Albert Stanley Fletcher

Today the dog turns 1. We've had him for just under 9 months now and the time seems to have flown by but at the same time it seems an awfully long time since I was in the weeping on the kitchen floor wondering what the fuck I'd done stage of dog ownership. He was given a fitting middle name and surname in the early days. I thought he was a horror but from talking to other dog owners, he was just a puppy and I wasn't prepared for it, as you'll know if you heard my woes back in March. Don't get me wrong, he's still an absolute horror when he wants to be. He has a personality and in a way that's nice, but in another way it's not, because he has a similar personality to me. He's a stubborn little fuck. He's aloof, he pretends he can't hear you, he has to have the last word when he's told off for barking at nothing in the garden and if you don't comply with his demand to play with him he'll bark in your face. But he's also a good dog and he's very patient considering he's often being swept up in mine or Mr T's arms for an enforced cuddle. Now, if we can just train his obsession with wool out of him - he cannot bear the idea that I might want to crochet or do some knitting - and stop him chasing us down the hall when we're leaving the house, biting on our sleeves, snapping over the baby gate, then he'll be a pretty awesome dog. 

Here's a blurred picture of him modelling a short snood while Mr T is playing with his feet, he was surprisingly sedate when I put this on him, he lasted a few minutes before he realised it was wool and then went absolutely loopy over it, because that's what he does. 

Is he going to report us to Paul O'Grady for not buying him a birthday present? Or for putting a snood on him?

Overheard in the waiting room

Remember in the last post I said I had a day off in the middle of the week? Well, I did. Mr T was off to an MRI appointment and I went with him. I sat in the waiting room while he went off to a truck in the car park to have his bones looked at.

I took a seat near the door, the second seat in the row, the first was too close to the phlebotomy room and I felt awkward, what with me not being an actual patient. A woman in her 20s walked in and stood near the door, a nurse poked her head round and told her that she should take a seat and wait till someone was free. The woman said "there's no seats, I'll just stand". I looked up from my kindle, a cursory glance around the room told me 14 seats were free.

At the far end of the room was a help desk, there was a lady sitting behind it, sorting books into boxes.

A tall man lolloped in, head down, walking towards the help desk, the laces on one of his Doc Marten shoes were undone. The lady at the desk informs him of this. He shows her a letter and she tells him which corridor to go down, ending with "when you've done that" gesturing towards his laces. She's not going to let him go until he's crouched down and tied his laces, this place doesn't have an A&E department.

Earwigging

There's a man and a woman walking along the prom, at about the same speed as us so they stick around just long enough to hear the best bits of their conversation. He says something about "the Italian stallion in JD" naturally my ears prick up at this, a) because I can't help but earwig on something that starts with a phrase like that and b) because I finally might have something to say here. The man goes on to describe how he got the impression that "he's looked after himself all his life" - this Italian man sounds quite the catch. "I almost chased after him and asked what his aftershave was". He sounds utterly smitten. His companion didn't have much to say in about it. I'm not sure she was even listening to him, if she was she'd have probably asked more about it, instead she said that the night before she'd answered the door to someone, who hadn't recognised her. The woman had been all dressed up, so she said, the man responded to this story with "well, you looked gorgeous", then they passed us and I never got to hear the rest of the conversation. The way he said it, of course she was unrecognisable, she never normally looks passable let alone gorgeous. I can only imagine she asked what he meant by that, didn't she always look gorgeous? I bet she didn't talk to him for the rest of the day, I wouldn't. Then again, I take compliments meant for my dog and pretend they were aimed at me, I am nobody to judge.

Another pairing, a man and a woman cycling towards us, I caught a snippet of their conversation I half wish I knew the context of and half wish I didn't because I think I'm happier not knowing where it stems from, it's funnier that way. 

Man to woman:...look like you're having an orgasm

Builder's lad

A white van pulls up outside a greasy spoon, it's not yet 9am, they're going for their pre-work artery toughening and tea. 

He gets out of the passenger side, he's wearing jogging bottoms and a tshirt. He shuts the door behind him and makes his way to the pavement round the back of the van. He wedges a tabloid under his arm. Every day he goes out for a full English before he sets to work, every day he downs gallons of strong tea, not much milk, plenty of sugar but he doesn't do that every day, not really. He looks awkward, he's too slight and too clean for this line of work.  Later on someone will contemplate sending him out for a long stand, just to see if he'll fall for it. His dad gets out of the other side of the van and leads him into the cafe so he can learn at least one important lesson during his unofficial work experience over the summer holidays.

