Being a Saturday, we had a rather lazy late (and rather unhealthy) breakfast of scones (’aw Mum, did you put raisins in them? Yuck!’) and cookies (these were slightly healthier seeing as they contained my secret additives of dates and almonds whizzed in the processor, plus some oats). We were a bit stuffed at lunchtime, so didn’t bother having our lunch until about 3pm when we sat down to large plates of sausage, egg and chips and had quite an entertaining conversation about ‘the old days’. I think I’ve mentioned before that when I was a kid our homelife was completely centred around either cricket or football. On winter Saturdays, we used to have egg and chips or a big fry up early because my brothers would be playing football and my Dad would be refereeing. I would then traipse down to the football field and, if I got lucky, Uncle ‘T-bone Tone’ Tony (he was a butcher, obviously), my Dad’s mate and my very lovely big, cuddly Godfather would be there in his big old Jag watching the game with the heater on and I’d get to sit with him and eat sweets. If I was unlucky it was 90 minutes on the swings for me, freezing my bum off. Once, one of the footballers jumped up to unhook the net from the goalpost at the end and got his wedding ring caught in the hook on the crossbar - that was probably the most interesting thing that ever happened, apart from the odd ambulance for the unlucky recipient of a dodgy tackle. The mention of Uncle Tone’s car started the boys talking about Grandad, whose car is always stuffed to the rafters with Haribos and wine gums, and who can always be tucked up for another ice cream or bottle of coke on trips to the zoo.

On winter Sundays it was football in the morning, followed by the full monty roast dinner, a proper pudding and then probably football on TV in the afternoon (lucky me, eh?). My Mum and Dad used to watch all that old crap like the Antiques Roadshow and my Mum liked Songs of Praise. Thank God for modern mercies like Top Gear, that’s all I can say. I made the boys laugh by telling them about my Mum and Dad eating things like cods roe on toast (eeeuuuurrrggghhh!!) and sardine sandwiches for Sunday tea. I didn’t mind if it was scrambled egg on toast, as long as we had Worcestershire sauce on it. I then got all nostalgic for home and had to bake a lemon cake to make me feel better. It still hasn’t worked, so I’m off for another slice. God, my life in food, eh?

I whipped up a batch of cheese bread dough to surprise the boys when they got home, but didn’t have time to bake it before I left, so I left it covered in the food processor. We get home to an empty house (Hubby’s out for a work do) and hear a strange noise…spooky.

Let’s look at the clues shall we: in the kitchen, the food processor is running (on full power) on its own; the cheese bread dough has strangely vanished; the bag of flour is upturned onto the floor and the entire kitchen in covered in a fine, white powdering of flour. It doesn’t take Columbo, therefore, to follow the floury footprints to a rather floury dog, who is doing cheesy burps. Hmmmm.

Poor old B, she’s still feeling rather delicate after last night’s excesses.

Seriously, though, the vet’s done a fantastic job and her awful, brown mouldy teeth are now white and shiny and her breath is..well..kind of vaguely doggy but not eye-wateringly evil like it was before. She even had a bit of breakfast this morning, but doesn’t feel up to a walk. Having been there myself, I’m full of sympathy so I’ve let her off walking duty today.

(Can I just point out that that’s my hair clip in the corner - just in case my Mum reads it and thinks the floor’s dirty! - unfortunately the wine carrier’s there because I’d just bought loads of wine - busted!)

Poor old B. I dropped her off this morning at the vet, fighting the urge to tell the vet once again that Greyhounds can react badly to anaesthetic. I’d already given her the number for J’s vet (bit of a greyhound expert), and printed off a piece that someone had written about giving greyhounds anaesthetic, and frankly I thought she might slap me if I flapped any more, so I gave B a big kiss, and drove home.

When I called at 4pm they said she was ‘in recovery’, but her surgery had gone well and told me to pick her up at 7 as she was being a bit slow coming round. Well, at 7pm I went to pick her up and she was drunk as a skunk. We had to lift her into the back seats (no way we could get her into the hatch, and until she finally laid down she whacked me in the back of the head about four times with all her stumbling around. When I finally got home I had to get hubby to carry her in as she was completely gone.

