Skip to main content


Words from a Bird.  Day 93

Over the last few weeks, a lot of cash has been forked out on expensive toys and chews for Reg. (If you're new to my blog, Reg is our new puppy, and not my long-suffering husband who has no desire for noisy toys).  Reg has a squeaky turkey in a red polka dot bikini (how this is vaguely dog appropriate I have no idea, but my sister, who bought it, thought it had a damn fine squeak).  He also has a bright yellow caterpillar.  Once more, this has no bearing on the canine breed, and again, was bought by my sister. We have knotted rope toys, a green plastic bone, balls, balls on the end of knotted rope and plush soft toys.

But in the past 48 hours, these toys have all been consigned to the garden.  The primary colour plastic lies abandoned in the flower beds, only visited by the odd daft bird thinking it's struck lucky when it sees the size of the caterpillar, only to hop away looking very disappointed.  I am thinking that many of the nests which are currently being built around here at the moment will be lined with frayed pieces of rope, the greens and blues brightening up a normally dull looking abode for a bird. 

But a new toy is in town.  This toy has provided hours of fun, with Reg and Percy playing tug-of-war with it.  Percy likes to use it to drag Reg round the tiled hall floor, and I keep finding Reg rolled up in it, making him look like he's been attacked by a boa constrictor.  They can both sit there quite happily chomping at each end (picture the spaghetti scene in Lady and the Tramp).

And what is this wonderful thing that is keeping my boys occupied for hours on end? 

Well, it's the pair of black tights which Reg stuck a claw into four minutes before I was leaving for work yesterday, casually leaving a hole the size of Gibraltar in.  These were new on yesterday morning, straight out of the packet, and I am now wondering whether this was a plan concocted by the two of them. 

Perhaps they have been planning this for days, watching me carefully for the day when a new pair would be reverently drawn out of the packet.  Obviously, they weren't interested in the tights I have been wearing for some time.  Those would be the ones being held up by braces as the elastic had gone in the waistband, the ones which were hanging on by a thread with more ladders than Homebase.  They had perhaps worked out that these would probably rip at the first tug-of-war.  No, far better that they wait for the new 100 denier pair, the ones with extra strength around the derriere (a must), and the reinforced toes.  This was a pair of tights to aim for.

I must confess that I am quite impressed by the tights' staying power.  Having seen what the dogs have done with them, it makes me more inclined to buy that particular brand again.  If they can survive what the dogs have put them through, it bodes well for the control of my ungovernable derriere.

And who doesn't want that at 52?


Popular posts from this blog

Say goodbye...

Here's a question for you.  Why is it that when we are dieting, we say that we have 'lost weight'.  To me this implies that at some time in the not so distant future, we're going to find it again.  I like to imagine a 28lb blob of yellow fat in a three piece suit, winking lasciviously at me and saying, 'Oi skinny.  I've missed you.  Fancy letting me ride shotgun around those hips again?'
So instead of 'losing weight' I am getting rid of it.  Throwing it away.  Killing it.   Banishing it, never to be seen again.  Previous experience tells me that I will probably have old Blobby hanging back around my middle in a couple of years, once I've tired of leaves and crispbreads, but I am trying to do things slightly different this time.  Slowing down the stampeding rate I eat (I blame hurried school lunches for this), speeding up the walking, and being more aware of what I am doing and why I am doing it.
Someone once told me that if I ever felt like pickin…

Cold wind blows...

I don't know how cold it is with you at the moment, but I spent yesterday morning snapping the two furballs off various trees and posts as we attempted a walk before I went to work.  I had made the schoolgirl error of asking myself, 'Just how cold can it be?' before putting one extra sweater on beneath my walking coat.  I also had my Olga from the Volga fur hat, a scarf and gloves (to be fair, I've been wearing all of these since the middle of October).  Unfortunately, what I hadn't taken into consideration was the above the knee dress I was wearing to work yesterday.  I imagined that the extra warmth up top would somehow work its way to my knees.  
I was wrong.
Getting back indoors after forty five minutes of combat with The Beast from the East, I looked down at my legs.  Even with the black 100 denier tights I was wearing, I could see that my legs had taken on a slightly different hue to normal.  They were looking like two red pillar boxes, and it took ten minutes …

A man could go quite mad...

I have started to realise that there are many things about me which drive the husband mad.  When you first get together, those small faults are cute and a little bit quirky.  However, fast forward a couple of decades and they become a fairly acceptable excuse for manslaughter.  
I started thinking about this after the contretemps with the cutlery drawer a couple of weeks ago.  If you remember, the husband informed that that I was messing with his feng shui by putting the boiled egg spoons in with the dessert forks.  He only seemed to notice that I did this after I bought a new cutlery tray for the drawer, so I'm blaming Groupon for grassing me up.
The other thing is my snoring.  When we first met, this was described as 'endearing', and he told me that as he lay next to me at night, he used to smile to himself and listen to me.  This swiftly moved on to comparisons with a nasally challenged warthog, and more recently to a Boeing 747 with a noisy exhaust.  I'm considerate …