One of Those Weeks Awards

Many thanks from Cornish Dreamer for these awards which have made my week.
Rather than nominate anyone in particular, please take them – you all deserve them!

It's been One of Those Weeks. I've been more hormonal than usual which has left me feeling exhausted and ratty. This means that maintaining any enthusiasm in my novel has been oh so difficult. I can't concentrate, and wish I could fast forward to The End, having somehow done all those tricky bits that require thought processes.

Today was typical of this week. We're walking Annie, an Old English Sheepdog belonging to a neighbour who's on holiday. Himself put Moll into the front of our van, while I fetched Annie and put her in the back (a bit of separation is necessary as the dogs go mad). On the way to the beach, Annie started howling as she does every morning – well, it's a cross between a howl and a sing which I'm sure is tuneful in dog language but painful to human ears. Then of course Moll started singing to keep her company. By the time we got to the beach it was raining. Tipped out dogs and spent the next 5 minutes clearing up dog poo and placing in suitable bins.

Himself looked in amazement at the amount Annie created and said, “I've never SEEN a dog who could c**p so much. No wonder she makes such a noise in the car.”

After 15 minutes of walking, the heavens opened. I was wearing waterproof trousers but Himself wasn't so you can imagine how pleased he was. We headed towards the cafe with two wet dogs to shelter. It stopped a bit so we continued to walk and try and dry the dogs out. Got back home in time to unload dogs and Himself had to pick up a carpet cleaner for upstairs tenants.

Came back and I tried to print off rest of manuscript for someone to read. Paper jam. Fixed that. Brand new printer cartridge then ran out of ink after18 pages. I think you can guess my reaction. Finally fixed that –

And now I've got toothache, having spent a large amount of money at the hygienist on Monday. Had to go to my NHS dentist who said, “oh yes, your face is all swollen.” You can tell how often I look in the mirror.

On the plus side, he put in one of those periochip things (rather than antibiotics), and didn't charge me. He is also VERY good looking, so at least I could indulge in some outrageous fantasies while lying there being tortured.

So you can see why those awards are so cheering.

I think this calls for some drastic action. It could be a time to buy the DVD of Mamma Mia (reduced to £7 in a well known supermarket near me) and watch it, non-stop, all weekend. By Monday I'll be crazy, but I won't care.

Annie and Toenails

On Thursday we go and collect Annie, an Old English Sheepdog who belongs to a friend of ours down the road. The indomitable 82 year old Betty, Annie’s owner, is going on a cruise for three weeks and rather misguidedly, at Christmas time I volunteered to walk Annie in the mornings. (Betty’s son is staying in her house while she’s away to look after Annie but being a breakfast chef he starts work at 6am so can’t do that shift.)

I’m rather wishing I’d kept my trap shut to be honest. Annie’s a darling but it is quite a responsibility looking after someone else’s dog – what if she was ill or ran away (God forbid)?

I’m sure nothing will go wrong but note to self. Think before opening mouth. Some hope.

On Saturday we were walking down the High Street and passed the barber’s shop. The shop next door to him has been empty for a while and now looks as if someone’s about to set up a new establishment.

“It could be the barber’s wife,” said Himself. “She does toenails and that sort of thing.”

When I’d finished hiccuping from laughter, I said, “toenails? You mean manicurist?’

He grunted and strode forth. “Manicurist?” he said. “You expect me to be able to say that at this time of the morning? Toenails is bad enough.”

I was laughing so much by this time I could hardly breathe, but managed to say, “I don’t think you’d get many customers if you advertised as Doing Toenails.”

“Don’t see why not,” he said, undeterred. “Manicurist sounds a bit bloody snooty.”

So there you go. Remind me never to ask my husband to become my publicist.