We began to suspect that, instead of being in the vet, she’d actually been down the pub with the girls. In fact, all that was missing was smudgy make-up, the hiccups and her skirt tucked into her knickers at the back. This suspicion got stronger as she started staggering around in the kitchen, trying to find something to eat (ah, the old midnight munchies eh?) and every so often, in an embarrassingly familiar way, had to sit down hard with a bump when she lost her balance. In the end we got her to lie down, but every time we walked past, she lifted her head up then let it go crashing down again onto the tiles - I was worried she’d end up brain damaged.

Hubby got quite cross with me actually because I’m ashamed to say I found it all quite funny. The last straw was when we took her outside and she just couldn’t stay upright in order to wee - every time she tried to squat she fell over. I tried really hard to keep my composure under his evil eye, but ended up holding my stomach with tears running down my cheeks as the giggles took over (I wasn’t allowed to laugh out loud in case I ‘upset her’. Is this the same hubby who stumped off to bed muttering ‘f*cking dog’ when she ran away the night before last? In the end we left her to sleep it off, and spent the entire evening listening to her snoring loudly from the next room. Ah well, a horrible hangover is a small price to pay for sparkly teeth I guess.

Just when I think there’s going to be nothing exciting to write - something always seems to happen. And this was probably the most exciting 24 hours I’ve had in a while!

Firstly, the programme that was filmed about us, B, and the lovely J’s work in greyhound adoption was shown on Irish TV last night. J and I kept up some serious texting throughout the programme: ‘God, would you look at my eyebrows’….’is that what I really look like’ etc but the boys, in true TV styley, were completely blasé about their performances. First it showed J at work at the stadium (she’s just so smiley and friendly - a natural), then at her kennels, then they showed the interview with me, then the boys talking too. The shots where they were sitting on the floor eating biscuits and B was snaking around them trying to pinch their biccies was hilarious, and it all went down very well. I do confess to some rather girly squealing when my bit was on, which prompted a hail of cushions from the others who were trying to listen. As I said to J, if it makes just one person realise that greyhounds make great pets, then it’s worth the embarrassment (secretly, I rather enjoyed it, and I now know that my teeth look quite nice on telly, but not my arse).

Secondly, after all that excitement, the star of the show decided to go AWOL at bedtime. We thought we’d finally put a lid on the escape attempts, but after getting ready for bed and lying there waiting for Hubby for quite some time, I realised that something must be wrong. It was. Two seconds later, Hubby rushed in to tell me that B had disappeared under the bushes again and was nowhere to be seen. After a frantic hunt all round the back garden and out round the front of the house, there was no sign of her. A furious (and I suspect rather upset) Hubby announced that there was no point expending any more energy looking for her, and we decided to put her bed out in the garage and leave the door open so at least she could have shelter if she came home.

Lying in bed, I realised that I couldn’t just do nothing, so I quickly dressed and put my wellies on to look down the lane. Now you’ll know yourself from the pictures that the lane is long and windy, exposed to fields on both sides and I can tell you that at midnight on a blustery October night, it’s bloody spooky too. Scared out of my wits, I walked around calling her name. I thought I could hear her tag jingling in the bushes a couple of times, but there was no sign of her. I must admit, dear reader, to trudging back to the house in floods of tears, both frustrated and furious in turns. Bloody dog - if she loves us as much as we love her, why does she keep running away?

Anyway, I had a terrible, sleepless night and woke early this morning to the sound of rain. With terrible thoughts of finding her dead from hypothermia in the field, I quickly got dressed, intending to carry on the search once more, only to find a rather sheepish B gazing up at me from her chair in the hall, with her worried face on (Hubby calls it her ‘don’t beat me with a stick’ look)! Well, she got the biggest cuddle and a shower of kisses, and did her little squeaky whine thing, so maybe she was even pleased to see me too. Hubby (yes, the one that made out that he wasn’t bothered) had already got up, and was rather surprised to find her asleep on her duvet in the garage. God only knows what she had been up to - her lovely pink collar was all black and muddy, and she’s covered like a pin cushion in little thorns, but at least she’s safe. A quick check found no obvious cuts or injuries, so I’m just really, really relieved. She’s got her dental surgery tomorrow. God, it’s worse than being a new Mum.

