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A Well Rounded Conclusion

March 30, 2022 6:06pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 23 Comments


Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On Wednesday!

Don’t ask me where I’ve been because I don’t know. And by that, I don’t mean that I literally “don’t know” and got captured by aliens and had my memory wiped clean, no. That didn’t happen.  What I mean is that I don’t really know why I’ve been absent from this weekly (hahahahaha) blog. I’d like to say it’s because I’ve been out partying and travelling and haven’t had time but, err, nah.  A big fat not much has changed since lockdown rules and I’m beginning to wonder if I have a long Covid issue. Let me explain…

It’s Like Pulling Teeth

I went to the dentist. I have not been to the dentist for over two years because along with GP’s they didn’t see anyone unless it was a dire emergency. Even now we are back to normal you have to be in severe pain to get an appointment because now there’s a backlog. Same with GP’s. It’s 3 – 4 weeks for an appointment and pot luck if you can get a phone call. You basically get told to sod off to accident and emergency if you think it’s serious. Hmm. Anyone who has ever been in the waiting room of A&E knows that you are likely to spend thousands of hours waiting to die only to be told to go home and gargle with salt water and you’ll be OK. 

Many weekend afternoons and evenings have been ruined by a trip to A&E and after such an experience the thought of going fills you with dread and you start to play the lottery with your life. How bad is that pain in my left calf? Could it be a blood clot or did I just pull a tendon? Maybe it’s just hot because I stood too close to the fire. I’ve had it for three days now, surely if it was that serious I would be dead by now? Besides, the doctor’s receptionist with a medical degree in sweet FA doesn’t seem overly bothered. Is it really worth missing a Chinese takeaway and a few scoops with friends? No.

Suck It Up

My usual dentist, a bad-tempered menopausal Scandinavian, had left the dental practice and I was, surprisingly, a bit upset by that. I was looking forward to a bit of banter and an argument about whether or not I needed an X-ray. Instead, a sweet, quietly spoken Asian woman sat in her place. Her assistant looked like some kind of sexual gimp. Plastic apron, plastic glasses, and plastic gloves donned and a big tubular weapon ready to suck the saliva right out of you. You really have to wonder about anyone who wants to do that for a living, right? 

“Nice to meet you, new dentist lady. I have a bit of a toothache going on. Upper left middle-ish or thereabouts.”

“Is the pain really bad?”

The Test.  Do I really deserve to have this appointment?

“Well, I very nearly bit someone in temper the other day but I had to stop myself because biting down causes me pain. I find I’m eating sandwiches on one side which is a bit of a nuisance.”

“I’m going to prod around a bit – it might hurt.”

“Go for it. I have a very high pain threshold… OWWW! That hurt!”

Now, this shocked me because I used to be able to have a filling without even having an injection.

“I’ll need to take an X-ray.”

“Of course you do. Radiate away.”

After the check-up, and no real evidence of anything, she decided we’d have to wait and see what happens but next up was the usual teeth clean. Sucky psycho got well excited about this because now she could cause suction welts on my tongue whilst the dentist made my gums bleed. I didn’t care. I put on my plastic glasses and lay there like a hardcore bitch. 

However, this time, I found it all a bit noisy, a bit overwhelming and a bit of a lot uncomfortable.

Residual Viralitis

“I think Covid has given me a fear of dentists.”

“What?”

“Studies have shown that the results of long Covid have given people all sorts of things from brain fog, to pins and needles, weird anxieties and newfound bizarre allergies”

“Right.”

“I think it’s given me dental phobia. I need to leave.”

I have since found that I can use this to get out of just about anything.

Jules, could you give me a hand with this?

“No. Soz. I now have a deep fear of helping resulting in Raging Reluctance. Had it ever since catching Covid.”

“Oh…”

Try it. Gets you out of everything and leaves you free to do whatever you want. Though sometimes that’s not always a good thing. When you start to lose the will to do anything it spreads like a malaise into your own desires. You end up not even writing your own blog.

