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.