God, the weather’s really closed in today. It’s cold and foggy and the horrible school run was ever worse than usual. Happily, the Toll Trolls were funny today. They did a little skit about being air hostesses for ‘Air Troll’. The in-flight announcement went something like ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this Air Troll flight. If, during the flight, we experience a sudden loss of cabin pressure, hear any loud bangs and feel any intense heat or a sudden urge to pass away, this will indicate that we have hit the ground’, which I thought would be more entertaining than the usual old crap you hear on Ryan Air flights.

What was less funny was the ‘celebrity’ gossip. Jodie Marsh (what exactly is she famous for?) was quoted as calling Jordan ‘a slapper’. And this is the same Jodie who wrote heart-wrenchingly in her book of being bullied at school? You would think, wouldn’t you, that she would know exactly how hurtful words can be.

Much to hubby’s amusement, I always quite admire people like Jordan and Victoria Beckham. Let’s face it, however much people slag off Jordan von Big Boobs and her comedy breasts, she’s made more money than you or I are ever likely to see in a lifetime. And not only is Victoria Beckham pretty stylish, she was already a millionaire before she met Mr Beckham. You can’t deny that these girls are self-made and have become extremely successful using whatever talents they may or may not have. Shame on you, Jodie - you’ve lowered yourself to the ranks the green-eyed and the just plain spiteful. My Mum always said ‘if you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all’.

I remember reading a quote somewhere that children laugh up to 400 times a day, yet by the time we’re adults, that figure drops to about 17. I can totally understand this. My children are currently wetting themselves playing Quidditch on the Playstation because Seamus Finnigan calls the Weasley brothers the ‘Weasley w*nkers’. How the bloody hell this slipped through the net I have no idea (the game is marketed at children from 3+) but it’s tickled my two no end. Yes, I’ve done the motherly thing and explained that this really isn’t a nice word and is certainly not to be used in polite conversation, but it still evokes peals of laughter every time they hear it.

In no particular order today, they’ve also laughed at: the dog growling in her sleep;
at least ten bodily emissions; even more silly jokes and a few rounds of name calling (#2 favours ‘you bottom’ as an insult, while #2 prefers ‘you ignorant boob’). Both howled with laughter at spotting a jewellery range in the Argos catalogue by the lovely Katie Price ‘ha look, it’s Jordan von Big Boobs’. Come to think of it, the mere mention of the word ‘breast’ sends them both into hysterics.

And what have I laughed at? Well, them basically. And that seems to be the general pattern. I laughed when they were cleaning their teeth and #1 accidentally spat on #2 (cue indignant yelling and shouting by #2, which made #1 snort with laughter and spray even more toothpaste on the now puce with fury #2). I also laughed when #2 was rushing around in the garden with B, who then got very excited, ran five times faster, and knocked #2 clean off his feet. I’ve just broken up a pillow fight so that, when I shouted, I caught #1 by surprise - he turned round to look at me only to be caught by the flying pillow of #2, knocking him clean off his feet too. That set me off as well, and all three of us wet ourselves laughing.

Look, I’m aware that I’m probably a bad mother. There’s a certain amount of inappropriate language and silliness in our house, but blimey, they work bloody hard at school and have a very long day, not finishing until 6pm, and as my Mum always said ‘I don’t mind what you do at home so much, as long as you behave when you’re out’. Not a bad sentiment I think. It makes me happy that they’re happy and they have a bit of fun at home. This week, I received an email from my friend, the ever-glamorous C, who is a busy Mum, runs an equally busy office and who has had a particularly hectic time recently. The best bit for me, though, was that after telling me all her news, she said ‘I’ve just read back through the email and God it sounds like I’m depressed. I’m not - in fact I’m very happy :)’. And that, as I emailed her back and told her, is the best news of all.

Okay, so I hate to mention the C word, but once again pens are being chewed, the Argos catalogue is being well thumbed, and Christmas lists are being feverishly produced.

