Looking back over my shoulder

It’s the time of year when traditionally one looks back at the past year and forward to the next. I think it can be summed up quite succinctly …

Get lost, 2006! I can’t wait to see the back of you – you’ve been total pants. A year of redundancy, debt, illness and death. Good fucking riddance.

I loathe and detest New Year celebrations, but usually have to stay up to calm my animals who’re terrified of the blasted fireworks set off by inconsiderate bastards who care nothing for the mental wellbeing of pets, farm stock or wildlife. Luckily the weather’s pretty horrible now and worse is forecast so hopefully those who want to celebrate can do so indoors and leave the rest of us in peace. I’m having an early night.

Be warned, 2007. I will not tolerate another year as bad again, so make sure you sodding well co-operate or I’ll do something we might all regret. So there.

Happy New Year, everyone! Let’s hope 2007 brings us all better fortune.

You'll think it's tragic when that moment arrives

I tore off the wrapping and eagerly I opened the book. Inside the front cover was a Love Chart to help you decide astrologically whether you and your boyfriend are compatible (apparently Ned’s not The One, but will lead me to him. Oh well, I don’t think I can be bothered to change now). I turned the page, and swooned at the picture of Daaavvviiiidddd!!! Then to the Editor’s Foreword, which begins “If you’re reading this compilation, I’m guessing you were a young girl back in the 1970s.” That seems to be a pretty fair bet, which leads on to the conclusion that most people reading it are now hovering around their half-century, with all that entails. So why is the print so flipping small? But I love my ‘Jackie’ annual!

*goes to find reading glasses*

Needles and PINs

When I was on shift at the vet the other day I was horrified slightly alarmed to see that the receipt roll for the credit card machine was about to run out and I've never changed it before, and had no idea where the destructions instructions were. I toyed with the idea of leaving it for the next person on duty because there weren't many appointments booked, but that doesn't mean it'll be a quiet shift sales-wise so I didn't dare. I cautiously opened or removed all flaps and covers and thought it looked reasonably straightforward, so I got a new roll ready (I'm not entirely stupid), took a deep breath and removed the remnants of old roll. I carefully fed the the end of the new roll through any appropriate-looking slots then panicked as I realised it needed mechanical assistance for the final stretch. How?*

A brainwave! If I used my own credit card and made a dog's breakfast of the sale it might still feed the paper through. I duly inserted the card, logged a sale for £0.01 and pressed random numbers because I have no idea of my PIN. This would ensure a void sale, I'd be asked to remove the card, the recipt would come through and all would be hunky-dory. What are the chances that the random numbers I pressed were right?

I left a note explaining the strange 1p sale on the receipt (yes, it worked. It seems I do know my PIN after all) in the cash box, which today was found annotated by BossVet "What the !!!!? See me"

Oops!

*If I'd been looking at the machine the right way up I'd have noticed the button marked 'Feed'.

Another one bites the dust

Good idea, that is. With our current situation I thought I’d had a brainwave, and suggested that, rather than the Boy buy me a Christmas present – I’ve pretty much grown out of the desire for presents – he should put the money he would have spent on me into his savings account, because that would genuinely give me the most pleasure and help me relax a bit. My suggestion apparently has come too late. Bugger.

Slow down you're gonna crash

So, a couple of weeks ago there’s a squeal and a bang outside the house as a twunt drives into the back of Boy’s car when he came home for lunch. No injuries thankfully, and only minor damage. Independent witness standing by, and bloke accepts liability (“Why did you stop?” “Because I live here” “Sorry, the sun was in my eyes”) and I get all the details and photograph the 57' skidmark and start dealing with insurance. The garage estimate is a touch under £800 as long as nothing goes wrong; the car’s not dangerous – the main problem is that the tailgate doesn’t shut securely so the back panel needs pulling out, and possibly a new tailgate. Parts are cheap* – labour and VAT are expensive. I refuse to allow them to say the car’s not worth that much and write it off, because they wouldn’t give us enough money to buy a suitable replacement. We’re still waiting to see what the various insurance companies decide as to who’ll pay what, but if they won’t play ball we’ll have to cancel the claim and try to come to an arrangement with the other driver to get repairs done ourselves. Surely they can't force us to hand the car over if we don't want to? Surely the other guy's insurance must cover the repairs?

*comparatively speaking.

Little donkey, little donkey

PuzzleDonkey, RIP? It's been unavailable for a couple of weeks now (and not just on my computer either). Is this the end?

