Talking like Yoda
Hours of endless entertainment here. Well, if you’re my family anyway. Having our dinner last night we started talking about learning Latin. Now being vaguely well brought up, I did Latin at school and I was trying to explain that everything is back to front, like instead of saying ‘the girl is pretty’, Latin comes across like ‘pretty, the girl is’. We thought this sounded a bit like Yoda off Star Wars, so this set us off talking like Yoda all night.
Dinner went something like this:
#2: ‘pepper, I have need of’
#1: ‘pepper, then, shall I pass to you’
#2: ‘thanks, I give to you’
Having caused some mild amusement, the rest of the evening went basically in the same vein. Each Yoda-ism causing much hilarity:
Hubby: ‘Frube, shall you have for pudding’
Later in the lounge:
‘Let one go, the dog has’
Hubby, with hands over the dog’s ears: ‘listen you must not, petal’
And finally:
Me: ‘time, it is, for the cleaning of teeth’
Well, we thought it was funny. Sorry, I mean ‘funny, so it was’.
Refund
Funny things, greyhounds. I’ve never known such a seething mass of contradictions in all my life. In fact, I think they should be prosecuted under the Trades Descriptions Act. Being built for speed, one would think they were always ricocheting off the walls, pulsing with pent up adrenaline. Nope, they’re as lazy as builders on day rates. My treasure can sleep for an eight hour stretch, interrupted only briefly for lunch, a poo and a yawn, before staggering back to bed like she’s put in a full day’s work. Furthermore, being skinny as a rake, you would think they were delicate eaters. Ha, think again. This dog is the hoover of the canine community. That streamlined body can do as much troughing as a dog twice her size, and still ask for seconds. Personality wise, they are renowned for their gentleness and the adoration they bestow on their ‘families’. Hmm..I think B is just getting to the stage when she’s realised her position is permanent, and is starting to have a little bit of fun at our expense, call it ‘testing the boundaries’.
Last night, for example, Hubby and I sat and had a little medicinal one after the boys had gone to bed, entertaining ourselves by watching both the TV and our very silly dog having mad doggy dreams which obviously involved chasing something, as all four paws were twitching in unison. When we decided to go to bed, however, you could see her beginning to realise that this would involve leaving her nice warm bed complete with printed doggy paw prints (for authenticity) and go out into the cold, damp night where she was required to walk on the cold, damp grass. Firstly, she started off pretending not to hear us calling to her. Then, when she realised that we weren’t fooled, just flatly refused to move. No amount of ‘come on B..walkies!’ was going to entice her off her bed. We then tried walking out and turning the light out. This had limited success. She got up off her bed, walked into the hall, looked at the open back door, turned round and went back to bed again. Damn. Realising one of us needed to be behind her to shut the door, we tried it again. Nope, nothing – fast learner eh? We then tried attaching the lead to her collar and pulling, whilst continuing with the encouraging noises (albeit through gritted teeth by now). Short, as I explained to Hubby, of pulling her head off, this was going to achieve very little either. I was tempted to leave the stubborn little maggot, and her full bladder, all night just to teach her a lesson, but worrying that I might wake up to a nice surprise on the floor decided to persevere.
Regrouping, we went in the kitchen in search of treats. This enticed her off her bed (ah yes, she’s familiar with the chink of the biscuit tin) and I quickly darted behind her and shut the door leading back to her bed. Hubby walked backwards towards the back door waving the treat, but as soon as B realised where this was leading, she backed right off, calculating that a biscuit wasn’t worth the cold walk ahead.