#1 is taking the high-tech approach to Christmas listery and going for a Word document, complete with Christmas clipart and snowmen. #2 went for the felt tip and scrunched up bit of paper routine, complete with smudgy fingermarks and drips of blackcurrant squash. I’ve selected a few of the highlights just to brighten up your Saturday morning and start that slow ache in the wallet that begins very shortly:

#1’s Christmas List

Mario Football for Gamecube
Microsoft Flight Simulator X for PC
StarWars Battlefront II for Playstation
Age of Empires 3 for PC
FIFA 07 for Playstation

…I could go on, but basically, just go to the games section on Amazon and they’re all there.

#2’s Christmas List

Now here’s where it gets interesting. #2’s a bit more of a ‘doer’ than a computer fiend, and his list is a bit more..er..eclectic. By the way, I’ve already made him edit it to remove the first 5:

A tortoise
A mouse
A tree snake
A gerbil (or a hamster)
A rabbit
Acoustic guitar
Model Subaru
Air Hogs Dragon Fighter
A nice gaming computer

The last one makes me laugh…I love the way they nonchalantly chuck on a 1000 euro computer as an afterthought. #2’s got the right hump with me now. He realised what I was doing and said ‘oh that’s right, Mum, humilitate me in front of everyone why don’t you.’

So, on the day that I finally remembered to take my camera, the cows go all camera shy and disappear right across the other side of the far field. Typical. Ah well, I took some shots anyway, so next time I’m rambling on about walking down the lane, you’ll be able to visualise along at home and take a kind of…er…virtual ramble with me.

So - this first one is looking back to the house from about three quarters of the way down the lane. The lane curves up around the field and ends at the house, which is behind the two or three big trees you can see to the right of the picture.

And this is the view down the lane to the farm buildings at the bottom. Note that the stupid dog has managed to get the back of her head in the picture.

Now you know why I can’t get a bloody thing delivered.

Wow, it’s a beautiful day today, not just autumnally warm, but t-shirt weather. I walked the dog in short sleeves today and even the breeze was warm. Well, that’s not strictly true, I chased the dog and brought her back after she escaped when I was bringing in the shopping, but I’m in a good mood so why split hairs. I had another burst of cleanliness (the more eagle-eyed amongst you will notice that the last one was a rather disgustingly long time ago) and stripped all the beds too.

Talking of good moods, I love this quote from an ‘all about me’ bit on a website that my lovely friend J and I both subscribe to. Get this: “I tend a little too much on the ’shiny happy’ side of the humour spectrum, but am working hard at doubt and cynicism“. Don’t you dare, J, we love you as you are!!

I’m also in a good mood because I’ve had a nice, calm shop. Sometimes I’m just not in the mood for food shopping. I chase round, picking up things we don’t need and forgetting things we do, and come home feeling thoroughly exhausted and miserable. But today, I mooched around browsing labels and investigating ingredients and had a rather nice time making meals in my head and doing a bit of people watching. There were two people in particular that I mentally stored for you so I could tell you all about them later:

The first was a lovely old Grandad. He was sitting in the café with his rather beautiful little granddaughter and they were having a high old time. The little girl was tiny, dressed head to toe in pink and with one small blonde ponytail, high on her head. He was a very large, very loud Irish Grandad and several heads were turned in his direction. He reminded me, somewhat heart-wrenchingly, of my Grandad Sam. He had the same big old builders hands, and the same shock of white hair; huge in stature, but gentle and kind at the same time. He was obviously very proud of being left in charge of the little girl in her buggy and totally and utterly engrossed in making the little girl laugh - tickling her with those big, rough hands - and laugh she did, in those gorgeous high-pitched peals of laughter that only toddlers can produce. I watched him for quite a while, and caught his eye once. He gave me a smile that made my day, because he was just so proud of that little girl, in a way only Grandads can be.

The second was a huge black lady. She was very large (the politically correct #1 would call her ‘wide’), with big dangly earrings, and was strutting her stuff down the aisles in full make-up, very tight jeans and a black t-shirt with sparkly silver lettering. Again, we smiled at each other, but what really made me smile was reading her t-shirt, which said ‘Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful’. You go girl!