It was on a Wednesday morning the electrician came

If only he had. It was a tumbleweed day at work. There were no appointments booked, which in some respects was lucky because we'd had a letter to say that an engineer would be call to change the electricity meter, so the power would be off for half an hour. We'd phoned to confirm a convenient time-slot and to stress that there would be nobody there between 12 noon and 3pm; the woman on the other end of the phone duly marked the jobsheet. During surgery hours the vet and I chatted, then she went off to another surgery and I waited. At noon I went home. When I returned shortly before 3pm to open up again I found the engineer's card saying that he'd called at 12.20.

During the afternoon I was telephoned by the company to arrange another appointment. We agreed a date, and then I was asked whether morning or afternoon would be most suitable. As both are extremely inconvenient (no power means no computer, so no being able to book appointments or issue medication or sell anything) I decided on the morning.

"So the engineer will call between 8am and 1pm, madam."
"No, there'll only be someone here between 9 and 12"
"Yes, between 8am and 1pm"
"No, 9 and 12. Those are the times there'll be someone here."
"I can only book between 8 and 1, madam."

Who knows of a good wall-repair man? I seem to have made a head-shaped dent in the one by the phone.

Living in a box

As the more intuitive among you might have guessed, one of my interests is dogs; their care, health, breeding etc, and one of the things that gets me warm under the collar is people’s less-than-appropriate treatment of them. The indulgence of ‘furbabies’ (now there’s a word that makes me want to vomit) is as much a form of cruelty as a whipping – dogs are separate species, not deformed hairy children, and should be treated in a manner suitable for their needs. A dog’s needs are really very simple; basically he needs food, exercise, shelter, medical treatment when required and, because he’s of a social species, he needs company. Having a single dog in the home is fine as long as he gets the opportunity to socialise with his own kind several times a week, as well as the company of his owners. This is one aspect where too many dogs are let down. Too many dogs are left ‘home alone’ while their owners work full time – and what’s worse, many are crated for these hours. Now a dog crate can be very useful – it’s a secure space for him when travelling and a familiar secure den if you and your dog are staying away from home. Crated dogs are more likely to be allowed in hotel rooms, for example, rather than the totally unacceptable alternative of having to stay in the car overnight. Crates are handy with a puppy – he can be popped into it if you need to go shopping, knowing that he can’t eat your furniture or electrocute himself on your wiring in your absence. They can be handy for house-training during the night; you have the pup in his crate by your bed and, because they don’t like to soil their beds, when he needs to relieve himself in the night the noise he makes in his discomfort will wake the owner who can then take him out to the garden before popping him back to bed again.

With a blanket over the top and the door open, an adult dog has a secure den where he feels safe.

However some people – and from what I’ve read on various canine internet fora, more commonly in America – misuse crates badly. Firstly, because they’ve heard that crating helps house-train, they assume that simply putting the pup into the crate means that he’ll magically be able to contain his bladder and bowels for hours, not realising that they’ll need to get up during the night to take him out instead of having him mess on the floor if he wasn’t crated. Forcing him to soil his bed only causes distress and sets housetraining back weeks. I've never used crates for my dogs - I dislike broken nights so I'd rather mop up the kitchen floor in the morning when I'm housetraining a puppy!

Even worse, too many adult dogs are locked in their crates, like a battery chicken, the whole day while their owners are at work. Then again if the people go out for the evening. Then the dog’s alone all night too, while the people are asleep. Some poor creatures spend 20 out of 24 hours locked in a space barely big enough to turn around and the owners think it’s acceptable! No, no, no! Misuse of crates like this is out-and-out cruelty. The maximum length of time a dog should be crated is about 4 hours, preferably less. As a rule of thumb if a dog has been crated the owner should release him before the owner needs to use the lavatory. If the owner's uncomfortable, the dog might be as well. It only takes a little imagination and consideration.

Why do so many people fail to realise that animal ownership (any animal, not just dogs) is a privilege, not a right? If they can’t give a dog the treatment it deserves they should rethink their options, and if they can’t change their lifestyle to suit the dog, they shouldn’t inflict such a miserable existence on the poor thing. It's not as if it's that difficult to pay someone to come and take your dog for a walk at lunchtime, and stay in of an evening if you've been out all day.

You get told "Oh, he's quite happy, he sleeps all day." Erm ... what are his options? He can hardly read a book, or watch TV, or surf the net, can he? He's trapped, and all he can do to stop going out of his mind with boredom is sleep his life away until he dies. The dogs are the victims here – they have no choice. It’s not very different to the existence that was, and in areas still is, inflicted on the Romanian orphans.

(By the way, that dog seen on the far side of the canal at the MongMeet, and that caused such curiosity, wasn't a Labradoodle or any of the other fashionable overpriced crossbreeds. It was simply an ordinary standard poodle.)

Twinkle, twinkle, little star

I just heard my cyber-friend Libs (real name Alison, but her Forum username was Liberty, after one of her dogs) has died. She recovered from the coma that she'd been in some months ago, maybe with help from all of you who wished her well, and was discharged from hospital. But sadly the recovery was short-lived.

