A dogs life

It was not until during our morning constitutional on part off The Monarchs Way near the George and Dragon at Houghton thinking about Currencies Direct when Banjo began to exhibit signs that he may have taken the hot-sauce-laden bait in the kitchen bin, which, predictably, he had emptied again during the night. He had taken everything else, so when he started snorting, spraying glutinous globules of gob over a wide area, and whimpering, my hopes rose, and for a moment I thought I had hit pay dirt and he had licked off and swallowed the fearsome sauce, but it turned out that his problem was merely a seed burr stuck up his nostril. I was all for ramming it right in to that twisted little brain but I knew that the Nice Lady Decorator would not approve.

I love dogs generally, indeed we have a lovely old springer who is delightful, although now totally deaf, of whom I have a picture today, who would never consider raiding a bin. Sadly, we have been the unlucky recipients of a bad ‘un, although that Nice Lady Decorator continues to wear those rose-tinted spectacles, which seemingly render her incapable of registering that the dog she loves is a fearful thief, a cad and a bounder, with the emphasis on bounder. I am sure that if I were guilty of ten percent of the crimes he commits daily, I would have ben shipped off to Dignitas years ago. Doggy Dignitas, that is the answer.

The lovely Max, the proper dog, taking a nap in the car

I don’t know if you chaps have ever had to provide a urine sample before? Until yesterday, nor had I, and it is physically impossible to collect such a specimen without making a mess as it were. Think of it, one hand to open one’s flies, one hand to ensure correct directional control and one hand to hold the sample tube. Three hands. It does not work, one of these tasks must be trusted to luck. I do not think I am a lucky sort.

So to London last evening on the train for that period of ritual humiliation; Parents Evening. Victoria station is so alluring a 6pm on a damp, cold Wednesday evening in November, in the midst of rush hour, I cannot find the word in my limited vocabulary to describe it. So we arrived at Ashbourne College in Kensington to meet Sprog 2, who was on tenterhooks, rightly so as it transpired. Perhaps I am being a bit harsh, teachers always make you feel guilty about one’s Sprogs’ lack of application, that is their job. All I can say is that Sprog 2’s teachers are doing the most wonderful job. I think that sums it up.

So a couple of glasses of Bordeaux, a couple of pieces of sushi, and we were off to the pub. As that Nice Lady Decorator is on a diet, and so, apparently, am I, she makes unilateral decisions;  “no, we are not hungry”, “No we are not eating tonight”. I had been allowed a zero carb breakfast at 2.30pm and then she expects me to eschew food for the rest of the day. So yes, it all went horribly wrong. I am all for trying to reduce weight, but one low carb meal a day does not work for me, and so, in the absence of a sensible healthy meal, I was forced to order something highly unhealthy and batter strewn late in the evening, because without it, I would have started to digest my intestines. Result? : no progress on the diet and a row.

The Valbonne Monologues goes to the printers this afternoon, after I get back from London. I have invited quotes for the back cover from those dealt with most harshly in the book, but there is a chance today for me to consider other quotes from you, my dear reader. If you want something considered, please post it in the comments section below.

Chris France
@valbonne_News