By this time I was steaming: ‘for God’s sake, you’re a bloody dog! You’re supposed to enjoy walkies. Get your boney arse out here now, woman’. We both now really wanted to go to bed and the humour of the situation had long since evaporated. We finally settled on getting behind her and shoving her (gently – we’re not that bad) in tiny increments towards the door (Hubby got the rear end – well, he’s the man) and then lifting her paws over the doorstep and, with a final shove, she landed blinking and bewildered in the back garden. Furious at the unfairness of it all, she refused to move from her spot just outside the back door, tail firmly between her legs and ears flat to her head. With what little enthusiasm we had left, Hubby and I set about leaping about on the grass to try and persuade her to come. Finally, when we’d totally given up hope, exhausted every avenue (‘look, we bloody rescued you – show some gratitude’ and taken to standing about in stony silence, she got up, sauntered to the grass and did her canine duty. She then trotted happily to the back door and stood, tail wagging, waiting to be let back in. Nuzzling her soft ears when putting her to bed, I whispered gently: ‘ I can always ask for a refund y’know’
Puff Murder
Ha. I’m in receipt of some rather privileged information. Not one to squeal, obviously, I can’t repeat it. No, honestly it could completely damage someone’s reputation. Oh alright then.: I had a very interesting conversation with the wonderful J from the greyhound rehoming charity. It turns out that she’s fostering a greyhound at home at the moment as she was a bit miserable in the kennels. J confided in me today that said greyhound has not only made herself completely at home, but during a lax moment in the midst of sandwich making at lunchtime today, managed to steal J’s entire piece of cheese when her back was turned. Rumbly tummy aside, J was mortified that for one whose occupation involves dishing out greyhound training advice, indeed it’s a necessity, this was a rather embarrassing turn of events. Don’t worry, J, your secret’s safe with me (oops).
Still, it made me feel better. Madam discovered my make-up bag today and so far I am a powder compact, a blusher brush and a powder puff down. The powder puff, it turns out, was especially tasty and was unlucky enough to be sucked to death – a fate, I’m sure you’ll agree, that should not befall anything bearing the name Chanel. I’m mortified. Oh and I have photographic evidence of this grisly murder just in case you don’t believe me. Prepare to be horrified. Poor puff.
Horsey Shopping
I’m proud to report that collation of the items on the Uniform List from Hell is nearing completion, each section has neat little (or massive, scrawly – depending on the level of frustration) ticks next to it and the last couple of items to need our attention were mostly of an equestrian nature.
The boys are having riding lessons, and not knowing much about a horse, apart from which end is the front and which is the back, leaves me a bit lacking in the necessary knowledge for riding accessories. I do know how to shop though, so we decided on a trip out to the saddlery. This could happen, sadly, when and only when the children got the argument out of the way about who gets to sit in the front:
#1: ‘you did it last time’,
#2: ‘yes, but Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays are your days in the front’,
#1: ‘ah yes, but I swapped you my last Friday for a Sunday morning remember, and that means it must be my turn’
#2: ‘ah but that swap was a shotgun double bagsy diamond bullet forcefield no return for the last time I swapped with you when we took Grandma to the airport’
#1: ‘em no actually, I think you’ll find that it’s a forfeit if an adult sits in the front – you know the rules’
So, half an hour later and with #2 sitting white faced and furious, arms crossed tightly in front of him having lost the argument on some form of legal technicality, we finally set off. The lady at the saddlery, on learning that we were English, that the boys were both having riding lessons and that I didn’t know a bloody thing about it, saw big pound (or should that be Euro) signs in front of her eyes. You could practically hear the little kerching! noise. Completely oblivious to this, and obviously having inherited their mother’s love of buying things that you can’t afford (‘it’s cost per wear that matters’ is my mantra), the boys headed off to the changing rooms, little legs bending under the strain of enormous piles of er..stuff. First on were the jodhpurs. These were a bit of a puzzle though. #2 shuffled out of the changing room muttering: ‘er..they look a bit like tights’. #1 elicited a well-aimed slap to the head by whispering to #2: ‘ha, you look gay in those’. Next, the kerching lady brought out riding boots (‘no, madam, they certainly cannot ride in wellies’), then hats, which I was assured were level 3 protection, the best that money can buy (oh god), and while I surreptitiously tried to look at the price tags, advanced to the body protection section (yes, really).
