Strawberry Splash Down

I’ve got a whiffy woofer!

Just over 2 weeks ago our wonderful girl had a catastrophic accident in the forest. She was scampering through the woodland and hooked herself on the only broken tree stump in 40 acres. I knew something had gone horribly wrong when I heard the greyhound scream of death (GSOD to the uninitiated) and as she limped towards me I could see the skin on her back leg flapping like a tattered pirate flag.

Pre-accident, in mountain goat mode … nothing to see here

How I didn’t pass out on the spot I’m not sure I’ll never know, in fact these past two weeks have been an exercise in containing the urge to faint/vomit/evacuate my bladder involuntarily as we have gone to the vets on a tri-weekly basis to get the wound dealt with. I still haven’t decided if that is because of severity of the injury or the cost of the treatment.

The skin has died and is liquefying

A week into the recovery period I tell husband the dog is starting to smell bad. He gets closer for a sniff and then nearly passes out from the shock of the stench. Back to the vets I go with the whiffy woofer. The vet walks into the room and says ‘ooh smelly dog, that’s because the flap of skin I stitched back is starting to liquefy’.

‘Excuse me?’ I squeak.

‘Look here where the skin has turned black it’s rotting away and liquefying’ at which point he stood back and encouraged me to have a closer examination. Coincidentally it was the same time a hazy white fog descended in front of my eyes and the floor appeared to be made of jelly as it wobbled uncertainly under my feet.

‘Ohhhhhmmmppppph’ was all I could manage, trying very, very hard not to regurgitate my breakfast.

‘I’ll operate on her tomorrow to remove the putrification – see you at 9am’ and then he strode into another room to deal with something less disgusting, maybe emptying a dog’s anal glands.

For more than two weeks we have contended with the world’s largest cone of shame, crashing into doors and walls, indentations on the back of our legs as we are buffeted along while she clears tables, the bookcase and shoe rack like a canine tsunami destroying everything in her path.

Doing some gardening before the accident

I won’t lie, it’s been stressful and our nerves are shattered, the worry has been quite exhausting. Looking at her doleful face as she peers out from the cover of her cone my heart breaks just a little bit more and I feel desperate – as life is miserable for her too at the moment.

I also mangled my leg when out having a good time as a teenager and the stress I must have caused my parents fills me with contrition and to them I am truly sorry for the anxiety I would have put them through.

On the plus side, the vet reckons the stitches can be out in 2 weeks and then life can slowly start returning to normal and it really can’t come soon enough.

One thing is for sure, having seen my dog’s flayed leg on the vet’s table (along with rest of the dog) it will be a cold day in hell before I fancy a leg of lamb for dinner!

On the road to recovery – human furniture is much better than my bed.

6 Days and counting

In just 144 hours I will finally have my long-awaited haircut. It’s been over 4 months and to be perfectly frank it’s out of control. It has more waves than the English Channel and is determined to grow outwards instead of downwards. It has been a tricky time explaining to people that I don’t own a motorbike, and no that’s actually my hair, not a crash helmet on top of my head.

It cannot be tamed by product and when I put the straighteners on it, it made me look like the love child of Richard III and Olive from On the Buses – gormless with a slight hint of lunacy!

But in just 6 days I will be sporting the new ‘racing version’ of myself, short, pixie and back to manageable, my shampoo and conditioner expenditure will be reduced by around 80% saving me a quid or 10.

Yesterday I was trying to explain my excitement to husband, who A) being a boy doesn’t understand these things and B) is follically challenged and doesn’t care what he looks like.

Trawling through Pinterest, the 21^st Century version of Hairdresser Weekly, I spent pointless energy in trying to engage him in my new look

‘What do you think of this one?’

‘Yeah, looks good’

‘What about this, do you like the fringe?’

‘Looks like the last one’

‘No it doesn’t, the last one has a short crown and longer fringe, this is a blunt cut’

‘??????’

‘I like your hair how it is now’

‘Whaaaaaaaat? Have you been in the garage sniffing the white spirit (again)’?

‘No, it’s good, you look like the Queen’

‘Excuse me, I look like a 94-year-old grieving widow?’

