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Home On The Range

April 17, 2019 1:00am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 13 Comments

Belvoir Castle on the hill

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Behold the country

Where wild beasts in pastures roam

And freedom still breathes

In support of National Haiku Day and today’s blog post, which incidentally, is right on time. 

The English countryside is beautiful. I love getting out and about in the thick of it all. Especially in spring. Such a wonderful, delicate season where hope hangs within reach. Renewal, naivety, fragility, and softness. This season reminds me of a woman getting dressed for a wonderful day. Here she is, fresh and new. Slowly revealing her grace. Lingerie lacing patterns across her body; her scent only just evident. Unsullied by extravagance. 

In a nutshell, a bit like a bird before she gets her blooming summer frock on to go proper out-out!

Further Afield

The other day I decided to go out and about into the Vale of Belvoir which is just down the road from me. Apparently, it has been voted the best place to live in the UK and has usurped the Cotswolds. Even though my mother lives there and the Duchess of Belvoir, who is said to be a bit of a lush nightmare, this somehow didn’t cast a murky shadow on the result. Belvoir is the new dog’s bollocks. 

I sometimes see evidence of what I like about Texas in the English countryside but obviously on a much smaller scale: lots of land, curious little buildings, rusting farm machinery, horses, and sometimes, even the distant sound of a shotgun being fired. 

The only real difference is that Texas has raging heat, poisonous critters, and buffalo ranches.

Err, but, hold on a minute…

Bearded Beasts in Belvoir

Bisons in the vale of BelvoirOh yes. There is bison in the Vale of Belvoir. 

 Buffalo? Bison? what’s the difference? As far as I can tell, those with bearded wisdom live here.

The BouverieWelcome to ‘The Bouverie’. This is French for cowshed. Bouverie sounds better than cowshed just like Belvoir sounds better than beautiful view. There’s a lot of pomposity in areas voted up by The Sunday Times. 

I didn’t know if Ruth was the chief bison or the owner, so I put my Vale of Behaviour in place and entered the classy cowshed.

Deal of the day for under a tenner! And with a proper fire going. You can’t knock that for an A -list area.  They could have doubled that since being in Blighty’s best tabloid. Total respect.

Still maintaining rustic charm, the porcelain was outside in a decorated shipping container. With a piano.  As my mother sat on the throne tinkling, I tinkled “God Save The Queen” on the old ivories. There aren’t many places you can do that.  But you can in the Vale of Belvoir.

Before It Gets Too Cheesy

What do you need on your bison burger? Cheese. A few miles down the road and there we were at the Long Clawson Dairy, the home of specialty Stilton. Inside they had endless cheeses in waxed coats at half the price of Sainsbury’s.  I think I bought one for every day of the week.

And to go with the famous pork pie from Melton Mowbray, in the very heart of the Vale of Belvoir.

And, if you want to live in the Vale of Belvoir, where bison run free and there’s cheese aplenty, you can reside in this rather lovely Georgian house. Don’t mind if I do.

Then, after a day full of wonder, it was time to tootle back to the village.

Where on the roadside, outside another rather spectacular house, stood a little trolley full of homegrown plants. Each with a colorfully printed out description sheet.

“How do you pay for these?’ I asked my mother, what with it being her village and all. “Do I go and knock them up?”

“Goodness, no! There’s an honesty box!

That’d last about 3.2 minutes in a town. On a good day.

“Oh, that’s nice. Do you always do that here?’

“Yes. Except I owe the last place I took plants from about £7.50… for the tulips, that I had a year and a half ago.”

*Gasp*

There’s trash in the Vale. I’m calling the Sunday Times.

 

 

Genghis Khan And So Can I

April 12, 2019 8:52am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 17 Comments

“Time Waits For No One”

It all started with Mongolia. And I don’t mean Genghis Khan.  

After watching “The Grand Tour”, which is one of my favourite programmes, the finalé had the trio building their own car and driving across the Gobi desert. I was awestruck by the stunning scenery in Mongolia: vast open skies, rugged beauty, more wild horses than people, and when there were people, they were living a simple life and seemingly unaffected by the modern world and all its vices. 

The itch was frantic.

I’ve sat still and not been anywhere for 6 whole months.  No wonder I’m fretting about losing my feet!  The answer to all my problems is to travel. I just can’t be in the same place for this long without insanity setting in. Mongolia cured my madness.