Now really starting to panic that Hubby would hit the ceiling and bounce back, I tried to tie the kerching woman, now wild-eyed with sales fever, down into deciding which of the items were essentials. Everything, apparently. The final straw though, was the body protector, which looked sort of like an inflatable life vest except with firm spongy squares inside it. As #2 was parading up and down in his, and kerching lady was bustling about adjusting fit and trying different makes, I finally made eye contact with the price ticket. Well. I nearly stopped breathing…three hundred Euro!! Three HUNDRED!! Even with my limited mathematical ability, and I know Hubby says I should try to think in Euro, I know that’s about £200. Two hundred quid on a slightly hard puffa jacket?! I appreciate that kerching lady could see her profits increasing, but I could see the quality of my er…marital life was set to take a severe down turn unless I put my foot down with a firm hand (as my Dad says).
Deciding that the best thing to do was make a hasty retreat, I simpered that the choice was simply too great, and that I needed to confer with their riding teacher to make sure I was purchasing the most suitable items for their needs. We bought the boots, because they were kind of like posh, black rubber wellies, and that meant I could cross wellies off my list, and then made a very fast exit, complete with undignified bundling of slightly baffled children into the car whilst simultaneously selecting reverse. Phew. I think I’ll see what’s on Ebay.
Vets (Again)
Back to the vet again today. Not that we’ve been there a lot or anything but there’s a parking space reserved for us in the car park. This time, destructo-greyhound has decided that not content with totally wrecking her legs by running in the big rutted field, she’s then going to compound the issue by attempting to eat herself. How she expects to heal when every time I turn round she’s nibbling and fiddling and mucking about with it I don’t know.
So yesterday I tried a little DIY vetting by putting a non-adhering dressing on and then taping round it with micropore tape. That worked well until the furry donut attempted to lick her way through the dressing, and it was soon so soggy that it had to be replaced. This proved a problem as the micropore had then adhered to her leg hairs and we had to do my Mum’s ripping the plaster off technique to get it off. So – a bit bald but otherwise undaunted – she continued to slobber on the new dressing until we decided to cover it. #2 came up with the genius idea of putting one of his socks on it, so we tried that. I have to say she looked pretty jaunty strutting around with one red football sock on, but she soon found out that it was a jolly game to pull on the end, have a little game of tug of war, and unearth the dressing underneath for a bit more slobbering. Also, her added lack of grip made the hall floor even more ice-rink like than normal, and after watching her nearly performing the doggy splits, we had to write the sock off to experience as well.
So, to the vet it had to be. Appointment made, we hopped into the car with some enthusiasm. We all love car journeys. B loves to travel ostentatiously and as usual we attracted lots of attention travelling along with her silly head stuck out the sunroof, ears and tongue flapping wildly in unison, only pausing occasionally to stick her head back in, make sure we’re all still there and shake wildly covering us all in dribble.
When we arrived, looking like a family of wild, tangled Worzel Gummidges from the buffeting sustained from driving ten miles with all the windows and sunroof wide open, B decided she didn’t fancy going to the vets after all and refused to get out of the car. With even the slightest pull on the lead eliciting a pitiful and totally Oscar-worthy yelp of pain, we settled on a bit of reverse psychology which was to all pretend we didn’t care whether she got out of the car or not and start to walk towards the door. She was behind us in seconds.
Barely disguising her sigh of resignation, the lovely vet invited us in and inspected the blighter. Yes, it was definitely a cut pad, and no, there was absolutely no point in giving her one of those weird collars to stop her licking it (it’s the pointy nose apparently). A greyhound-proof dressing was the only solution. This came in the somewhat unexpected form of the self-adhesive bandage-like leg wrapping usually reserved for horses. Disinfected, re-dressed and now sporting a lovely red stretchy dressing, B waited patiently while I was divested of a large amount of Euro, and then refused to get back into the car to come home. With the dog halfway in and halfway out of the car and bereft of ideas, we picked up her rear end and shoved her onto the back seat. Worked just as well as the amateur psychology and was a lot faster too.
Home again and she’s already nosing the dressing with suspicion. I give it half an hour.