‘I like Queenie, she rocks a great look’

‘For a nonagenarian, yes, but surely not your wife’

Not the look I was going for, but I do fancy that tiara.

‘Alright then, not the Queen, but you like one of those middle-class horsey people, when their hair goes up and is combed back’

Husband available – will trade for wine

Experienced with toolbox

Committed royalist

Knows nothing about fashion

Today I am not feeling charitable

Thanks to lockdown:

I have a bum that belongs on a rhino

Legs so hairy I could be mistaken for a German tourist (no photo can do them justice)

Developed an uncanny resemblance to a 1970’s Radio 1 DJ

And to top it all, I underwent root canal treatment this morning.

Like 75% of the population, I am not particularly brave when it comes to the dentist and having him rummage around my mouth for an hour is quite unsettling. Coupled with my violent gag reflex a dental visit makes for an interesting experience. I don’t think any of us will forget the time I was able to re-present the recently consumed pineapple and beetroot smoothie (I was on some strange health kick, don’t judge) in a projectile fashion. Luckily the dentist had lightning-quick reflexes and flattened himself against the wall, his assistant was, sadly for her, not so fast. One minute she was standing there in her pristine dental whites and the next she was in fancy dress as a Ribena bottle. There was a rumour that they had to jetwash the surgery but I think that was just vicious heresay.

In order not to have a repeat of the Changing Rooms fiasco and to calm my nerves this morning I took two diazepam tablets as prescribed by my Doctor. Aren’t they lovely little things? You still feel totally with it but all floaty and carefree and my little legs were being operated by a puppet master which I have to say wasn’t unpleasant at all.

Husband drove me to the dentist and I was greeted at the door by a young woman who was covered head to toe in what looked suspiciously like a hazmat suit – obviously my reputation proceeded me.

Having taken my temperature, she led me into the dental dungeon, I sat in the chair and … that’s the last thing I remember. What felt like just one teeny weeny moment later, the dentist was suggesting that I stop doing an impression of my greyhound and roll my tongue back in my head.

He then gently guided me out of the chair where he poured me into the waiting arms of husband. Just like a pre-Covid Friday night, I was being escorted off the premises however this time I was legitimately jelly legged.

Safely taken home I sat atop my diazepam cloud thinking pretty pink and blue thoughts until the pain rolled in like a thunderstorm wanting to split my top jaw from the roof of my mouth while eviscerating my ear.

Having stockpiled some strong painkillers I’ve spent the day self medicating a la Ossie Osborne style and while it’s managed to deaden the pain it has also killed any sense of humour I once had.

Today, I am not charitable, today, I am bad-tempered, spiteful as a mamba and wishing I’d spent my youth flossing my teeth instead of guzzling curly wurlies as I’m sure they are solely to blame.

Bonkerton – Regency Romance on steroids

Like 63 million other people I have been bewitched by Bridgerton during January. It’s the perfect antidote to the most miserable month of the year, fabulous costumes, diversity of characters, beautiful styling and some of the nicest wallpaper I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

Charming Regency Pastiche or Boring Bonkfest?

This frothy concoction of frivolity and make-believe is perfectly accompanied by a jumbo Toblerone and half price bottle of Baileys (thank you Mr Morrison). Admittedly, some of the acting is rather hammy; Miss Sienna is about as wooden as the stage door of the theatre she performs at and the two older Featherington sisters would be the perfect foil for Cinderella, no doubt they’ll be in panto this Christmas. But it matters not, as this light hearted costume drama has got us talking about something else, apart from that bloody virus.

A friend told me ‘It’s Jane Austen meets Jilly Cooper’ and I reckon she’s spot on. She also told me it would be inadvisable to watch it with husband. I’m not sure if she believed all the bodice ripping action would turn him into a sex fiend or had considered he may take it upon himself to dub the dialogue with extremely rude voice-overs; regrettably, the latter was true.

For the record it’s very hard to concentrate on a programme when the occupant of the seat next to you is shouting ‘give it to me your Grace, I’m allergic to my bodice’ along with some very unsavoury references to boerewors.

Hmmphf! Marriage – expect little, forgive plenty and the Duchess of Hastings would be as well to remember that.