Bump

Over the weekend someone forgot that he lived on a hill. Someone forgot that he needed to apply his handbrake. Someone's car rolled down the road into the back of my car. Our next door neighbours rang to let us know, we were on our first day out in absolutely ages. Days out used to be the thing we did the most but they've been few and far between lately. We rushed home to see what had gone on. The car that had rolled into mine had gone and it would be 4 hours before it (and the driver) returned.  It's not a new car by any means, but it's newish to me, I've only had it since February. It's not that bad, it's driveable but it's got a sizeable dent in the back wing and the bumper. I'm still disappointed, not just over the car but having to cut short a day out. We'd just arrived, it was a steam fair (boring, yes), we did a lap of the field taking cursory glances at steam engines but making a beeline for the toilets, then we looked at some cars and that's when the call came. We effectively paid £16 to piss in a portaloo. 

Tour de Gym

Last week I was collared by one of the gym instructors, "you're just the person I need".* He wanted me to sign up to a challenge that's been set across all the council's leisure centres. All I needed to do was agree to try and cover as much of the distance covered by the cyclists in the Tour de France over the same period, using the cardio equipment in the gym. The course is 3,656km. Whoever gets the closest to the distance wins £50 in sports vouchers, three runners up get £25. 

For me this is good, I am in one of my gym lulls at the moment, despite an expanding belly I seem to be struggling with the motivation. After 9 years of going to the gym most week nights I am a bit bored of it, fed up of having to suffer this to not get as fat as I once was. Doing this challenge will appeal to my compulsive side and I won't want to miss a regular gym day for the next duration. I won't win, I won't come close to winning. One week (this week), I have to get home to see to the dog so can't spend as long in the gym as I'd like to so that's a fair few kilometres knocked off my distance. The other reason is that while I was being coerced into this, a man standing next to me told me not to bother because he was definitely going to win. I have a distinct feeling that he is correct, he is going to win this by a mile, or a lot of miles, actually. 

The challenge started on Saturday, I don't go to the gym at the weekends (unless I'm in a bad way with my mind) so I started on Monday, I've lost two days already. It doesn't matter, two days won't make a difference because Mr Competitive has got this. On Monday I covered 12km, not great but not horrendous. Well, it was pretty bad because the second part of my workout was on the x-trainer, Mr Competitive was on the next machine. He was pedalling away and when he finished, I glanced over to see how far he'd gone. 49.97km. I told you he'd got this. 

Oh and don't get me started on that number. He didn't seem bothered but I cannot comprehend how he's stopped at that number. Why not take it to a round 50km? If the machine's gone off, start it up again, do another .03km, get that last bit in. If it was me, I'd have to carry on till 50.05km, but 50km would have done, it's better than 49.97km anyway. 

In three weeks time I won't be a winner, I won't even be a runner up, as I've managed, 12km and then 15km over two days this week, but I will have stuck to something for the first time in a while. 

In three weeks time I am going to ask Mr Competitive what exactly is a sports voucher. 

*he was definitely saying this to everyone who came in that day, the staff at the centre who sign the most people up get a reward

Long Time, No Blog

Since I last posted  

I have become engaged in a monumental battle of wills with an impossibly stubborn terrier. I read over the blog I posted just after we got him, he's still doing pretty much everything I mentioned, except he is house trained, but either I've got used to it or he's not as bad as he was. He's really growing up, all of a sudden, he's changing into a proper dog. It's a good job he's adorable because his bloody mindedness is an absolute bastard to contend with. You may think that it's ridiculous to claim a dog can be stubborn, if you do, you've not met him. If he's busy doing something woe betide anyone who wants him to not do it, particularly digging in the sofa.  He went through a phase, in mid-June where he would sit down mid walk, or sometimes just after we'd left the house and try as you might nothing would tempt him to carry on walking. You could shove handfuls of cooked meat in his face, he'd turn his head. You could run on ahead so that he'd chase you, he would root himself to the spot. I have never been so frustrated in all my life. Also, do you know how daft you look carrying a dog along the prom, with the dog, head held high in the air, looking around him as if to say "oh the view up here is really nice, actually"? The answer is really fucking daft. Actually, I have things to say about fellow dog walkers but I will save that for another time. 

I have played tourist near my house, my good friend came to visit from London, we did a tour of a little village and the art gallery in the village, we went shopping and then drove along the seaside back to mine. It was quite the tour. 