Rotten Tomatoes

I found a diddy macro-lens that someone bought me for my iPhone a few years back and started to play with it. It’s only a cheap little thing and it saves getting the big camera out when I go to the big outside to walk the wolfits. You can get some quite nice macro shots with it without all the fuss and palaver that comes with normal everyday life pro photography.

Since the weather has been unseasonably sunshiney and lovely I managed to get a few fun close up shots of things like flowers…

Blades of grass with a droplet of hope…

Some sort of yellow moss or fungi that grows on trees…

And a close up of a vine tomato I bought from Sainsbury’s.

 I’m rather alarmed at the yellow specks found on tomato skin and have discovered that macro food photography has given me a new idea for a diet book that will become a horrifying best-seller.  

Paint Me A Postcard

Talking of nature and stuff and following on from a podcast on the mystic musings of Sadguru – a yoga guru, I found myself looking up something to do with a tree. I forget what it was now as I got wildly distracted, as one does, and went from there to Birch bark and then on to something called Neurographics. 

Apparently, there is not only Art Philosophy in the world but also Art Psychology.  Honestly, I don’t think it has the same ring. Doesn’t roll off the tongue well at all. Still, I found myself interested in the visual infographic that came with the description. What a fancy, vibrant, abstract painted joy I witnessed.

Apparently, you can completely change your dreadful behaviours by having a bit of a go at drawing and painting in this fashion. I watched a few videos on how to do it and promptly got out my art materials to make a postcard for someone I knew would like this medium. 

You have to draw like this: Freely make blobs and lines and then round off all the corners.

Colour in the rounded blobs

And then stand up and shout “I Am Cured!”

Obviously, I’ve got a lot of work to do before I can honestly say that so decided a postcard was the better option.

How’s that for lighting up your life, eh? The workings of my mind are a sight to behold.  

 

Blatherskite

February 23, 2022 1:49pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 11 Comments

 

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Today I need to talk to you about the Blatherskite.

What is a Blatherskite?

They can be found everywhere: The pub, the shops, cafes, football grounds, online and even in your very own house. Yes, beware, this has happened to many people. 

Some might even say a lot of them are bloggers… I’m not buying that myself. What a load of bafflegab. 

We All Know A Blatherskite

A blatherskite is a mid-17th-century word for a person who talks at great length without making much sense. Unfortunately, they are now breeding en masse and it turns out that Blatherskites might just take over the world. They are particularly at home on social media, often leaving lengthy and garbled baloney that we call “comments” under posts. 

Perhaps you have encountered one at a cafe or the bar? They are one of those people who randomly start talking to you about absolute rubbish and for some reason can’t seem to stop. It’s like their verbal tap has been turned full-on and they must spew out their absurdity. You look around, wondering if they’ve mistaken you for someone else. You search the crowd with eyes that scream, “Please Help Me”, but everyone looks away; shielding themselves from the Blatherskite and leaving you to drown in its torrent of drivel. They’ve been burned by the Blatherskite before you see. 

Blatherskites are also on our TV every day in the guise of heroes and carers of the world. They rant and rave and promise to change the world for the better and blah – blah – blah – what a load of old nonsense. Or should I say what a load of old skite?

The Origin Of The Word Blatherskite

Blather:

Blether, Scottish and likely derived from a Scandinavian word (Old Norse) blaðra meaning “to mutter or wag your tongue.” Also could possibly come from the Germanic word “Blodram” meaning something inflated (like the bladder). 

An inflated bladder makes a lot of sense to me. We all know what comes out of that.

Skite:

An old Scottish word for a contemptible person. Likely sourced from the Old Norse word skyt (skjota) meaning “to shoot.” Or, most likely and more fitting, from the Old Norse word skita meaning “to shit” 

Aha! A blown-up bladder talking a load of old shite. Yep. There we have it. 

Your mission today is to be on the lookout for a Blatherskite and try to avoid them at all costs.