Unfortunately, holidays to Mongolia are fairly expensive and if you’re going to go there then you have to pull in China and then maybe a bit of a rest in Thailand before heading home. This makes it a lot more expensive. This is a trip that needs attention, time, and a bit of a lot of saving up. 

But you can’t have an idea like that and not sate it with something else. That’s just not fair. 

Fortuitously, Ryanair sent me an email about reduced plane prices and I took this as a sign to make a bold move out of Blighty and into unknown territory!  Time to conquer!

I sat myself down and decided I would not move until I had found some little place that had yet to make my acquaintance!

And here’s what happened:

Scandinavian Scandal

In May I am going to Copenhagen, Denmark. #CopenMAYgen

All great storytellers go here and maybe I will come back with renewed imagination and be able to reel off my own version of a Hans Christian Anderson fable.  Inspired by a Smørrebrød (basically a Ploughmans lunch) washed down with the local Carlsberg, how can I possibly fail?  They say it’s the happiest place on earth, which is a little bit presumptuous because they haven’t met me yet. 

Spaghetti Western

In June I am going to Genoa – Liguria, Italy. #Juneoa

The birthplace of the great explorer and colonist, Christopher Columbus. Inspired by this traveller I will be able to navigate the wonders of my future whilst nibbling on the famous focaccia and pesto, washed down with a glass of Cinque Terre whilst watching a sunset resting on the harbour waters. Ligurious!

Musical Mayhem

In July I am going to Vienna, Austria. #TheLastWaltz

Apparently, the Austrians are very precious about their sausages. But surprisingly, I’m after their cake and coffee.  It’s also the worlds number one city to live in and steeped in class and culture.  This will be the rounding off I need; the finishing school of trips before I return to the Motherland, renewed, refreshed and raring to go!

But now I’ve talked the talk, can I…

Walk The Walk

I went out for a celebration with a few of my friends t’other night and told them that I felt the need to book all these trips in case my feet dropped off. One of the posse is a GP and there’s no point having a doctor as a friend without abusing the situation.  After checking my bare feet at the dinner table (total class) he informed me that my pulse is exceptionally strong and I might just be OK. 

Time to get the ole bewwwts on! 

 

Food For Thought

April 4, 2019 2:27pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 16 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday On A Thursday!

They say it takes three weeks to form or break a habit so I thought I’d better get back on here before I got lost in the ether and ruined your lives forever.

Thing is, I’ve had very little to tell you as adventures have been put on the back shelf whilst I get on with pressing responsibilities. Yawn.

Recalcitrant Reptile

Uromastyx after bath

As usual, I could keep you abreast of Kevin, a fallback for all great bloggers, but unfortunately, he’s having a meltdown. After a couple of incidents with him becoming impacted, I decided heat may be a factor. I spent a fortune on a new vivarium that housed a better lamp. Then there was the task of moving him downstairs because, being the excellent Mother of Dragon that I am, I bought a bigger unit. This also meant I had to find a suitable place with room, remove a beautiful, antique Victorian writing desk, not to mention getting involved in a road-rage incident where I nearly broke my toe, and visit every single furniture shop to find the appropriately sized table to put it on.

And what does Kevin do? He goes insane. 

He spent a week on hunger strike and refused to use his house, preferring instead to bury himself like an ostrich in a corner. The lizard will not grace me with his presence and darts away every time I come within 6 feet of his viv. How dramatic.

The last year and a half of my efforts – hand feeding, singing to him, bathing him and teaching him how to be cool are all ruined.  Kevin hates me.

Yet again, I had to spend more time reading up on the contrary Uromastyx only to find out that they don’t like change and you must wait it out. 

Personally, I think Kevin is spoilt and ungrateful.

I’ve considered changing this blog to one concentrating on lizard husbandry since this is now my life. I could easily become the go-to person on the Moroccan Uro, probably get paid handsomely for this information, and get a job managing a reptile centre instead of taking pictures of farm animals, travelling to countries, or writing about flim-flam.  

Don’t Be A Sheep

Lambs in pasture in England

Had I been a prolific blogger, I could have delighted you with the recent pictures I took of lambs, because evidently, I have become one of those gushy people who put cute and fluffy animals on their social media accounts. Lambs are so delightful that I can’t even eat them. I’m not a massive fan of the meat to be fair, which helps, but give the thing a minute to live before you get it on the menu! I’ve got to stop looking at baby farm animals or I’m going to starve.