Apparently, it’s had some academics up in arms, with them complaining it’s not a true reflection of Regency England – surely not? Bridgerton is about as likely a representation of real life 1813 as the Trump administration was to democracy and decent values – I digress.

Anyways it’s not the costumes, the jewellery or even the gardens that’s got us ladies hooked, make no mistake it’s all about the Duke of Hastings. I for one, am very glad to see so many gratuitous naked scenes that feature him déshabillé, what a delightful sight it is.

However, you can can have too much of a good thing and it did start to get a bit ‘samey’ with the story line slower than the frantic sex scenes and the plot hanging solely on ~~the Duke’s enormous hard-on~~ who was Lady Whistledown and not much else.

As the Duke reached for his flies in the final episode, I am disappointed to say it had me yawning and not panting for more.

Although I do believe dear reader, more is, in fact, exactly what we’re going to get as Series 2 has already been commissioned – well that’s what Lady Whistledown told me.

I GIVE IT A MONTH

Husband and I have a wager going as to how long the Trump marriage will last post 21^st January. He believes the 3^rd Mrs Trump will hang around for approximately 6 months, whereas I give her 28 days before she reveals herself to be the gold-digger I reckon she is and files for divorce. As we’ve got an all-expenses dinner at the restaurant of your choice on this (once we’re allowed out the house), I’m really hoping she don’t go all Tammy Wynette on me.

Don’t even think about it Melania – I got a dinner at Harbour Heights Hotel riding on this

She’s supposedly an intelligent woman, she’s got an Einstein Visa after all, and so it begs the question … what was going through her mind back in 2005? If she was looking for a powerful man who commanded headlines she chose well, but then again so did Eva Braun. Neither of them displaying the best of taste in men. No matter how much you love a bad boy anyone with double digit brain cells has to draw the line at genocide or insurrection as a display of waywardness. We’ve never seen Mickey Rourke try to kill democracy (affronted public decency during the fridge scene in 9 ½ weeks, but not democracy) and Colin Farrell hasn’t, to my knowledge, encouraged bigoted Nazis to override the decision of a country, and certainly not during Saving Mr Banks.

We’ve seen her repeatedly slap his hand away and sit, stony faced during official dinners, when, she should have ~~drawn on her inner strength~~ thought about her pre-nup and given the merest hint of smile. She married him when just a few thousand people thought he was a complete prick, now the whole world does. You reap what you sow ….

Not that love in our household looks much better at the moment. As October arrives, so do the flannelette pajamas – these gigantic ‘passion blockers’ become a wardrobe essential. Like a brown bear I hibernate, not so much in the physical sense but more …. in the libido dept ie, don’t come back until Spring! And in the same way a brown bear prepares for the colder months, I also make sure I’m ready to take on the winter, increasing my body fat by an additional 30% to withstand the lower temperatures.

In short, husband either has to take me away to the southern hemisphere or put the central heating thermostat up to 24 degrees in order to exercise his conjugal rights – either way he has to put his hand in his pocket. Give him his due, in desperation he booked a holiday to South Africa in February 2017, usually one of the hottest months of the year. I believe, I am, the only woman in history to have visited Sub-Saharan Africa in February and returned paler than when I left! It rained incessantly every day and at no point was it warm enough to put on a sun dress let alone a pair of skimpy pj’s. The mood, that holiday was not one conducive to uninhibited love making as I snarled at the grey skies and gloomy rain. Mind you if I was fed up, you can only but imagine how husband felt – he consoled himself with biltong and Pinotage – a highly recommended refuge in which to sublimate your desires.

So, while I am delighted to say that husband has absolutely nothing in common with Donald Trump, one thing is for sure …. neither of them will be getting any for some time to come!

PS: When writing this I see that the Trump’s wedding anniversary is January 22^nd, precisely one day after he goes from being the most powerful man in the world to a common criminal, wonder how they will be celebrating? Answers on a postcard please.

If Time has stood still, why I am looking older?

Chatting with a girlfriend this week who is turning 56! How can this be I asked, it seemed like only a few years ago we were pushing her home in a shopping trolley because of that common Birthday affliction known as ‘jelly legs’. On getting her indoors she impressed us with some very pretty Unicorn vomit, courtesy of coloured Sambuca.