If you know of a Blatherskite, you could try and help them by buying them this wonderful notebook so they will be able to write down all their nonsense and realise that nobody wants to hear it anymore. 

Save the world and buy a Blatherskite a Wordy Notebook today! Available from Amazon globally.

*This blog post but was cunningly disguised as a useful piece of information on archaic words whilst trying to sell the best “Wordy Notebooks” in the world*

 

Terminator : The Rise Of The Sledgehammer

February 16, 2022 12:17pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 17 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

 

“Hey, do you fancy coming to our gym?”

“I dunno. I think I’ve got enough on not eating, not drinking, not enjoying myself in the slightest, and trying to monkery.”

“It might take your mind off things, to exercise.”

“I walk giant wolfdogs every day. I am cardio exhausted. I’ll have you know that that is like trying to walk two rowing machines.”

“Yeah, but this is weights. It’s fun.”

“Do they have GHD hair straighteners in the changing room like my last gym?”

“No.”

“What about the showers?”

“No showers.”

“Changing rooms?”

“No.”

They’ve gotta be having a laugh, right?

“It’s good. It’s real. It’s honest. It’s a community.”

“What? Like the YMCA?”

“No. of course not. Are you coming to try it or not?”

“How much is it?

“£7.50 a week. Cash only. Pay as you go.”

How could I not be intrigued by this utter madness? Sounded very much like a Mafia fronted ‘stablishment.

“OK. It sounds odd enough to grab my attention. I’ll go and have a gander.”

“Great! Wear something warm. It’s freezing. There’s no heating and if it rains it comes through part of the roof and into buckets.”

“Right…”

“Meet us at the industrial estate at 8.30 AM.”

Honestly, I felt like I was in a dodgy movie. I dressed in many layers. I took my pink and purple yoga mat and a sports bag with a towel, my pink water bottle, my purse and various hair bobbles. I arrived at the industrial site and parked up. I couldn’t see a gym anywhere – maybe I had the wrong place?

Then I saw a car flash its headlights. My people had arrived. I got out of the car to greet them feeling like I should have some hardcore contraband or at least a briefcase full of laundered money in my boot.

“Where is this place?”

“Follow us.”

I wondered for a moment if I’d done anything to upset them and if this was a ploy to “Get Rid Of Me.”

They opened a side fire door and I followed them through a stark corridor, up a few concrete steps, then left down another corridor, through another plain, peeling like a Brit in Magaluf, painted door. 

The “GYM” in all its chunky steel and gritty menace opened up before me.

They weren’t lying. I had actually arrived in an 80’s movie scene. I half expected Rocky to come out and start training. Perhaps even bringing a side of meat with him to ‘hang in the cage’. 

This was the sort of place that Arthur from Peaky Blinders might train at, and there I stood with my poncey pink yoga mat. 

“Well, I look a right tit walking around with this. Thanks for that.” 

“Yeah, but you might change your mind when you go to lie on the floor and do your stretches.”

Spit. Sawdust. Sweat. The dust of a trillion workouts. Maybe even rodents, I don’t know.

“Eww. Yes. Thank God I have it. Maybe I’ll set a trend.”

*Eye-Roll* Followed by ‘maybe we shouldn’t have asked her along’ glances.

Now, this was not the sort of gym with easy-to-use machines. No. This wasn’t a hangout for gym bunnies, prissy babies or snowflakes. If you wanted to change the handle on a machine you had to hunt down a spanner that would be lying somewhere on the floor.  Weights had to be lifted on and off equipment which was like a workout in itself, especially if the hulk had been using said machine before you did. 

Most of the exercise routine was using free weights which are said to have a better overall effect on your core muscle group. However, you’d never know if that’s true because you can’t see them underneath all the layers of clothes you have to wear to keep warm. 

You really do have to have big balls to cope with this place.

This is what Hercules does in his spare time – picks these up and deposits them on a high platform. I can’t even push one.