 As you can see in the photo we have here a lamb sprayed with number 68. One of my friends asked where number 69 was. Naturally. I went back to have a look and couldn’t find it anywhere because clearly it was a sitting duck for the village deviant and had been snaffled away for nefarious purposes. Another reason not to eat lamb. 

On Sunday I watched the TV show, Countryfile and they’ve gone and put me right off chicken because of the shite they eat and the toxins in their feed. That’s KFC up the spout. I’m on the verge of becoming a vegetarian, except I only like peas. 

Sugar Coated Lies

Last night I watched the first episode of a series about what we eat and how we are all killing ourselves. My God, it was terrifying. There’s so much sugar in our food it’s obscene and basically, the supermarkets are deliberately trying to kill us.  

Let’s take cereals. You may as well take the sugar caddy and tip it into your gob.  Stressed by this, I paused the show and went to analyse my Bran Flakes. Yes, Bran Flakes. The breakfast dish that has recently become a healthy option in place of my much-loved bacon bagel. 

Bran Flakes. There can’t be any sugar in those because it’s like eating cardboard. I know that there’s no sugar in them because I have to sprinkle a teaspoon on top in order to get through the ordeal without crying.  

I read the packet. FOURTEEN grams of sugar per serving.  You vicious, evil, lying, nasty, heart-attack inducing little cereal.

There are only eleven grams of sugar in a bloody margarita and I closed that avenue of pleasure off. It’s no wonder my personality has been sucked dry.

Based on the fact we should only have 30 grams of sugar a day, this inedible, falsifying flake takes up nearly half of my quota.  I then decided to weigh a teaspoon of sugar to see what that was. SEVEN grams. I nearly had a sugar-induced stroke.

TWENTY-ONE  grams of sugar consumed in the most unappetising breakfast bowl ever, and I believed eating it would make me look banging in my skinny jeans. Total lie. 

Ten thirty at night, atrociously upset and ready to sue Bran Flakes, I went late night shopping to buy new cereal. The only one I could find with a trace of sugar was Shredded Wheat. Ian Botham was right all along.

I went to bed slightly comforted by the fact that the Bran Flakes were sweating in my pantry and I could feed them to the birds in the morning. But, I couldn’t get to sleep. Hours I lay in my bed worrying about the damage I’d done to myself over the years and what life would be like if I had to have my feet chopped off.  

Ice cream or nice shoes?  It’s a real dilemma. 

Jules Duels With The Growlers

March 13, 2019 9:22am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 18 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Do you know what? Sometimes everything gets right on my nerves. I feel like I’m permanently on the edge of going a bit psycho. I looked up the symptoms of a nervous breakdown and it appears I’ve been having one for about 25 years.  

There’s no real reason for this other than my own inability to just be. And refuse to accept that ‘This is the way things are’ or, refuse to ‘Do things the conventional way’ or to accept that ‘You just can’t change some things.’

Can’t do it. 

Is this because I have a vagina?

The Monologues

As fortune would have it, one of my friends was directing this old favourite at my local, small-town theatre and suggested I come and see it one night. I didn’t know if I’d cope very well with the material but decided it would be an experience. I’m always a bit dubious of anything pro-feminist that could have no basis in real feminism whatsoever. This vaginal-venture would either make me even more recalcitrant or cure me of my present unnecessary hysteria. It’s a bit like trying goat yoga – you just don’t know if you’re overstepping boundaries or opening new doors. 

I bought two tickets and then contemplated at length which friend I’d take with me. I have an eclectic range of pals and it had to be someone who would give me a rational and sound opinion of the show afterward in case it did my head in. After some careful consideration, I chose a very right-wing businesswoman who is gay but hates lesbians. I figured this was as balanced as I was going to get and would provide me with fair insight. 

“Do you think they’ll say the C word?” she asked.

“What? Clitoris?” 

“No! The real one!” 

“I don’t know, but the way I’m feeling of late, I might.”

Coochie Snorcher

Was one of the words used to name the vagina which I found quite playful. I think Victoria’s Secret or Anne Summers should produce a line of exotic panties and call them this as it sounds rebellious, fancy, and a little bit filthy which might appeal to guys.

“Oi, darlin’, ya got those Coochie Snorchers on tonight, eh eh?” 

I can hear that line going down at the pub after a few pints to some fair game.  If you made them edible and taste like bacon you’d be on to a winner.  

Just a thought.