I have played tourist in London with the same friend. As a lot of my friends live there it's rare we do anything tourist-y when I visit. This time was different, we took the tube to The London Dungeons, turned out it'd moved, we walked down to the river with the intention of walking to the new venue. On the way we went to The Clink, a tiny little museum that's a) cheap and b) fun because it's not boring and stuffy nor is it brand new. When we finally got to the dungeons we queued for what felt like an eternity in a dark corridor waiting to be let in. It's the kind of tour with actors and with things jumping out at you. We queued again once we were in, standing in front of a glass tank full of rats. That made me queasy. We went on a ride part way through the tour, we got soaked with really smelly water. At the end we went on another ride, you experience the drop you would fall when being hung. After that we walked to Westminster Abbey, had a look at it, then I got the train home. It sounds like we did nothing but I had a really good day out, I love London the most out of any city. 

I went to a wedding, a christening and a birthday party in one weekend. It was ridiculously busy. The wedding was absolutely lovely, I have more to say on this because the bride looked so good it made me wish I'd had a totally different wedding dress. 

I went to a tattoo convention with my best friend. She was getting tattooed, I was keeping her company. I have absolutely no tattoos, not because I don't like them, I do, they look brilliant. No, my problem is that I can't think of anything I would want on me forever, there is nothing I can think of that I know for sure I would still like in a few years, or even in a few months. Actually, I had a dream over the weekend that I was out with this same friend and I got a tattoo. I hated it, it was a quote right across my right shin, in a horrible font. I remember saying to her "why have I done this?" I kept saying how I'd ruined my legs. 

I watched a strongman event in Stoke where the men were paired up and worked in teams. You're guaranteed a decent day out with strongman. Obviously I am biased because that was my honeymoon but I really do love it. We got to catch up with a friend while we waited for it to start and then when it was over we caught up with other friends (the friend I played tourist with and her husband, one of the competitors) and then had to rush back home to retrieve the dog from Mr T's parents. It's funny, it's like having a child, having to collect it from the baby sitter. 

That's pretty much all I have done that is of any worth. Can you imagine what I've done that is of no worth? Pretty fucking dull. 

That's Albert looking at the curtain I was holding up to stop him trying to tear around the kitchen with it in his mouth, which is one of his current hobbies

I wish I could have a day off

- did you lock the back door?

- did you switch the heating off?

- are your straighteners unplugged?

- is the kettle switched off at the wall?

- have you checked all the chargers are off?

- did you definitely set the burglar alarm?

- did you put the mortice lock on? 

- did you take your keys out of the door?

- did you lock your car? Go back, check the handle just in case, then unlock it and lock it again

I hate my brain. 

In which I wonder what I've done

I'm writing this in a brief break between walking to and from the garden with a restless dog in tow. Albert the wire fox terrier came to live with us on Saturday and he's hard work. Currently fast asleep in his bed at the side of the sofa, I know that if I get up so will he. I knew this would be tough going but despite this I've spent a fair amount of the last few days feeling vastly over whelmed.

During his waking hours we take almost constant trips out to the garden in the freezing cold, he doesn't go to the toilet, he'd rather run round the garden at break neck speed, picking up bits of wood he shouldn't be chewing. I've spent more time than I ever thought possible with my fingers inside his mouth while he tries to bite my fingers, as you would if someone was pulling your clamped jaws open.
I know what he's doing is standard puppy behaviour and exactly what I signed up for when I handed over the envelope of cash to the breeder but still, I can't help but feel like this won't ever end.

The lovely Claire, a Twitter friend, has given me some really great advice about getting him used to bed time, which I think is going to be invaluable as he spends a good deal of the night crying. I don't want to resent him, I'm the human in this situation, it is up to me to train him, to get him into the good habits that will make him a really good dog. It's hard going, really tough.

Complaint over. I'm going to research puppy training classes*



*and dog nappies

ps. There was something else. This whole experience has really brought home to me that I really don't want to have children ever. I'm struggling with the responsibility that comes with a puppy after just a few days, which speaks volumes in terms of becoming a parent and confirming that that is something that really isn't for me.

He's a gent

A Nissan Micra convertible slows to a stop at the pedestrian crossing, it's gleaming silver, driven by an elderly gent. He's got thick white hair and a neat white goatee beard. While the lights are on red he takes a moment to fish a comb out of his suit jacket pocket. A quick glance around and then he's slicking back his hair, one eye on the car in front, the other on his rear view mirror, checking out his reflection. The lights change, he puts the comb back into his pocket and drives away.

