Archive for month: March, 2008

Jeez, Bert’s driving us all bonkers. Don’t get me wrong, we all love him to bits, but his phobias are turning the house into some kind of cotton-wool padded sanatorium, with us all creeping around avoiding anything potentially scary in case we prompt a major attack of gibbering.

Take balls, for instance (steady). I mean, there are three men of various sizes in the house, plus another two next door so football kind of comes with the territory. But Bert is terrified of footballs - just the sight of one sends him whimpering, back arched and tail between his legs, into his bed where he curls up as small as possible and pretends he’s not there. And rugby balls are even more scary as their rolling is more unpredictable - they can suddenly veer off and come straight for him. It’s quite pathetic. A rare bit of sunshine the other day had to be carefully managed, as he doesn’t really like even being in the back garden when people are kicking a ball about out front. Poor baby. We bought him a tiny squeaky football once, but it sent him into such tremors when anyone squeaked it that we had to hide it. On the day that Gorgeous George came to visit, Bert nearly had a seizure when George found (and loved) the ball, galloping about, throwing it up in the air and fetching it (fetching it! Can you imagine? What does George think he is? A dog?). This brings me neatly on to dog toys in general. Any or all of which are enough to send him into some sort of quivering spasm, especially if they… gasp!… roll along the ground. Then there’s shoes, which, although not particularly frightening, need to be rounded up into little non-threatening piles around the house, just in case they launch a stealthy attack when he’s not looking.

Cutlery is another problem. Unloading the dishwasher can produce a 45mph exit from the kitchen. Dare to drop a fork on the floor and the resulting ‘Dancing on Ice’ four-legged skittering would probably earn him a bronze at the next Winter Olympics.

Then there’s frogs: evil, scary, threatening, nasty, frogs. Oh don’t be fooled, they may look small and innocuous to you, but believe me, Bert knows the truth. Lower your guard and they’ll go for your throat.

He also suffers from an intensely strange, greyhoundish fear of approaching small furry animals. These are not to be confused with retreating or fast-moving small furry animals, which are, of course, meant to be chased and eaten. Somebody should tell the hares that if they stopped running away and ran straight towards him instead, he’d most likely suffer some sort of fear-induced spontaneous combustion and explode right there on the spot. I wonder what would happen at the track if the lure was sent towards the dogs, instead of away from it? They’d probably all keel over.

The little yapper down the road, all 6 and a half inches of him, invokes the kind of wide-eyed abject terror only usually reserved for nail cutting sessions. Yesterday it even jumped up at his legs. Bert had to be stopped from actually climbing Hubby’s legs to get away. And a visit to C yesterday saw Bert shaking like a jelly after Tabby the cat walked in to check him out. One evil cat-glare was enough to induce at least a 5 on the Richter scale. What a baby.

So there you have it. You know I’m always banging on about getting a greyhound, and they really do make lovely pets. But should you go ahead and make the momentous decision to own one of these beautiful creatures, please try to do it without forks, because they’re dead scary. Oh, and balls. Oh, and take a rain check on frogs, too, if you don’t mind. Ta.

Yesterday, then, I had a teensy hangover (thanks Jen), which was surprising really as although we probably drank a couple of bottles, we did it over several hours and with vast, bucket-loads, nay, shed-loads of food. Still, I woke up a little headachey and decided, in that time-honoured tradition of the hungover who trawl the fridge the morning after the night before, that we should make pancakes. And furthermore that while I was making pancakes I should eat half a Chocolate Orange egg that Hubby bought me. The children went off to the GAA pitch with D next door (handy chap that he is) to play in the annual Easter gaelic football competition, and Hubby and I settled in with a cup of tea and the other half of the egg. Then we decided we needed a bit of fresh air, so we wandered down to watch the matches, taking full advantage of the free tea and biscuits on offer. On our return, I stuffed down a rather yummy leftover beef, rocket, tomato and mayo sandwich, along with a packet of crisps, then started on Hubby’s Toblerone egg too. At which point, D arrived for a cup of tea, so I felt obliged to open the other Toblerone bar and share it with him.

For some reason, we didn’t feel like any supper, but then at 9.30 I decided I really needed two rounds of marmite on toast, another cup of tea and a few of the truffles out of the Thorntons egg that Jen bought me. Honestly. I feel sick just reading it.

Why is it that I eat like a total gannet after any form of alcohol abuse? Slightly adding insult to injury, methinks. Just the one tonight, then, Mrs Wembley.

