Monday, 7 June 2010


My friend booked a short break away for the two of us, as my birthday present. Rome, why bloody Rome? Rome's in Italy, and Italy's full of Italians. I'm surrounded by a pack of pasta munchers all day, every day. I'm watching Casabloodynova take it in turns to hump Madge, Pie, Trevor the turkey, and a knackered pair of Hunter boots. Do I give a monkey's when he screams like a stuck pig each time his willy gets caught on the object of his desires buckle ? Like hell I do!! Do I care that Madge is distraught because Casabloodynova has eaten her bright blue plastic, made in Taiwan, Pets@Home tennis ball thrower, and keeps bringing me the handle. Sorry Madge, do I look bovvered? Do I give a toss that Pie was so busy looking at her reflection in the shed window, Casabloodynova nicked her tea? Nah, no sympathy here bucket arse.
Do I sound deranged? I think I do, and for the safety of three Spins, I need a jacket that does up at the back, so I can hug myself while I sit beside the washing machine and rock gently.
For almost an hour yesterday I fought to get all the loose covers off the sofa, and into the washing machine. I fought for another hour to get the damn things back on last night. Ten minutes later, the dogs came in looking like they'd been to a very expensive spa, and indulged in a few mud treatments, took one look at the nice clean sofa and leapt on it. Strangely, I wasn't too bothered. I'm not usually a defeatist, but it really was a case of Spins 3 me 0. Got up this morning, full of the joys, bounced downstairs, got the sofa naked AGAIN, hung it all out on the line, and had my wonderful dogs out of the house by 8am. Oh yes!! I'm back, and Heaven help the Spinone who pisses me off today. By three, the covers were completely dry, so I lowered the line, and the phone rang.... To the very sweet call centre girl, who asked if I'd like to take part in a Mori poll, it wasn't you I was calling a bastard, and to the three Spins, who in the space of thirty seconds, dragged my covers through the birdbath to the end of the garden, I meant every single word I said, capiche?

Tuesday, 1 June 2010


Why do people feel the need to tell me what enormous feet Ted has? Do they really think I'm unaware of the size of the damn things, when he's trying to ram them up my nose at 6am. How does it improve these peoples lives to say, Ohhhhhhhhhh, hes got a lot of growing to do before they fit him, hasn't he, or, goodness, I bet those great feet bring in a lot of mud, or even worse, people who've seen him before, say stupid stuff like, blimey, he's growing fast, what do you feed him? I don't want to hear, he's beautiful, because it's always followed by a great big but. Did their daughter, who was in her third year at university reading Greek literature, run off with a 62 year old, married psychology professor, who'd spent most of his life living in a commune, talking to hydroponically grown carrots, smoking weed, and wearing tie dyed t-shirts? Is that what it is? The abject misery of my situation makes them feel better? Yeah, well I should be available free on the NHS, because I could make most people feel a heck of a lot happier about their lives. The people who take for granted there will be at least one loo roll from a 12 pack, that doesnt look like hamster bedding, the ones who can guarantee there will be a towel in the bathroom, pillows on the bed, indoor plants in their pots instead of behind the cushions on the sofa, the sad people who don't automatically go to the hovel when they want to mash potatoes, because they know thats where the masher will be, or the idiots who think you should start the day with coffee, when I know that valium and scotch is the way forward. Yep, no doubt about it, I could save the NHS a huge amount of money. If you think your life is crap, get yourself a Spinone puppy, and learn what crap is really all about.
Pie was sitting on the sofa earlier today. She was staring into space, which is quite normal for her, but I think she was rocking. Infact I know she was rocking, but I'm kidding myself at the moment that it's because the springs have finally given up the ghost from having three spins constantly jumping on and off it, rather than some deepseated mental health problem. Madge seems oblivious to most of the chaos, and has been smiling from ear to ear for days, because she now has her very own, made in Taiwan, bright blue, plastic, Pets@Home tennis ball thrower. If I'm honest, I didn't really buy it for Madge, I bought it for me, to save myself the embarrassment of having to drag her away from people she tries to go home with who've got one of the damn things. Now Madge wants to come home with me and a lump of blue plastic. Life is good.