Another part of the show that I found amusing was this: 

“The clitoris is simply a bundle of nerves: 8,000 nerve fibres, to be precise. That is twice…twice…twice the number in the penis. Who needs a handgun when you’ve got a semiautomatic”

Parts of the evening made me dreadfully uncomfortable and I had to take my cardigan on and off a few times when I got hot and bothered; and not in a good way. Some of it was very funny, and some of it sad and moving. But mostly, it was weirdly interesting.

Did I enjoy it, is the question…

The friend who directed the show asked me this and my reply was, “I think it’s made me much more vagina confident.” 

Which is true. I would never say that word out loud before but now I’m doing it on purpose, randomly, because it makes people flinch. I find that being obnoxious and inappropriate is helping a lot with my irritability. 

International Women’s Day

This came up on the same week. Again, not something I pay attention to but I’m currently acknowledging “Special Days” for a marketing project and this was one of them. However, it has to be said that some kind of magical unity takes place on this day between women that doesn’t usually.

Women, in my opinion, tend to fail each other on so many levels. A woman is the first to judge you on your appearance, the first to find your insecurities, the least likely to support your endeavours or like your profile pic, the first to bag your bloke, and the first to call you names behind your back and kiss you on the cheek with the same bitter lips moments after.  It’s called biological competition.  And this has, and will, continue to happen to all women, at some time. 

Unless, of course, it’s your female besties or family who will protect you with a sisterhood that knows no fear or bounds when necessary. Although, they will still have committed one or more of the above sins at some point because we are all a bunch of insecure bitches. It baffles me and yet I understand why it happens. 

But, on International Women’s Day, the support is palpable. Truly. 

The following day, it’s all over and we revert to type: Sally will be telling Tracey that Sarah looks a slut in her new top from Zara that she’s too fat for and, oh-by-the-way, it totally doesn’t match her inferior lipstick. 

Men do not behave like this with each other.  

Nor do they wear lipstick.

Or have vaginas. 

Sit Your Chirper on the Chair, Chicken!

Still feeling somewhat fractious after my long week of bedlam, bitches, and beavers, I decided to go out for a coffee yesterday morning to meet some work colleagues. Sara Blizzard (our local BBC weatherwoman) had just wound me up with more news of hail/snow/sleet/rain/and 70 MPH winds all in the space of a day. The fact her surname is Blizzard and she’s a weather girl makes me smile and want to puke at the same time. That’s an example of a  woman taking the easy road and not trying to think outside the box.  

I got blown into Costa Coffee by the ferocious wind and found my posse already doing the crossword at a table.

I put my wet, cold finger on the puzzle grid and said, 

1 Across: LOSERS

2 Down: ENEMIES

3 Across: VAH – GYYYYYYYY -NAH!

“Sit down! What do you want to drink?”

“Something strong, dark and masculine. But with a touch of sprinkle. I need to find balance before I tip over.  I’m on the flippin’ edge today, AGAIN! I don’t know what’s up with me but one more thing and it’s going to get proper nasty. I can tell.” 

A few minutes later, warming up nicely with a group of sensible, level headed people, and a coffee away from the throng of madness, I started to feel a bit better. Quietly and systematically we began to complete the puzzle in the paper and discuss upcoming projects.  Nice. Pleasant. Soothing. Right up until a woman at a table next to us kept getting up and down like her arse was on fire.  

Up down, up down, up down.  

I looked over at her. She seemed like a regular sort but obviously wasn’t.  

I looked at my group.

“Just leave it alone,” someone said.

I tried. Really hard. But through my peripheral vision, I could see her Jack-in-the-box-ing constantly and it started to irk the hell out of me. A visceral dislike took hold.

“Somebody make her stop cos if she gets up again I’m going to take her chair away and then pin her to the floor with it.” 

Thank God, because He saved her life. In that very second, as my friends took my hands, very tightly I might add, the Tigger in tights was greeted by her pal rushing in. 

“Sorry I’m late, traffic was a nightmare!”

So’s your friend… I whispered. I WHISPERED. OK?!

“Oh, I’ve been up and down looking for you because I left my phone at home…”

and brain…. I whispered.

“And didn’t want to think I’d missed you, missed a call or a text….”

or missed your seat, oops too late …I whispered.

 “Now we can relax and have a coffee!” she giggled.

And then I noticed her name. Written on her cup.  Written in bold, black ink by the resident barista. It was like Karma was mocking me. You’ll never guess what it was.  Never.  

“GINA”

If only I’d had a Sharpie pen….