Just a traveller in time

The very very worst thing about claiming benefits is the endless completion of increasingly complicated, tedious and appallingly-badly worded forms. No sooner have you summoned the strength of will to actually sit down and complete the first 20-page (I kid you not) booklet of irrelevancies than another one thuds through the letterbox. The latest just takes the biscuit though. The Powers That Be seem to have got really shirty that that I've got another part-time job and have demanded why I haven't sent them my last 5 pay slips. Bearing in mind that I only started the job two weeks ago and am paid monthly, that would be a bit of a challenge. Not only that, the letter is dated 4th December 06 and tersely demands a reply by 11th September 06. I think I'm losing the will to live.

Living in a box

Clover came home today, at last. She was first sent home a couple of weeks ago but the box they'd put her in was, in our opinion, quite, quite horrible. Far too ornate and fussy. I wouldn't be seen dead in it so I didn't see why she should either. In fact looking at it was rather like losing her all over again. I mentioned this to the vets and together we organised a replacement.

This was much more to our taste, being smaller, simpler, and a more suitable accompaniment to those of Bella and Polly. So at last she's back with us again.

We are family

We have three dogs. There are five dog beds (don't ask). So why ..........?

Why don't you get back into bed?

The waterlevel's fallen nicely although the river's still higher than normal. The dogs are very thankful.
Several feet of difference.

And the tide rushes in

Well, not a tide as such, but the overnight rain made our morning walk a tad damp underfoot. Harry was brave and decided to lead the way, forgetting that there was a stream there. He had his first swim.

Driftwood on the shore

Every time we visit my mother it always surprises us to rediscover that East Sussex motorists are miseries. When we walk the dogs along the side of the road up here we politely thank motorists for giving us room and generally receive an acknowledgement, from total strangers as well as acquaintances. Not down there. The best you can hope for is a glare. Surly gits.

One afternoon we took the dogs to the seaside for a change. The tide was in which was a shame as it meant there was no sand, only shingle, but on the plus side it meant the dogs couldn’t run too fast or too far. Harry changed his mind about eating a large fishhead he found on the tideline which was good. I found a lovely hole with a stone around it and a stack of slipper limpets. There must have been about 15 or so forming a spiral so I took them back to Ma’s to show her, thinking they were just empty shells stuck together by concretions. It was only later when I picked up the stack that it seemed a bit loose, but tightened up again when I wiggled it. Ooops! They were still alive-alive-oh. My brother’s advice was to do what he did with such trophies as a child; put them into a bucket then abandon them under someone's bed for weeks. I didn't.

All I have to do is dream

Thinking ahead, Ned asked me if I thought hosting a Burns' Night Supper would be a good idea and, if so, who should we invite. When my first three choices of guests was vetoed I lost interest. After all if Sean Bean, Harrison Ford and George Clooney aren't attending, what's the point?

Travelled down the road and back again

Thank you, everyone, for your kind thoughts and words; it means a lot to have such good friends. It's been a very strange few days, preparing only three bowls of food instead of four; accidentally putting Beattie's food down in Clover's place (because that's where the first bowl has been put for years) and having Beat staring in horror; waiting for the fourth dog to catch up on walks; and not being imperiously woofed at and a tail rotating like a windmill when play is demanded. When Clover sat beside you on the sofa and you put your arm round her she'd tuck her head under your chin and put her arm across your front and onto your shoulder, returning the cuddle. She was the best. The others knew that something was wrong with her when she was so unwell - they'd sniff gently at her then back away. I'm not sure that Beattie's entirely happy being queen rather than regent but the pack dynamics don't seem to be too disrupted.

Mermy, I found the picture you took - unfortunately I don't seem to be able to unred-eyeify it though.

All cried out*

We lost the battle. Clover was helped on to the next stage this afternoon, when it had become clear that there was no hope of recovery and to stay would only mean further loss of dignity and the discomfort turning to pain. To see our valiant soul trying to walk with her legs giving way beneath her, and being unable to keep even water down long enough to avoid dehydration was too much to bear. She'd never let us down; now it was our turn to do the same for her.

Goodnight, sweet girl. We loved you dearly and miss you dreadfully; 14 years is a lifetime, yet not long enough. We'll never forget you, poppet. Sleep well. See you in the morning.

*A lie. It's only just begun.

