Veni vidi vici.

Well I did Rome, and very nice it was too. Saw lots of piles of ancient rubble, and lots of ancient rubble that had been partially stuck back together again. All very impressive, but not as impressive as the driving ability of the one armed driver who took us back to Fiumicino Airport at speeds that could only be measured by the G force effect on my rectum. Here was the only man in the entire universe who had the ability to multitask. He could change the radio station, AND answer his phone, whilst steering the dented Mercedes with his stump. Oh God ! Please dont turn round AGAIN and ask if this station is ok, its perfect, I promise you. We got to the airport, and even tipped the driver. Why we tipped him I will never know, but I'd bet my last Euro he made it back to Rome before his lunch got cold.
I badly needed coffee. I really wanted an IV alcohol drip after my spin with Stumpy, but I held out for coffee on the plane, only to have my hopes dashed after we took off, by the planes driver, who announced that as French Air Traffic Control were striking, we were going to have to go over the Alps, and because of the severe turbulence they were expecting, NO hot drinks would be served on the flight. Pffft! Severe turbulence, you expect me to get my knickers in a knot at the distinctly, imminent prospect of being able to count the petals on the Edelweiss, as we plummet 35,000 feet, when I've just survived ( and maintained control of both my bladder AND bowel) during a one hour taxi ride through the streets of Rome with a one armed, manic, wannabe DJ, cabbie, in a beaten up Merc? Bring on the weirdo's in their lederhosen, singing The Hills are Alive is all I have to say. Show me your very best severe turbulence, and I'll raise you a cab ride with Stumpy. Anyway, thats the end of the Rome trip, and Ive left out the part about the lady at the airport who was being attacked by a pigeon, because it was way too trippy, even for me.
The dogs are all great, and have been spending huge amounts of time at the farm, as Ive been helping Catherine revise for her finals, which are on Thursday.
I'm going to stick a few pictures on here, and write about the dogs tomorrow, as I'm drowning in stinky dog blankets that need to be washed, because Mr Hotpoint finally choked to death two weeks ago, and Mr Bosch has only just arrived to take his place.

Capiche?

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?

Why?

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.

Teddy, NO!!

You don't realise how much you nag your puppy, until the two year old next door spots him, and yells, Mummy look, it's Teddyno. She even sounded like me when she said it ffs. How many times a day must I say Teddy, NO, for this kid to have picked it up, and thought that was the poor little blokes name? I know it isn't ALL I say, because I've just spent at least twenty minutes lying to him, and saying, WOW, what a man, as he parades past me for the millionth time with his milk bottle, but as I type this, I can feel myself gearing up for another Teddy NO moment, because he's doing building works to the hovel, and the construction of an underground carpark, to hold 2421 London buses, and one empty, two litre milk bottle is getting incredibly close to dear old Pella's final resting place, and as much as I'd love to see her again........TEDDY, NO!!

I love him when he sleeps.

Ted is that revolting kid you meet in the supermarket, the one that runs backwards and forwards across the aisles, daring you to run it over, and incur the wrath of it's 22 stone mother, who thinks it's precious. the one you look at, and think, if that was mine, grrrrrrrr. But this revolting kid is mine, I have created this monster. As I type, he's dragging Henry across the stone floor, and it's making a noise like chalk on a blackboard. I'm ignoring it, because all the time he's doing that, the girls are able to snooze in peace. Every morning after breakfast Madge has a sleep on her sunbed, and as much as I'm sure she loves Ted, sleep comes a very close second to tennis balls, and even Ted isn't so stupid as to annoy a snoring Madge. Pie yes, Madge, NO!! So he goes looking for trouble, and never has any problem finding it.
Nothing is simple anymore. I feel a huge sense of victory if I manage to get into the shower and close the door before he realises where I am. It's not normal to feel like such a winner, when I see his little nose pressed against the outside of the shower door, and hear his sad little cries as he tries in vain to catch the water that sprays against it. I outwitted a 12 week old Spinone, YAY ME!!
Getting out of the door is a challenge, as I try and push him with my foot, hoping I can get my leg back before he latches onto my sock, because I can't pull it if he does that. Not because I don't want to rip the buggers little peggies out, oh no, that would be a blessed relief, but because I'm down to the last three socks without holes. I gave up the idea of finding, let alone wearing matching socks weeks ago, and the truth is, I'm not too fussed about matching shoes either. The idea of rummaging around in Ted's hovel under the willow tree, amongst the baked bean cans, underwear, broken phone chargers, sports section of The Sunday Observer, wooden spoons, flower pots, dustpan, potato masher, and Oxford English Dictionary (wtf?) is just too much effort for something as silly as a real proper matching pair of shoes.
The house is now silent. It's gone 11am, and for the first time since six, my boy is asleep. He is the most beautiful thing in the world, when his eyes, and mouth are closed. I will resist the temptation to poke him, and hope that he dreams until lunchtime. I love him when he sleeps.
In my saner moments I think up ways to tire him out, and I've found a wonderful company, who are looking for pack animals to carry supplies up Annapurna. All that fresh air, wide open spaces, Ted's going to love it.
PS. He must also have the sole surviving loo roll in his hovel, shame I didn't notice until it was too late. Continue the mantra....I love Ted, he's going through a phase...

Just pictures 'cause I itch.

YouTube - TedandTheBlondeMafia's Channel

Life is good.

The itch that's been driving me mad, is finally getting better, and I'm able to sit still. I have to say though, that it has had an upside. You'd be surprised how much space people give you in shops, and generally out in public, if you look like you need a good hose down, and a liberal dusting of DDT.
Ted has cracked the housetraining, had his second vaccination, attended two more funerals (Poor old Sprout the hen, and Raymond the rabbit) grown at least an inch a day, put on three kilos, developed a deep interest in May Bugs, a hatred for Henry, and a very healthy (if slightly obsessive) male passion for Trevor the turkey.
Madge has been here for a few months now, and has become part of the furniture. The piece of furniture thats always in the wrong place. The solid object that you trip over, or stub your toe on. Madge is always there, wagging her tail, asking for very little, except to sit on your lap, or have her tummy rubbed. So I thought she was settled, and happy to be with us. How wrong was I? Last week on a walk, we met a friend, and her dog Leroy. Now Leroy isn't much to look at, but Madge was besotted. She stuck to him like glue. Leroy's luck had changed, and he blatently didn't know how to handle the attention Madge was lavishing on him. He thought he'd pulled this stunning looking blonde, and didn't realise it wasn't him she was in love with, it was his balls!! Leroy had his very own, bright blue, £2.99, Pets@Home tennis ball thrower. Madge was in heaven. She played for a solid half hour, and when it came time to say goodbye, she did exactly that, and walked off with Heather, Leroy and the ball thrower, without so much as a backward glance:O)
Pie on the other hand, is the epitome of devotion, and I know she wouldn't leave my side, not even for the worlds biggest bag of bulls willies....or would she:O) Her life is a little miserable at the moment, but she plays the martyr soooooooooooo well, I'm loathe to step in and help. Pie is the big sister you tease, she's the one you chew, and the one you steal from, she's the one with the longest ears because they are swung from almost 24/7, and the one who's squeals of pain drive you into a frenzy, spurring you on to bite harder and more often. Pie is also the one you go to when you're hurt, or frightened, or need a comfy belly to rest your head on.
Raising a puppy without the help of the mafia, their very differing approaches to child care, their willingness to babysit, and their undeniable affection for the boy, would be a much tougher job. I owe them. Might even buy Madge her very own ball launcher, if she promises to pretend to look devoted when we're out.