You Say Tomato, I Say Something Else

February 27, 2019 12:40pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 14 Comments

River scene with water depth

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On Wednesday!

Early this morning I decided I wasn’t going to write a blog post because I didn’t really have anything whimsical to talk about.  The weather is so glorious that I’ve been making the most of it by spending quality time outside. Today is apparently the last day of sunshine before a cold front wafts in from the Atlantic and puts pay to any dreams of drinking Pimms in the garden at the weekend, so I chose to give whimsy a miss and head out early to a beautiful village for breakfast. 

Flashy Trips and Traps

This particular village is known for its abject snobbery and allegedly boasts more millionaires per capita than any other place in the UK. I like to go and lower the tone a bit and marvel at the things the villagers give away to charity shops because they don’t know how to wash, sew or mend. 

I jumped in my car and drove down the beautiful country roads as the sun sparkled through the semi-clad, blossomed branches.  It’s at times like this that you wish you’d remembered to locate your sunglasses that are somewhere at a bottom of a scuzzy beach bag from last years holiday. Couldn’t see a bloody thing which is somewhat dangerous as everybody and his sodding bike were out pretending to be fit and healthy. And, it seems to be that at every twist and turn in the road, the sun hits you from the side like someone switching a light on and off at rapid speed and you wonder if this is the day you get an attack of epilepsy and die. 

Don’t Go Green

I turned on the radio as I hit the bypass to find it was question and answer time. This is something I’ve never heard before because I’ve usually got my tunes on, but blind and beset with straggling cyclists meant two hands were needed on the wheel and fishing for my Spotify playlist was not an option.  I listened as the presenter read out obscure questions from The Great British Public that were answered by the resident radio panel who clearly don’t get out enough.  

“Why do we have so much snot?” asked some bright spark.

Seriously?  

Obviously, I had to hear the answer to such a ridiculous question though I wish I hadn’t.  Into great detail they went about the wonders of mucus, how the nose acts as a humidifier and why green snot is actually as healthy as the contents of a bottle of Yakult.  I wanted to throw up and wished the shittiest day ever on the person who had sent this question in and killed any notion of me having the breakfast Deli Stack. Ripe green avocado and runny egg rapidly lost its appeal. 

Deli – Ware

I arrived at the fabulous little delicatessen on the cobbled street and went inside. The place is very small with rickety old wooden furniture and eclectic china teacups. Endearing in that quirky British way but a pain in the arse when your teapot falls over because the table is wonky.  I ordered some crispy pancetta with vine tomatoes on sourdough and sat at the nearest available table adorned with a couple of fresh cut flowers in an old milk bottle and a collection of sugar lumps in a Victorian china bowl. All very pleasant apart from the pair of women sat next to me.  I don’t know what it is about some people that makes them think that everyone in the room wants to hear what they’re saying.  We don’t.  Especially when it’s in a whiny, stuck-up, affected tone – the kind you might save for meeting someone’s parents or for pretending you’re smarter than you really are, except they talk like that all the time.  And you want to hit them with a bat. 

Then another one of their village friends popped into the shop to pre-order some sandwiches for lunch because people here don’t do common tasks like this on their own. 

“Oh, darling!  You look so well!” one of them declared to the woman who had entered in white slacks, boating shoes, a French striped t-shirt and a hand-crafted, leather satchel hanging from her shoulder. “I thought you were still away!”

“Oh, hello, darling. Just back and ever so busy as we’re having our website re-designed today and  the photographers are coming.”

“Oh, such fun!  Where was it you went away to?”

“Ski-ing, in the French Alps. The five-star chalet was superb and we had an absolute blast!”

No. No, you didn’t. You can’t even make a bunch of sarnies, you lightweight. 

To make matters worse the pair beside me were planning a trip to London online from their crystal embellished smartphones and were baffled as to why the ticket price was £44 but doubled at the basket checkout for a return.  It took ages for them to figure this out and I very nearly snatched the phone from them and paid it myself in the hope that they’d sod off. 

The waitress brought my breakfast plate and laid it before me. “Any sauce?”

“No thanks.  Very acidic today.”

I tried to concentrate on my food but their loud and irritating voices continued to reach new heights setting all my nerves on edge.  I cut into one of the fancy baby tomatoes that were still on the vine a little too harshly and the damn thing exploded covering my brand new white shirt in tomato juice and seeds.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I exclaimed loudly.  

And that was it.  Silence.  Breakfast in peace.  That was all I had to say. 