She was one of the glorious people who, from the instant you meet them you feel you've known forever. We used to meet up at Crufts each year (I'm so sad I couldn't make it last year) and drink red wine poured from a Ribena bottle into plastic beakers, giggling like schoolgirls. Carla, Libs and I embarrassed another friend by whooping and cheering when she handled her Shar Pei to Best of Breed, and everyone else looked down their noses at us. I was so hoping there'd be another opportunity, despite her having been so very ill; she kept the details very quiet and was always unfailingly cheerful, never giving a hint of how seriously ill she actually was.

Bless you Libs. Although you'll be very greatly missed I'm glad your pain is now gone and you're reunited with your own absent friends. I'll raise a glass of Ribena to the brightest new star in the heavens.

Three wheels on my wagon

How cool is this? I wish the dogs were as well-trained! :D

Leaving on a jet plane

As we all know there are many concerns for the health of not only the population but also the planet. We're told the population is becoming more obese and we all need to cut our carbon emissions, and so Gordon has slapped a 'green tax' on air travel. (Do we think for a nano-second that the revenue will be spent on 'green issues'? Do we bollocks.) With a bit of lateral thinking both these problems can be tackled at once. Bear with me.

When it comes to the tricky problem of baggage allowances and excess payment due, would it not be much fairer to give a total weight allowance per passenger, person and bags, and not just the weight of the bags? The average baggage allowance for European flights is 20kg; a small person with full allowance would still weigh less in total than an obese person, but the porker is still allowed a baggage allowance on top, without penalty. How can it be fair for a light person to be given what is effect a fine for having a bag that weighs 21kg, when in total they still weigh less than a heavy person who can then add a further 19kg to the weight on the plane, and yet not get penalised? With a total weight allowance system the fat person would have to pay a surcharge simply to travel at all, and the skinny person could take another suitcase without penalty. A blubber-surcharge or the risk not being able to take any luggage would surely be an incentive to lose weight - especially for the return journey (no stuffing one's face and bloating on holiday)! If the options of losing weight or paying extra are both unacceptable then maybe fewer people would fly, so less carbon would be put into the atmosphere, especially at the altitude where it does the most harm.

The weather outside is frightful

A mere four inches of snow on an ungritted road means that nobody's going anywhere!


But some people thought it was very exciting to sniff out crumbs fallen from the bird feeder.


But then they got cold feet and had to come running in again.

Pounding away, pounding away

It was when Ned wanted to order some new clothes and we checked his measurements that he realised his belt had stretched (the tape-measure was checked against a metal rule), and his figure was less sylph-like than he thought, that we decided that the time had come to liberate the man I married from his tomb of too, too solid flesh. Accordingly I dusted off the diet books bought during my angst-ridden teenage years, Ned contributed his copy of the F-Plan diet, which involves eating the greatest amount of roughage for the lowest number of calories, and I started planning the campaign.

I'd always thought that the more roughage one ate, the faster things passed through one's system. Not so with Ned - his insides seem to have gone into a state of shock and have decided to hang on to all food in case no more is available. In other words, he's full of it. And no, it's not particularly blustery at Genie Towers either. Thank heaven for small mercies. Ned was a very naughty boy today though because after his walk with his gang they adjourned to the pub for lunch and he had ham, egg and chips and a pint. I thought he'd be coming home for lunch so I waited for him before I ate. By the time he arrived I'd gone through the hunger barrier so didn't bother. I don't think this is how other people's diets are meant to work. However it seems to be working, and he's lost 10lb in the past three weeks. Unfortunately I can't just give him his cardboard-and-water and sit and scoff other stuff so I've had to join him on the regime, and I've lost 5lb, taking my BMI down to 18.1 but because I still have wobbly bits I'm not panicking that I'll disappear quite yet. If he and I could just average out our BMIs (his comes in the 'Lardboy' category) we'd probably be all right. Because he's already had a main meal today I ought not to do our roast tonight, but I've not eaten so I'm going to. He can just have a teeny portion. But I won't do a pudding, and I'll drink the wine.

Each little bird that sings

Ned was wondering whether Bernard Matthews' next advertising slogan will be "Bootiflu".

A time for every purpose under heaven

I know there's a season for everything, but I never realised that it would ever be necessary to mow the lawn on February 1st.

Two little birdies sitting in a tree

I'd been saving a little anecdote from a local news programme that I thought would amuse people at the Mongfest, but I completely forgot about it then, so you lucky people can have it now. The feature was about a primary school where they'd set up a bird feeding station outside the classroom window so the children could learn about our wild birds (it must have been a slow news day) and after the teacher had explained all about it some of the children were asked what birds they'd seen. You'll need to imagine their broad Black Country accents:

Child 1: "Oi sor a blackbird in a tree"
Child 2: "Oi sor a blackbird"
Child 3: "Woodpeckers av got very long noses"
Child 4: "Oi sor a black one"
Child 5: "Oi sor a penguin"

Well, we did have a cold snap recently ...