So, while it may feel like it was 10 years ago we were running through a shopping centre car park with a drunken friend who was, quite literally trollyed, it was, in fact 29! Hang on a minute … is that possible? Surely, I was still in primary school 29 years ago?

Possibly the most ridiculous drink on earth

I should have realised it was longer than 10 years when she told me that, this year to celebrate, she was visiting the Wensleydale Cheese Shop, which I’m pretty sure, will not actively encourage middle aged women to neck multi-coloured, foul smelling, 80% proof liqueurs. Guess she’ll be OK driving home, oh how times have changed.

We’ve got older, but we don’t feel older and while the mirror does many things, it sure don’t lie.

Which brings me onto ageing in 2020. I’m sure you’d agree that this year has, pretty much been put on hold. Ever since that third week in March life has been placed on pause and so it would only seem fair that physical ageing should do the same. So why is it that I’m looking so bloody old? Got up the other morning and was horrified to see my Nana staring back at me! I’d bypassed my Mother altogether and made a beeline for the next generation.

You’d think that Mother Nature would be kinder considering all we’ve gone through in 2020, but instead she has been a little spiteful making the bags a bit puffier, the wrinkles a bit deeper and where the hell did this turkey neck come from? At least it’s seasonal I suppose, if nothing else.

Not looking too excited about the upcoming festivities

The saying is ‘Time Marches On’. I want to know why has it insisted on marching on all over my face?

The Crown, Mrs Thatcher’s wig and Favourite Children

Watching Series 4 of the The Crown and the royal family are not showing themselves in a favourable light are they?

However, it’s Mrs Thatcher’s wig that has dominated the screen more than the petty and spiteful behaviour of the UK’s first family.

Unless I’m very much mistaken it appears that Maggie’s bouffant is proofing life a loaf of bread. In episode one It started off at quite a believable size

But has been growing at a worryingly rapid rate ever since

Hair and Make-up have been on the midday sherries again

If it carries on, I’m thinking it could become …

The Conservative Party Conference took a comic turn

And as this series is all about the 80’s will Mrs T morph into Vivienne Westwood at the end?

But less about the Grande Dame of fashion and back to Mrs Thatcher’s syrup. Do you think the size of the wig is in direct correlation to how stretched the vowels aaaaaaaaaaaaaaare.

Gillian Anderson, whilst extremely talented, is sounding less like the premier and more like a drag queen with emphysema. If Mrs Thatcher elongated her vowels to that extent she’d still be delivering ‘the laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaady’s nooooooooooooooooooot foooooooooooooooor tuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrning speeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech’.

Also featured in Episode 4 is the chat about favourite children, with Mrs Thatcher telling the Queen, her son Mark was her favourite child and Prince Philip admitting Anne was his #awks. For anyone with siblings watching these conversations, it must have gotten them thinking ‘who IS their parents’ favourite child?’ If you’re asking yourself the question, chances are you’re the favourite – the others will be able to clarify in great detail the reasons why and what advantageous treatment you’ve benefited from.

Which makes me grateful I am an only child and haven’t had to compete with a sibling for parental pole position. That’s not to say my parents’ haven’t looked wistfully at other people’s children and wished there’d been a mix-up in the maternity ward.

Just because you’re the only one, doesn’t mean you’re the be all and end all – you can always be replaced, officially or unofficially. And if the royal family could just remember that, they’d be much nicer people, at least in Series 4!

I’m sorry, I thought you said stimulation

Yesterday I read an article about a well-respected political journalist who had been fired from his role at the New Yorker after 27 years.

His offense? Seen masturbating on video in October where he and his colleagues were discussing how they would report US election results. Election s(t)imulation – that was the nett result.

Let me say this again, he was a journalist for THE NEW YORKER. Not the Lighthouse Digest, or Potato World (no disrespect to these esteemed publications) but the bloody New Yorker. I would give husband’s left arm (If I surrendered mine how could I type two handed?) to be published in the New Yorker; the prestige, the kudos, to follow in the shadow of the incomparable Dorothy Parker.

27 years of hard work, crafting your trade and mixing with America’s political royalty, all to be tossed away.

Can you imagine Laura Kuenssberg getting this aroused after Brexit? Did CNN’s Abby Philip have to sneak off after the US election results were called – NO. Of course they didn’t and you know why? Because they are women, and sensible and respect the roles they have worked so hard for.

Once again another dumb bloke has to fall on his proverbial, albeit small sword, having risked and lost his career for sex.

Not only has Donald Trump divided a nation with his contentious presidency and recent election, he is also responsible for a sexagenarian knocking one off on Zoom.

Donald, have you no shame?

Covid sucked my funny

Without wishing to sound conceited I’ve always thought of myself a funny person. I’d like to think that I could raise a laugh with my snappy humour/smartarse comebacks; – po-tay-to po-tah-to.

If anyone was feeling down I could be the person relied on to cheer them up.

I think I might have childishly included it on an application form under personal interests ‘I like to laugh.’

And I defiantly make no excuses for it. It’s such a good feeling as that delicious bubble of laughter gurgles up from your stomach, puffing out your cheeks and then explodes out your mouth? Science backs me up on this one too; people who laugh frequently have lower stress levels and are likely to live longer. Plus, a good belly laugh burns calories and releases those cheeky little endorphins which charge around your brain causing happy havoc – just like gym but without the sweat or the ugly crotch-splitting leggings.

Once upon a time I was your go-to funny girl.
But not anymore …

pause for melancholic gaze into distance.

I am a deflated whoopee cushion in the joke shop of life. Could be a lot of fun but will take some effort to make it fulfill its destiny.

And you know who I blame? I blame Covid.

Ever since it came frogmarching across the globe about as welcome as herpes on Love Island it sucked the funny right out of me – gone, disappeared, vanished. I’ve been looking for it everywhere, it wasn’t in Bridget Jones, Four Weddings, Hancock’s Half Hour, Pink Panther or even Fools & Horses.

I’m hoping that when the courier brings back our gear from New Zealand my funny will be in one of the packing boxes, bursting for me to take it out and wear it like a hilarious cloak so that normal service can be resumed.

Until then, to paraphrase Del Boy, ‘You’re giving my arse a headache Covid’

Oh to be in England ….

Now that Covid’s here

Whoever wakes in England

Should be filled with terror and fear

OK, admittedly not quite as Browning had penned it, however my memories of pastoral England in all its Darling Buds of May loveliness have been cruelly smashed since landing at Heathrow.

First off, Heathrow empty – ordinarily would have loved to sail through immigration and customs but everyone in masks and ostentatiously keeping very far away made it a bit creepy. Plus, not one shop open AT ALL, very eerie atmosphere. Because nothing says you’ve reached the end of your holiday like being forced through a half rate duty free store where they are intent on flogging you over priced chocolate and designer perfume.

But never mind that, get home to find the pubs are shut. What? This bastion of English life, the heart and soul of the community is closed and we’re relying solely on supermarkets for our alcohol intake.

So let me get this right; no pubs, people going feral on the beach and we’re queuing to get into PC World. Put it like that, having to quarantine for 14 days was a blessed relief.

Then, with great fanfare courtesy of the red-tops, there was the announcement that pubs were finally allowed to open their doors again, giving you the opportunity to socialise with people you realised you hadn’t missed. A friend suggested we meet down our local boozer and I was keen until she told me that I wasn’t allowed to go up to the bar but would have to phone in our drinks order and wait for them to brought out. I had to decline as my mobile package only gives me 600 free minutes a month and I wasn’t convinced that would be enough to get me through a boozy midday session. Anyways I’m getting very used to the £5 gut rot from Lidl that masquerades as Sauvignon Blanc.

And talking of socialising, a club near Bournemouth is promising punters the opportunity to mingle with local celebrities and premier league (not any longer) football players if they fork out for a seat in the VIP lounge – hold me back. Along with this dubious privilege, you can book one of their drinks’ packages, giving you access to overpriced label brands and all you can drink soda stream colas.

I have to admit I was quite curious as to the prices and so read the ad a bit more; drinks packages start at £250 going up to £1000! A THOUSAND QUID FOR A NIGHT OUT! I was so shocked I nearly dropped my £5 wine.

And so, for the foreseeable future, it’s me and my cheap plonk at home whilst I let this craziness pass.

Photo by Jeff Burrows on Unsplash