National Love Your Pet Day

February 20, 2019 4:31pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 24 Comments

 

Picture of a Uromastyx on a film set

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

If you want a pet then get a gerbil. Or a cat. Even a zebra. Because having a lizard is a lot more complicated than it might seem. Especially if you own one that is the future guardian of the planet. There’s a lot of stress that comes with that level of responsibility.

Loving Your Pet

Uromastyx lizard

If anyone should win an award for this day then it’s me. On Friday night when everybody else was out revelling, I sat in front of my laptop on lizard forums. For hours.

Why?

Because I need to get a life. I used to have one before Kevin.

Thing is, Kevin, I noticed, hadn’t had a poo for a month. At first, I thought this was because of brumation which is a bit like hibernating but not. A better word might be lazy. He will sleep for four days and maybe come out for one.  A lot more lethargy is at play during the winter months. Sometimes he eats, sometimes he can’t even be arsed to do that, and will just stick his head out of his cave for twenty minutes and then sod off back to bed. We are currently working on his social skills.  

A lizard like godzilla

I noticed his tummy getting fatter and very firm and figured that this wasn’t right. But what do I know?  Despite reading a book on his kind, I’m new to this lizard game. He could be dehydrated, right?  But how do you bloody well deal with that when my type of lizard doesn’t drink water?!  Seriously. When I first heard this fact I had to go and triple check because what kind of animal doesn’t drink?  

Kevins’ get their water from their leafy green food.  Water can kill them and cause respiratory failure. Dear. God. Honestly, it’s such a complex never-ending labyrinth of husbandry that you need a degree in Lizzy Lingo. 

Lizard Needs To Lose His Lunch

Lizard post apocalyptic

I eventually found out that a lizard not defecating after a week is very serious. A lot of them die from impaction.  

Kevin cannot die. 

Not only do I take animal welfare very seriously, but I also love that little lizard. 

Taking him to the vet wasn’t really an option because not many vets deal with exotic pets. Maybe if you had a snake or a bearded dragon you might be OK but there aren’t many that deal with the rare and complicated Uromastyx. Course not. Besides, how is a vet going to make a lizard take a dump? 

I spent hours talking to various breeders, exotic pet specialists, and vets via the chat function on “I own a crazy pet” sites and the conclusion was this:

Change his sandy floor for birdseed ( no sunflower or oil seeds – sigh) because sand, even though he’s from the desert and that’s what they tell you to use, causes impaction if digested.  And bath him.

Bath. Him. 

A Crash Course In Lizardry

Lizard in front of a building

Have you ever bathed a lizard? Not that kind…

I hardly slept the night before worrying myself sick and got up several hours before the pet shop opened. By 9.22 am I had been to several shops because of, don’t even get me started, the many variations of sodding bird seed.  

And, how stupidly expensive it is if it’s to look like a shale beach in Kevin’s Kingdom!

Then a suitable Tupperware container was found and filled with warm water (hand hot – very specific)  ready to bath him.

For starters, I had to wake him up. He really doesn’t take kindly to that and if a Uromastyx tail sideswipes you, you bleed. I had his tub ready on my office table with an infrared heat lamp above it because the temperature is key. I used to have a normal lamp like regular people. One with an everyday 60-watt bulb in for reading, but not anymore. Kevin is a life changer. 

Kevin wasn’t impressed about having a bath and instantly tried to drown himself by sticking his head under water. That’s really useful considering the Uromastyx water issue. For the love of God.

Then he kept trying to leap out. A suicidal- drowning- frantic- leaping lizard.  I can’t begin to tell you how insanely difficult this exercise was.  

“Gently rub your lizard’s flanks as you bathe him in warm water for at least half an hour” quoted somebody who has never, EVER bathed a lizard. 

Kevin then went into his carrying box under heat whilst his vivarium sand got removed and replaced with bird seed. Once all good and ready, I moved him to his basking spot in his house because, despite all this effort, nothing had happened. 

And what did he do? He began to eat his floor.  Brilliant. It’s a bit like changing a kids bedroom carpet for Skittles. The last thing I wanted him to do was to eat even more food in a big fat belly with no room. 

The Kingdom is Saved

Uromastyx on a film set with fire

And then… 

I’ve never seen anything like it. I kid you not. 

Kevin gave birth to a shit the size of a baby lizard. How he didn’t rip himself in half I’ll never know. 

But I did it. I saved Kevin. And you can all rest easy. 

Mother of Dragon

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