Puppy power

Tomorrow is my 32nd birthday but never mind that, we're getting a puppy on 1st March. This will be the most responsibility I have ever had, except that time I had to walk across a road with my friend's baby in my arms. I'm pretty terrified, also excited. We went to meet him last weekend, he's adorable, his breeders are lovely people and the other dogs in the house all have a really nice temperament, they didn't even jump on us when we walked in. 

I'd normally spend my online window shopping time browsing shoes I can't afford, not any more, or at least not this week. No, the last few days I have been investigating puppy toys, treats and beds. I have found him a leopard print bed, perfect.

What have I become? I'm going to be such a dog bore, I know it already.

I'm taking comfort in the fact that I'm not quite as mad as Mr T. I got home from the gym last night to find him setting up an email account for the dog, he's not going to be sending emails, of course, that would be stupid. No, he's got his own email address so that he can have his own Instagram account. I'm not even joking about this. He's already got 29 followers. It's sweet really, to see how excited Mr T is. He was off work on Monday, while he was in Tesco buying wiper blades he also bought Albert (that's what we're going to call him when he comes to us) a ball in the shape of Gnasher, of Denis the Menace fame. 

I may as well move out, I don't think Mr T's going to need me for company once we have Albert living with us. Many a true word said in jest...

Another Saturday, Another Car Salesman

"Look, see, no problems at all" - says the car salesman who took us for a test drive in a car Mr T was considering buying. He was right, there were no problems, not with the car, anyway. Just with him, driving at 60mph down a 30mph street, in an untaxed car, arms raised to show it'd go in a straight line. And then he slammed his foot down on the brakes, stopping just short of the car in front of us. I am not a nervous passenger but I was fucking terrified. 

Before this, we'd had a brief jaunt round the caravan littered gravelled forecourt (this is too grand a term for what it actually was) but it wasn't quite enough for Mr T to get a decent idea of the car. I waited in the passenger seat while he went to ask about trade plates so that he could test it out on the road. Suddenly the salesman had leapt into the car, and quite literally wheel spun us onto the muddy dirt track up to the main road. Oh yeah, he drove *at* a truck reversing around the corner towards us, as well. 

He's bought the car, we're going back next week to collect it and this time we won't need that lunatic to drive us anywhere, which is a great relief

The death of (the relatives of) a (secondhand car) salesman

Mr T and I are sitting in a tiny little office, the wind howling around the building makes the walls shake, I don't know what they're made of but I feel as if at some point soon we won't be in Kansas any more. 

There's a middle aged man opposite us, he's telling us his life story. We're there to negotiate a price on my new car. We find out how many different cars he's driven dangerously fast in around some lanes between his house and his mum's house. He landed in a potato field once. Somehow his wife comes up in conversation, suddenly with no warning he says she died at the age of 29, leukemia. The conversation stops. I glance up at Mr T, he looks back at me, the deceased young bride lingers in the air. Neither of us know what to say. I mutter something, I can't even remember what. Over the course of the rest of the next 20 minutes or so the salesman mentions his dead wife again at least once. I have never been so lost for words my entire life. 

A few days later I arrive at the same little lean-to office to collect my car, this time with my boss who has driven me over there. The salesman, his son and my boss chat about a local golf course and about football, I sit down and wait for them to finish so I can get on with buying my car. My boss notices a picture on the wall and asks if it's John Smith*. "No," comes the reply from the salesman "that's my brother, he died" and again, the conversation stops, there is silence. Boss doesn't know what to say, I don't know what to say, he quickly says something to get rid of the awkward silence, another brief chat and he leaves. 

I make a mental note to tell Mr T when I get home that the salesman has again stopped conversation with a death bombshell, sign some paperwork and drive off in my new car. 

Over a week since the first death bombshell I'm still baffled. Is that a normal thing to do? I can't help but feel it's not but maybe I'm the peculiar one. I just don't know.

*for the sake of a name

I think Sylvia has gone

I picture Sylvia, a frail elderly lady but upbeat, her hair and make up immaculate. As well dressed as she is well spoken. Delicate golden framed glasses. The image I have isn't too dissimilar to my step-grandma, a formidable woman who I thought a lot of. 

I don't know why I think this but a few weeks ago we had a message on the answerphone for Denise. Denise is Sylvia's friend. The message was from a home or a hospice, they needed her to call urgently, we didn't hear the message for a few days. We've not heard from Sylvia in quite a while and we've not heard from the home since the message either. There's something sad about this, about the possibility that she has gone now, we'll never again hear a brief insight into this lady's life. 

I hope the home got hold of Denise in the end. I'd hate for her to not know what had happened to Sylvia.