We’re bumbling round the field yesterday,then, minding our own business (me avoiding the sheep poo and Bertie rootling and tootling about in the hedgerow) when suddenly all hell breaks loose. I can feel this weird thundering under my feet (oh yes, pink wellies are very sensitive to vibrations) and while I’m still looking around wondering what the hell it is, suddenly from under a bush comes three enormous hares, travelling at about Mach 3. Now I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a hare up close but they’re really surprisingly large. And don’t think ‘fluffy bunny’ either - when those yokes are barreling towards you like some furry spitfire, think more like small, slightly buck-toothed rocket-powered kangaroo.

Anyoo, these three bloody monsters shot, Linford Christie-like out from the undergrowth, practically knocking us both over, and pelted off down the hill. Well, Bertie stood absolutely still while it registered that three potentially tasty furry things had whooshed past him, before turning away from me and accelerating off after them like #2 on a sugar rush. I think in the split second it took me to register that I was attached to the other end of the lead was the exact moment that he got to the end of it. Stupidly, seeing as he could potentially transform me into a 45mph human kite, I held on with both hands. There was a moment of tension when I thought my arms were going to be pulled out of their sockets, and then wham, his collar tore and he was a furry beige blur in the distance. Ohhh shit.

Now yes, you’ve guessed it. With my track record at getting loose animals back, I’d started to panic before I’d even lost sight of him. We’d walked past the next door field stuffed with tasty spring lambs just a few seconds before - would he remember and double back? I picked myself up, felt both my arms, and relieved to find them still attached, started trudging in the general direction of the Bert-powered bullet, cheerily calling his name. I didn’t see any of the chase, or the end result, but knowing how crap Bert was when he was racing, I should imagine the hares ran a fair distance away, then turned back to blow raspberries, do little cartwheels, and generally rub his loser nose in it.

Just when I’d lost hope, I got to the bottom of the last field where the ramshackle old shed is and he was standing, huffing and puffing in the middle, holding one of his back feet up and whining like a girl. Phew. As I got closer he looked at me with that ‘ow, I’m dying’ look, reserved entirely for greyhounds, and thankfully allowed me to wind the lead around his neck in a makeshift collar. Well. He got no bloody sympathy from me. Especially after a quick shufty showed that one ruined and very expensive leather collar, a little nick under the paw, and a nasty scraped shin seemed to be the sum total of his injuries, and he’s got a bit of a cough, which I take it is a result of the collar pulling tight just before it snapped. He also got a rare old earbashing, which lasted all the way home.

Back at home, I was straight on Ebay to order a very, very thick new leather collar and a shorter lead. Bert stopped limping when he realised it was getting him nowhere and has taken to lying pathetically on the children, extracting every teeny little drop of sympathy they can muster. Bloody dog. Bloody hares. Bloody country living.

So I’m in a bit of a weird position, I guess (no, not literally - keep it clean, people). Most of the time, I’m at home during the day and yes, I guess that makes me a bit of a lady of leisure, which is absolutely fine by me; I’ve a degree (with honours) in shopping, and pottering and loafing about are second nature to me. I fill my days baking, dog walking, pottering, driving vast distances and shopping and, despite Hubby’s amazement, I never get bored. Sometimes I even do some ironing, or aimlessly wipe a cloth over things that used to be something before they were covered in dust, just for the hell of it. And, of course I’ve got Bertilicious to look after, and you, my loyal readership, to think about too. I can’t go neglecting you in case you defect to Grandad, or Flirty, and then I’d never get you back. Other times, I have children at home (they seem to have a holiday every five seconds), and often next door’s kids too, and then my days are filled with cut knees and snot and sausage sandwiches and football socks and all that Mum stuff.

Now, ask anyone who knows me (the Disreputable One will be the one hopping excitedly from one foot to the other at the front of the queue) and they’ll tell you that although I’m reasonably intelligent, I’ve had about a gazillion jobs: some ridiculous, some very serious and responsible. I’ve had some for a couple of years and some for five minutes. For some reason, getting the jobs have never been the problem. I’m brilliant at interviews, being both a spectacularly good flirt (male interviewers) and incredibly chatty and very interested in where people got their handbag/skirt/beautiful haircut (women interviewers). Then it all goes downhill. I have rather a short span of attention and a healthy disrespect for authority. I’m not sure if the two go together, but I suspect they could be a lot to do with the fact that I’m pretty good at being fired and/or just leaving because I couldn’t be arsed to do the job any more. I suppose that, unlike Hubby, I’ve never found my niche - something I love that I’m really good at, and that people are prepared to pay me to do.

So here’s the thing. Every so often when I’m not pottering/blogging/wiping things/cooking random stuff/putting plasters on/giving people lifts/picking up dog poo, I think ