Happy Sunday!

Oh jeez, I hate Sundays. Always did.  When I was a kid, Sundays were a visit to the grandparents for an oversalted lunch, watching the afternoon football on the tv with my granddad and not understanding any of it (I still don’t), back home for sandwiches and boredom in preparation for school again in the morning.

Now they’re all gone, and I miss them. I miss the joy in granddads voice when Sunderland scored, I miss the cramped cloister of my nans two up two down terraced house with its miniscule, but beautifully kept rear garden. The coal shed. The little extension my grandad built as a kitchen so that they could have an extra room downstairs. Granddads shed, where he would retire to drink tea, read the papers in peace, and make or repair stuff. Nan complaining about the neighbours cat shit in her flower beds, and the steps she took with pepper or a well aimed missile to clear them off. The few Ill-afforded pennies she’d press into my hand as I left.

Yes, I used to dread Sundays, but now, as a parent and grandparent myself, only now do I truly appreciate that time, that place, and those people who made my Sundays “boring”. And I wonder, did I put my kids through that? Does Max, my youngest, now sitting downstairs multitasking with the Xbox and iPad feel the same about Sundays as I once did?

I wonder, given that society and lifestyles have changed so much, is it just a generational thing? Or could it really, still, be a case of “The more things change, the more they stay the same”? For all our sakes, I do hope so.

Happy Sunday, everyone. May you remember it for years to come, for no particular reason.

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Get a dog, they said. It’ll be fun, they said…

And for the most part, they were right. If you can put up with the farting, the oh-so-difficult-to-shift hair all over the furniture, and the trail of destruction as the contents of the kitchen bin get dragged across the Axminster, then you’re on a winner.

But just what is it with dogs and WASPS? You’d think that once they’d been stung in the gob, they’d consign the experience to doggie 101. But no. Instead they (well, my dog at least…) seem to make a career choice out of it. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard rapid and frantic chomping emanating from the conservatory (Indies favourite room) only to discover a puzzled looking Lurcher ¬†with a rapidly expanding sting, looking bewildered and hurt at a small black and yellow cadaver on the carpet.

And it doesn’t end there. Oh no. Spiders are the new wasp. The bigger, hairier, and easier to saddle up they are, the more he loves `em.

By the way. Spiders in the bath. As any 2 year old Lurcher will tell you, they DO NOT clamber up through the plughole, indie knows. He’s looked. Neither do they gain egress through the loo. No, that’s his drinking water supply, in preference to that in the perfectly adequate, purposely provided, and regularly refreshed bowl, downstairs. No. That would be too easy. Too compliant.

They DO, however, frequently lose their grip on the ceiling and drop, unceremoniously, into the bath that the dog thinks his humans have put there. Spiders, catching, for the sole purpose of.

Now, Indies grasp on bathroom plastics and ceramics is even less than that of aforementioned spiders on said ceilings, and what follows is a rather graceless danse macabre with much scrambling and scrabbling akimbo. What indie loses in balance and ability, he more than makes up for with noise and ambition. The spider, game as he is, usually shuffles off his mortal coil in a very undignified and unspiderlike manner. Dog 1, spider nil.

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Dogs are like kids. Cute, appealing, friendly (especially when wet and muddy), and always bloody hungry. Cutest when asleep, (see photo), but you never know quite what they’re dreaming about….do you….?

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