Outer Mongolia
Brace yourself, I’m feeling a bit of a whinge coming on. My Ebay habit has taken a severe nosedive since living here. Firstly, this dial-up connection means that half the time you miss the excitement of those last vital seconds to see whether you’ve won the auction or not. When we had broadband, I perfected leaving it until there was about 30 seconds left, then I’d slip my bid in and if no-one else was as sneaky as me, victory would almost certainly be mine! Now, when you hit refresh, it can be touch and go whether it even refreshes in time to catch the end of the auction, or indeed refreshes at all, just leaving me hanging in virtual nothingness, cursing loudly ( see, I’ve found a use for my newly-discovered Irish swearwords). Needless to say this euphoria has been short lived when the reality of some of my more dubious purchases has hit home (obscure culinary gadgets mostly), although the one I get the most stick about, my signed Nigella Lawson photo, is actually one of my most treasured possessions.
Even worse than that, however, is that it seems NOBODY ships to Ireland. I mean, do we smell or what? I’m currently on a desperate hunt for the final elusive items on the longer-than-Schindler’s school uniform list. I’ve lost count of the friendly, chatty emails I’ve sent enquiring whether the seller would be kind enough to send something to Ireland. The answer is always no and I can’t understand why – we’re hardly Outer Mongolia and it’s not as though I’m asking them to cover themselves in goosefat and swim it over to me themselves. I despair.
This frustration factor is currently matched by the sheer seething fury of being turned down for a takeaway delivery. You know yourself that sometimes only a curry will do (unless its just me), and there is not a single takeaway restaurant of any denomination that will dare to venture out into the sticks and then down our long and very dark drive. I wonder whether it’s some kind of unwritten rule for staff of takeaways in our area that they only take people on who have Achluophobia (yes, it’s fear of the dark, I looked it up) written on their CV. Wasn’t there some celeb that had their favourite curry flown out to them when they were filming? Wonder if Ryanair would drop me in a nice tikka masala…?
Trauma
Bit of a traumatic day yesterday and at the risk of all of you getting straight on the phone to social services I’ll let you know what happened. Hubby was out working and the kids and B were snuggled up in the lounge on the beanbags playing on the Playstation (well, not B, she’s a dog). It was after tea-time and I’ve got a good book so I thought I’d sneak a quick bath (I know, weird timing but I’m a bit of a bath addict). I was merrily soaking away when all of a sudden all hell broke loose…. #2 son came rushing into the bathroom absolutely hysterical, screaming and crying and..worst of all..splattered with blood!!
#1 sat and gave him a cuddle while I jumped out of the bath and then the source of the blood became apparent when B wandered in, bleeding from her paw and with her sweet little face bleeding too. It took us ages to calm little one down and for him to finally tell us that he took B out in the garden because he thought it was a while since she’d been (bless him) but couldn’t find the lead (aarrrgghh – you know where this is heading) so decided to take her without it. Anyway, the cows were in the field and he said all of a sudden she just disappeared under a bush, under the electric fence behind that and into the cow field. Without thinking, he climbed over into the field and gave chase – across two fields filled with heifers (my blood runs cold just thinking about it) and after she’d had a rare old time running around the cows (poor things are probably completely traumatised), he managed to grab her, march her back across the two fields, and then had to try and get her back under the barbed wire fence (thank god it wasn’t turned on, which it usually is when there’s cows there) and back to the house.
She’d managed to knock the scab off her leg where it had only just started to heal and had obviously shaken herself vigorously as the poor lad looked like a bit-part in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Well…once we’d had time to reflect on it, having bathed poor B’s wound with salt water (nothing deep thank goodness) and cleaned up #2 and plied him with hot chocolate, the scariness of this whole thing began to play on my mind. Firstly, and most importantly, I felt that he’d done what he thought was best, which was try to bring the dog back, but equally he’d put himself in danger by not telling anyone where he was going, and..worse..going alone into a field of farm animals. Hubby confided later that terrible scenes of little one being trampled had gone through his head. I must admit they’d gone through mine too – they’re huge creatures.