Hail! Hail! we're full of cheer

The annual MongMeet was a jolly affair, with some good friends there and some good friends missing. 28 people turned up, with at least another 20 absent for various reasons. As always I came away thinking how lucky we were to come across an internet gang made up of not entirely insane maniacs plotting havoc and destruction on an unsuspecting world, but instead some pleasant fruitcakes, only slightly touched in the upper storey at times (including the one with the imaginary wife). And as usual I keep remembering things I'd forgotten to do; talk to Henry about his paintings, not only the brilliant evocative Drowned Man but also his fascinating landscape with the inverted colours which I thought had a touch of genius about it; give Hutters the magazines we'd saved for him (no, not that sort of magazine!), and general catching up with everyone. However bodily discomfort distracted me a lot of the time and I wasn't on top form, which was a shame, and I apologise for my dullness. But Kouros had forgotten about The Game.

Things that the everyday folks leave behind

Returning with the dogs after their gambol across the paddyfields I did my Good Deed for the Community and stopped to remove a carrier bag that some thoughtless cretin had chucked out of his car as he drove down our road. It really annoys me when people chuck rubbish out as they drive along; surely it's not too much trouble to put it into a rubbish bin when you get home, is it? Anyway, the wind was tossing this bag around, causing it to spill its contents creating further mess, so I got the dogs to wait while I tidied up. There was a paper wrapper and half a portion of chips, a drinks can and some packaging. Perhaps the packaging was the reason why the person hadn't wanted to take their rubbish home; an 'Ej*culating B*tt Plug' might not have been on the approved shopping list. I bet the Wombles never had this trouble.

Hit the road, Jack

Sunday suppers have always been special in our house; the time when I'll throw caution to the wind and do a proper roast and a proper pudding. Usually I do the classic roast chicken, or beef (ideally rib), or lamb (from local farmer) or pork (ditto). Today, whilst rummaging in the depths of the freezer, I came across a pheasant which I'd forgotten we had. "Best eat it" I thought. Organic. Free range. What could be better? So I bunged it in the chicken brick (not necessarily from that site - I've had mine for about 30 years) which is the only way to cook birds, did some roast potatoes in the fat from the Christmas goose and various veg and gravy, and it was just gorgeous. When I've had pheasant before it's been too gamy and a bit dry for my taste. This was milder-flavoured and moist all through. Absolutely delicious.

And not a single piece of lead shot on which to break your teeth, because this bird was killed by a Volkswagen. Yes, tonight we feasted on roadkill.

Listen to the band

Neogear are quite possibly one of the best upcoming bands of their genre. Jamie Cullum went to their most recent gig and really liked what he heard.

*Normal non-trendy bloggage will shortly be resumed*

I'll sit right down and write myself a letter

It was very strange. There I was, getting to grips with the company invoices, sorting out when they needed paying and by what method. I had this week's BACS transfers managed and was writing cheques for others. And I realised I was watching my hand write the cheques in a handwriting I didn't recognise. It was a bit scary really.

Let's go fly a kite

It's been a tad on the blowy side today. Our fence seems to have survived so we don't have sheep among the dogs or dogs among the traffic. The greenhouse is also intact - hurrah! Today was also the day for the dustmen and recyclers to do their rounds, so last night everyone had dutifully put out their binsacks and boxes of bottles and newspapers. The wind had a lovely time, bowling the binsacks down the street like tumbleweeds and filling the air with sheets of newspaper, like flocks of enormous birds. The dogs thought this was terribly exciting and spent a lot of their on-lead time leaping into the air to catch these strange things whilst I tried to avoid the falling branches and rooftiles which threatened to decapitate me. In fact at one point one of them leapt so enthusiastically that if they'd been on extending leads I might well have ended up flying a dog-shaped kite.

Don't put your daughter on the stage

For the past several years Ned’s brother and his family have visited us from Sussex each December and we’ve all gone to the panto in either Coventry or Birmingham together. It was best when the children came too, because there’s not much that’s more fun than embarrassing one’s offspring, but eventually they refused to accompany us so it became an adults-only group. Some of the productions have been fantastic (oh yes they were!) and extremely high quality. Brian Conley is always professional, Julian Clary is very funny, and Joe Pasquale, fresh out of the jungle when we saw him, was an excellent Jack.

This season, to make a change, we went down to Sussex to go with them and their pals to the performance of Jack and the Beanstalk at their local theatre. We knew not to expect such a polished performance as at the Birmingham Hippodrome, for example, but it was an entertaining evening out. A brief review: Mark Curry was very good; I thought the Dame was good but Ned’s not convinced; ‘Jill’ looked as though she didn’t want to be there (nor have to wear flat shoes to stop her being taller than 'Jack'); and Sonia? The 'star'? She seemed to have based her character on Jimmy Krankie but with extra smirk, and played Jack teetering on high heels. I think one ofthe tests of the calibre of an actor in live theatre is how they handle the inevitable fluffs. Saying "It's your line now, isn't it?" to your fellow cast-member just doesn't do it. Sonia couldn't act her way out of a paper bag.

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'.