Now scrub good an' hard

So, I’ve washed my hands with Dettol, TCP, Hibiscrub and bleach, but they still feel unclean. The reason is that Clover’s very ill indeed; yesterday morning she didn’t finish her breakfast, and was reluctant to go for a walk. Ned took the others and she and I ambled on a short walk, but plodded slower and slower until she finally ground to a halt and had to be carried home. Her temperature at that time was 103.2°; a dog’s normal temperature is 101° - she wasn’t well. Of course, surgery in the village was over, so I called the main surgery in Leamington and told them we were on our way.

By the time we were seen her back legs had given way completely and her temperature was up to 104. Bloods were taken and AB and anti-inflammatory injections given and we came away with a further supply of tablets. Yesterday lunchtime she had a little drink then went back to sleep. When I got home soon after six there was no improvement – in fact she’d continued downhill and was barely conscious, so again I warned Leamington we were on our way. This time we weren’t expecting to bring her home so I rang Boy to warn him.

When her temperature was next taken it was 105.6° - the vet was surprised she was still alive. His examination of her tummy (it's not easy trying to hold up a dog who's legs are like a puppet with cut strings) released a flood of wee (the second of my dogs to wee on him!) but no hint as to what was wrong. The bloods had shown normal apart from an extremely low white blood count pointing to a massive infection. But he still thought there was hope, so we came back again (Boy was relieved – we got Clover when he was six and she’s more his dog than anyone’s) with instructions to keep her hydrated. It’s not easy syringing fluid into someone’s mouth when they can barely swallow.

At 5.30 this morning when I woke she was still alive, which was a pleasant surprise. Her temperature was down to 102.6° and she was a lot more responsive. The day’s been spent squirting hydrating fluid into her and buttering AB tablets to make them slide down her throat. She’s certainly stronger this evening; she’s managed to stagger round the garden and squat for a wee, and best of all went over to the bowl for a drink of water all by herself. Unfortunately the action of taking fluid in one end causes the most disgusting vileness to ooze from the other which needs immediate mopping up, hence my obsessive hand-washing.

She’s by no means out of the woods yet; we can but hope.

Brewing up double all those tiny little troubles

Oops! I seem to have got myself a second part-time job, again doing something I've never done nor ever really wanted to do before. Nothing like adding to mental pressure when you're feeling fragile. :) Especially when you seem to have been employed by the husband of one of your friends who's in the middle of an acrimonious separation. And it was her job.

Do the mashed potato

For the past I-don't-know-how-many years, every time we've been to a food show or farmers' market or somewhere there's been a stall for the Supreme Sausage Company Ned's always said that we really must sign up, because the sausages are really very very good; very meaty and not full of fat and cereal. And a few weeks ago he finally put his money where his mouth is and signed up - our first 6-month supply will be made and delivered next week.

The day after he arranged this delivery a farmer friend of ours phoned asking us if we wanted half a pig for the freezer (Gloucester Old Spot), reared not half a mile from our house, at a good price. We know how good the meat is from Andy's pigs and sheep so naturally agreed, and twenty minutes later he arrived on the doorstep with a box of pork joints and ...... about 25lb of sausages!

Guess what's on the menu tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after ...

Harp and carp along wi' me

In the ponds in the garden we have fish. The small bottom pond has five golden orfe, which went in at about two inches long and have now grown to about nine inches. The top pond has regular goldfish; a big mummy fish and her babies (daddy fish died). Over the years the babies have mostly changed from black to gold, and most are about three inches long in comparison with their mum who's about six or seven inches. One of the baby fish, however, is very much bigger than the rest and is about the length of the mum and is now enormously fat. She (I'm assuming it's a she-fish who's full of spawn) seems to be expanding by the day and is beginning to resemble a startled puffer fish even down to the spiny appearance; she's so fat that all her scales stick out instead of lying flat. We've called her Mrs Creosote and are searching for the piscine equivalent of a leetle waffer-theen meent to offer.

It's where we stop and look around us

In a light-hearted moment of frivolity I completed an internet questionnaire about mental health. The result was that apparently I'm suffering from 'moderate to severe depression', which sounds like a forecast of stormy weather ahead, possibly over my Dogger Bight. I told Ned what it said and he first checked my life insurance document, then got out a bottle of gin and arranged the paracetamol attractively and temptingly in a bowl beside me. I'm a very lucky girl to have such a thoughtful and considerate husband.

Addition: Ned's just done the test too, and got the same score as me. I'll go and get another glass and a larger bowl.