noise, a cross between a guinea pig squeal and the screeching metal brakes on the 08:45 Northern Rail to Leeds. This noise is fairly random and I’m not sure if I should worry. He starts nursery at the 5 year old’s school next week which couldn’t come fast enough because he wails each morning as we pull up outside the OAP childminders and can’t understand why he can’t go to ”big boy school’.

We discovered that he had been weeing in the bidet a few weeks ago. After much berating he has ceased this activity and now favours cleaning the bidet with the 5 year old’s flannel instead. Apart from that he is obsessed with Mario Kart on the Wii and has probably said the phrase “can I play on the car game” 40 times a day for the last six weeks. This isn’t the only time he repeats himself either “Can we go on a scooter ride”, “Can we go on a scooter ride”, “Can we go on a scooter ride”, “Can we go on a scooter ride”, “Can we go on a scooter ride” gets a bit tiresome too. In fact if he wants something and gets the answer ‘no’ he will attempt to wear me down with asking the same thing over and over to the point that …

… the husband is now worried that the 3 year old is actually part goldfish.

The husband has taken to swearing excessively recently, but understandable seeing as he managed to kill his computer last week, which as a graphic designer is integral to his work.

The TV is currently tuned to ‘cricket’ and only ‘cricket’ which the children find disgusting especially as it clashes with Mister Maker. He’s going to the One Day International at Durham next week to meet up with ‘Glaswegian Jim’. We met Glaswegian Jim and his lovely family when we went camping in August. Their friendship formed over their love to drink alcohol and talk b*llocks into the early hours of the morning. One of our neighbouring campers got quite razzed by the early morning discussions. She came out of her tent and shouted angrily at Glaswegian Jim “I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR YOUR SCOTTISH VOICE AGAIN TONIGHT” . Over the last few weeks by medium of text and email the husband has taught Jim everything there is to know about cricket.

He mentioned the word ‘vasectomy’ in my presence last week. I laughed it off nervously. I am of course still holding out for him having an accidental head trauma and subsequently the revelation that he would in fact like more children. This isn’t going to happen, but a vasectomy? It seems so final. Usually it is the woman pushing for the man to have the vasectomy, surely not the man openly willing to have his bits hacked at with a machete snipped. To be honest I think if he could do it himself with a pair of garden shears he would.

The dog… is mostly moulting. She is looking a bit thin, which for a Labrador is unheard of, I’ll have to start supplementing her diet with her favourite past worktop steals … pomegranates …. candles … frozen mince … whole loaves of bread … tubs of margarine. Maybe she’s dog-a-rexic?

or

The 5 year old sitting for hours on end staring at our neighbour’s house like a professional stalker willing their youngest daughter to come out and play;

or

The neighbours eating their dinner in their dining room which overlooks our backyard whilst the 3 year old strips naked, gets on the trampoline and does star jumps (LITERALLY).

As they slowly departed I have been wondering where on earth they could be?  Would I find a hoard of teaspoons in amongst the toys in the playroom when we move.  Had they been used for digging in the garden?  We lost an ice cream scoop that way.  Had the dog got bored of stealing cheese and frozen mince from the worktop and moved on to shiny things and if so where were they now?  No … don’t think about that one too much.

Then the mystery was  solved.

On Sunday the 3 year old ate a yoghurt then proceeded in a daydreamy fashion to put his yoghurt pot AND spoon in the bin.

Does he think we run the place like McDonald’s?  If he does I shall be going to Tesco and buying 250 value plastic spoons.