Anyhoo, we decided the best course of action was a McDonalds. Weird I’ll grant you, but we thought he deserved to be congratulated for being a hero and trying to save B. Once stuffed with Happy Meal, we gently pointed out that as much as we all love B, she must be secondary to his own safety, so if there ever is a next time, which there shouldn’t be because we’ve made them promise NEVER to take her into the garden without a lead, he must just let her go and come back in the house and tell an adult. Now much calmer, he told us that he panicked, thought he might be in trouble for letting her go and decided to go and get her. He was terrified that we’d be angry as not only had her paw started bleeding, but she’d also nicked her head on the barbed wire when he was trying to get her back through the fence (one quite close to her eye) and in his little 8 year old head, felt responsible. Obviously we reassured him that he’d done his best and, as J said when she phoned this morning, the silly dog has to learn that if she will try and escape through sharp fences, then she’s going to hurt herself and that’s nobody’s fault but her own. We don’t want her to be confined to her lead every time she’s in the back garden, but blimey, she’s got to help a bit.
This dog-ownership lark is full of surprises. Needless to say, the poor dog was so knackered that she didn’t move for the rest of the evening. We spent the whole of this morning out in the pouring rain round the back of the house in the field with wooden pallets trying to fit them in between the electric fence and the back of our hedge to fill up any gaps. To make doubly sure, we then put her in the garden with Hubby hiding in the field and then left her to see if she’d get through. When she didn’t, we then both went through into the field and called her to see if she’d get through to be with us. She didn’t. She could stick her head through a gap and look at us, but couldn’t escape. Hopefully that’s one little Harry Houdini well and truly retired.
Sausage and egg pie
Seeing as, thanks to King Jamie of Oliver, I’m now a whiz with a bit of pastry, I decided to whip up dinner last night in the shape of a kind of sausage and egg pie/quiche effort. Poor B the greyhound was sent wild by the smell of sausages, her little nose twitching and wiggling as she sat in her usual ‘helping with the cooking’ spot, bang in front of the sink. No matter how many times she gets cracked on the head by the dishwasher door, as far as she’s concerned this is her spot and she’s sticking to it.
Anyway, seeing as I’ve been banging on about dogs recently, I thought I’d give you a little bakery interlude to get you busy in the kitchen. Here goes:
8 oz plain flour
5 oz butter
1 egg yolk (bung the extra white in with the others if you can’t bear to waste it)
Couple tablespoons cold water
½ tsp salt
Pack of nice sausages (not those horrid cheap supermarket ones – I think it was my Dad that used to say they’re ‘made with lips and *rseholes’ – oops sorry, I’ll put you off your dinner)
3 eggs
Splash milk
2 or 3 oz Cheese (grated) MUST be Irish. Oh okay not really but Wexford cheddar is particularly yummy
That’s it!
So..whiz the flour and butter together until it kind of looks breadcrummy, or rub it in if you don’t have the benefit of wondrous shiny stainless steel machine that I might have mentioned a couple of times before in a show-offy kind of way. Don’t worry too much. I like it when you roll it out and there’s yellow splodges of butter in the pastry. Add your egg yolk and enough water so it’s just coming together. I rolled it straight out then but I think if you put it in the fridge for a while it’s a bit easier to work with. Line your quiche tin or whatever you’re using (there’s actually enough pastry for two, or for you to put a lid on if you really want to) with the pastry, push it into the corners and cut round the edges with a blunt knife. Then stick that in the fridge while you grill your sausages. Trip over large skinny dog, slithering around your feet looking for stray sausages, then arrange your sausages in a jaunty, star shape in the pastry case (reserving one or two for salivating greyhound at your feet). Whisk up the eggs with a large splosh of milk, mix in the grated cheese, then pour it over the sausages. Bake in the oven at 180 degrees (you know I don’t do gas marks) for about 15 – 20 mins. Remember the sausages are cooked so you’re only setting the eggy mixture. And hey presto! I think this is a really good recipe once you’ve mastered the pastry. My brother’s wife, L, just one of my two particularly wondrous and lovely sisters in law, does a yummy version with cooked prawns and salmon, and adds tomato puree to the eggy mixture so it’s a fetching pink colour. Very nice. I thought afterwards that I should have fried some onions with the sausages too..yummy.
Have noticed recently that I’m getting a bit lardy. Me and the pocket rocket are going to have to start taking longer walks. Either that, or I’m going to have to stop with the experimental cookie making…