And then there’s the cage…

Enter at your own risk. This is fight club.  And don’t even think of unwrapping that Wrigley’s or I’ll knock yer teeth out, pal.

This gym was like an edgy adventure and just as I was thinking, I kinda like it here, I saw something that absolutely sealed the deal. A giant tyre – possibly belonging to a tractor with several sledgehammers leaning nearby. 

“What on earth is this for?”

“Pick up a sledgehammer and I’ll show you.”

“Really? I can grab this weapon and train with it?”

“Yep. Lift it above your head and…ready?”

“Yeah…”

“SMACK IT DOWN HARD ON THE TYRE.”

Hello, my new favourite thing to do.

And repeat until all angst is gone and calmness dwells within. Monks need to know about this – it’s way easier and quicker than meditating. I can’t tell you how much I love this exercise and whoever thought of it is a genius. I am now totally sold on this place and have a feeling that the following might happen in the future:

Well, somebody’s got to save the world from Skynet metaverse so it may as well be me. 

 

Sleep In A Sea Of Merit

January 26, 2022 8:54am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 18 Comments

drawing of woman with a monk inside

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

The art of monkery continues as I try to adapt eastern ways into a chaotic western world. The act has been a trial and has caused major irritation at times but I have persevered. I have to say that generally, my sleeping pattern has improved. I am now tired and ready for bed at 11 P.M and up like a lark coming round at 7 A.M.  I’m not sure this is going to be a good thing when it comes to parties or going away on holiday though.  

“Sorry, off to kip now – gotta keep up with my ritual.” Followed by, “Morning! Everybody up! It’s 7 A.M and I’m bored!”

Morning Meditations

drawing of girl in yoga pose

This is the part I’ve been struggling with. In my second lesson on how to monkery, I was advised that the best time to meditate (which anyone who has followed this blog over the years knows I have failed at continuously) is in the morning when you first awake. See, you’re already partway there, right? Perfect. That made sense to me. If I’d have known this years ago I might have mastered meditating by now. Be still in that moment and centre. Surely I could manage that?

No. It appears not. One of two things happen:

I fall back to sleep or I wonder if that’s the glass bin people I can hear coming down the street and dammit, I forgot to put the glass bin out. I wonder if the neighbours have done it? Wait! Back to centre. Stop thinking. And nothing, yes let’s think of nothing. Stillness. God, my heartbeat is loud. I can hear it in the pillow. Am I going to have a stroke? I’m sure I read somewhere that lots of people die in the morning. OH MY GOD – Please don’t let me die. Perhaps if I stretch a bit it will go away. OW! What’s that pain in my calf? Maybe it’s a clot and that’s why my heart’s going bonkers. Boiling. I’ll take the covers off. And breathe… that’s better. Cooling off. Right back to nothing… Freezing. Brrr, covers back on. Why am I not able to regulate my body temperature like normal people? I’m like a lizard. Maybe David Icke was right. You don’t see lizards meditating – they run about like mad things. Right, this isn’t working and now I’m getting annoyed which is not part of the monkitation. 

Now you should chant. Nope. No. 

Talking of Dying…

The next thing you are supposed to do is ‘embrace death’. Errr, no thank you very much. I’ve just been through that hideous possibility and that didn’t go well. What a horrible thing to do. Why do I want to start my day with such morbidity? According to the monk, this helps you be grateful for your life because today isn’t promised. Great, Mr Cheery. Let me start my day off by thinking I could die – that’s helpful. 

I totally skip this and instead acknowledge that I am grateful to be here and if it could stay like that, that’d be pretty awesome, thank you.

Chore Towards More

Once you’re up and over all that malarkey you have to do chores. Start with making your bed – but with intention. Neatly. Tick. Got that one nailed. Then get on with other chores that need doing. Well, I am a master at this already as I cannot get to work whilst my kitchen is in chaos. I make sure all of it is gleaming and then I get on. I once read that if you only clean your kitchen sink absolutely perfectly the rest of your day will be productive. Something like that, anyway. I have always done this. I guess it’s much like making your bed, if you start your day by being methodical and tidy then you will give the same attention to everything else. Clearly, this monk hasn’t met anyone like me. 

Do Something Nice Twice

This is next. I feed the dogs. Job done. 

Trying to make all of this work in my world is entertaining but that’s what life is about. You take something and you make it work the best you can for you. There’s no way I’m shaving off my eyebrows or hair so it’s a matter of compromise. I am totally prepared to get an orange frock but designed on my terms. 

However, I have since found a monkery rule that I quite like. Perhaps I liked what they called it more than anything because it’s very ‘Art Philosophy’ but I have found that this particular exercise is very pleasant and works a treat.

Sleep In A Sea Of Merit

How lovely is that? The monk says that this is what you do when you go back to sleep. I mean, he went through a few silly things like sleeping on a hard bed so you want to get up in the morning and keeping the TV and computers/phones out of the room but I have an issue with pillows being perfect so I can’t do that and I like to have rain sounds playing whilst I go to sleep so, no. 

But, as you lie in bed waiting for sleep to arrive you have to think of things you have done this day that have been good and are of merit. This then means you go to sleep thinking positively about yourself and your day and will wake up feeling the same way like a chirpy Snow White. 

What we tend to do is lie in bed worrying about the things we didn’t do. Bugger, I forgot to pay my car tax. I must remember to do that in the morning. And I must book my car in for its MOT. Mind you, I’m not a fan of that garage anymore, every time I take it in something goes wrong with my car two weeks later. I hope that rubber brush I ordered comes tomorrow then I can clean the back of the cab out whilst I’m at the dog park. That bloke from the garage looks a bit like Avery from Nashville. I’m glad him and Juliette got married. I wonder when the next episode of 1883 is out? I need to download that tomorrow. And check if season 5 of Yellowstone has been picked up. Can’t live without Rip. Maybe the monk could take a few lessons from him. That Taylor Sheridan is a good writer yet you wouldn’t think it to look at him. I’ve got to stop watching Western stuff. Maybe I should write another to get it out of my system. But then I have an idea for something else. Maybe I should do that. Or just not do anything and go travelling. I need to see the northern lights. And I quite fancy the Scilly Isles. Or Costa Rica. Long time on a plane though. Don’t know if  I can deal with that anymore. I wonder if monks have a thing for that? David Attenborough goes all over the place and he’s 95. That Green planet is a good show. I’ve got a whole new respect for plants now. Mind you, I’m a bit fearful of my salad. And the plants in my house. I need to water them. Knowing my luck, when I die I’ll find out that God is a large triffid. I’ll get to heaven and he’ll say – ‘Right, what happens now is we treat you just like you treated your plants so you’ll only get water every 3 weeks.’ Perhaps my plants hate me and are sending vile toxins into the air to kill me because I keep forgetting to water them. Maybe that’s why my heart’s beating fast…

And that’s why you then have nightmares about Beth from Yellowstone turning into a giant Venus Fly Trap and eating David Attenborough off the coast of Cornwall.  

Sleeping in a sea of merit is definitely the way to go.

 

Happy New Night-Nights

January 5, 2022 12:30pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 11 Comments

mindfulness with Jules Smith

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Another new year commences but this time with a new set of rules. I am no longer making impossible resolutions and instead have cleverly labelled my goals as “Self-Care” Some have stated that this is a little ambiguous but that’s because they weren’t smart enough to think of it. On occasion, self-care may mean that in fact, a large glass of wine is what’s needed, or a rant at someone is necessary to relieve angst. Other times it may mean I follow a path of calm and positive purpose.

 

 

Before Christmas, I watched something about mindfulness. There was a monk who said that we should be less reactionary and more accepting of negative or anxiety fuelled emotions. Learn to accept them and sit with them for a while. When you feel panic you should welcome it by saying, “Welcome, panic..”

I love a bit of monkery so I thought I’d give that a go because I’m a person who always feels frantic inside and that can’t end well. 

That started out OK. Instead of cursing at the person in front of me driving so slowly, I said, “Welcome, you doddery old sod and thank you for making me realise I don’t need to rush to get where I’m going all the time.” Or, to the person standing in the middle of the supermarket aisle, “Welcome you dozy old cockwomble and thank you for making me wait whilst you chat in the centre of aisle 7 because now I can understand selfishness a little better…”

This has been working well for me because I have replaced getting furious with laughter. Good start. 

 

Alive and Unconscious

 

 

I started to wean myself into change over the period between Christmas and New Year where time does not exist. Airport time. A muddy period where days roll into each other like a swampy fog. You eat the remnants of the Quality Street tub for breakfast washed down with sherry and wonder why you feel like a hot toxic mess. Going straight from that to serious change is not conducive to self-care so I decided to implement my first new routine. 

I am crap at sleeping and apparently sleep is one of the most important things to get right before you even think of doing anything else. 

 I go to bed with the good intention of going to sleep and end up reading my book for hours until I eventually fall to sleep dribbling on my Kindle. I wake up at 3 am and then get up for a cuppa and ruminate over spiteful little thoughts that dance around my head. I go back to bed, wired and watching the night turn into day behind the blinds. Sometimes I go back to my Kindle and can’t remember a damn thing I read a few hours ago. I then fall back to sleep minutes before it’s time to get up. Dreadful. 

 

All Aboard The Night Train!

 

 

I found out that you can train yourself into a sleep pattern. Pick an eight hour period and stick to it vehemently. Even if you wake up during that time, do not get out of bed. You must lie still in torturous bed prison and not get up until your allotted time. I decided that this would be my first trial into self-care. I chose to go to bed at 11 and get up at 7. 

I can’t begin to tell you how difficult this was when I first started. I got Alexa to play rain sounds in an attempt to quiet the devil in my brain daring me to break the rules. No! I’m sticking to this. I lay there like an inmate, lights out, staring at the ceiling. Too hot. Too cold. Covers on. Covers off. I eventually went to sleep and woke up around 3 and then 5. I tossed and turned. I experimented with sleep mists on my pillow. I ended up drenching myself and the bed in lavender stuff in an attempt to drug myself to sleep. I am now allergic to lavender. When 7 am came and the alarm went off I wanted to cry. Shut Up Alexa and go to hell.  Thank you for this fresh new opportunity for an early start…

Like a warrior, I got up and zombied into the day.

 

 

The days were so long that on one of them I ended up having a hysterical time tantrum. It was only 4.30 in the afternoon and I could have sworn it was bedtime. I wailed and despaired and forced myself to do things and the clock refused to tick like normal. I wanted to smash its face in. Thank you, clock for revealing how much more time I have to do all the thing’s I can’t muster the energy to do.

I’d already been at it for nine hours and I had to stay up for another six and a half. I couldn’t even stay awake to The Witcher. I knew it was bad when I started nodding off to Henry Cavill. Were naps allowed? Apparently not. The evil sleep training does not allow this privilege. You must endure a lifetime in each day and be too knackered to do anything constructive past 3 pm. 

Dear Lord above, it’s been a trial. 

However, it has started to work. Not entirely; I still find the days exhaustingly long but I am now starting to get better sleep, only waking up once before my due time and easily falling back off. And since this has started to work I have taken on yet another self-care challenge which I will tell you about next time because I’m having severe problems with that one and might be on the verge of a psychotic meltdown – thank you for all these challenges that will help me hate everything more than before become a better and more balanced person. 

 

 

Anarchy In The Greenbelt

December 15, 2021 10:18am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 23 Comments

winter view of fields in England

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I drove down my road a few weeks back and noticed that a giant 5G tower had been erected on the opposite side of the street. No notice was given to anyone about this happening because obviously, the council can do whatever they want. Fortunately for me, it is a way down the road and does not obstruct my outlook but I felt very sorry for the big house opposite who now had their view of the rolling greenbelt obstructed by a giant phallic object.  

A few days later I noticed some graffiti sprayed all over it: 

“Who Gave Permission For This?”

“This Thing Is An Eyesore”

This made me laugh as the culprit had to be one of the people living opposite. The folk in those big houses are probably fairly affluent: they have nice cars, keep their front gardens tastefully in order, have elegant Christmas lights, and are the sort that would likely be very pleasant on the whole and not break the law. That’s what I would think if I was to pigeonhole those that lived there. However, it seems I am completely wrong and that anarchy lives in us all. I was very proud of whoever did this and wanted to knock on their door and invite them over for a drink. 

I could imagine them driving off to B&Q to find spray paint

We’ll have to practise on some MDF boards outside before we do it, Elizabeth. I’ve never defaced anything before.”

“Of course, Roger. I mean, bloody hell, it has to be legible or what will people think?”

“We will sneak out after midnight and do the deed. If anyone stops to ask what we are doing we will have to say we are wildlife conservationists. Start hugging a tree if anyone slows down.”

“Right. I’ll bring my clipboard and opera binoculars so we look authentic.”

I pictured them sneaking out in the dead of night in their plaid Marks and Spencer pyjamas, woolly hats, and wellies. The euphoria of getting away with the vandalisation probably left them breathless and they might have even got to it in the drench shower when they got home to wash off the evidence. Power to the people! However, a week later someone from the council painted over it in battleship grey. I’m hoping too much Christmas spirit might see their rebellious nature rise again.

Talking Of Anarchy In The Greenbelt…

You can’t help love your dogs to bits. There is no loyalty like that of a hound. Even if you are cross with them they still love you. No matter what, you are their favourite thing. 

They are protective

Loving

Attentive

Cute

A bit mental

And ferociously attractive

And you have to remember all of those things when they put you in a difficult situation.

Across the fields we walked, as usual, enjoying the fresh air and apricity of the day when all of a sudden a great big hare decided to have a bit of a skip around in the long grass. Oh, silly hare…

Tex immediately set off after the hopper because there was a tasty snack daring to taunt him. Halo intercepted from the right and they began to hunt down the hare at full pelt in pack mode clearing two fields in seconds. It was like watching a David Attenborough show. My dogs are very fast but the hare had a metre advantage and I prayed it would get to ground. I didn’t want to jog that day but there I was trying to run in hiking boots to catch up with them because all of a sudden they had completely forgotten their names when I called them. I had my 13-year-old Jack Russell with me who hadn’t joined the pack, thank God, but instead ran in circles around my feet which did not help me get a sprint on. 

“Get out the bloody way, you daft dog!” 

I looked up and watched in the distance as the other two came up to a hawthorn hedgerow. Halo stopped. Tex went straight through it. Brilliant. 

A few minutes later three animals came running out diagonally in the other direction at full speed. 

Hold on, I only have two big dogs, what the hell is that?

Oh look, it’s a bloody great deer.

How in hell has that happened? Tex must have thought all his Christmases had come at once. Through the hedge he goes after a hare and comes face to face with a deer. Look what I found, mummy!

Why is this happening to me? I just want to go for a nice walk and now I’m hyper-ventilating, barn dancing around a terrier, and wondering if I’ve lost my wolfits. Am I going to find them feasting on a deer? How am I going to talk my way out of this if the farmer sees it? Will he be pleased that my nut-job mutts have cleared hares and deer from his crops or is he going to shoot them and me? 

I started praying out loud. Please God, let the deer get away. I have been traumatised from a young age by Disney and watching Bambi’s mother die. I don’t want to be party to this kind of ordeal in real life. I’ll do anything.

Eventually, they came back. Unbloodied and absolutely knackered. Bambi had made it. Phew. 

I don’t know who was panting the hardest out of me and the dogs and who might die first but we made it back to the truck intact sans rabbit or venison stew. 

Next time, I’m getting a cat. 

 

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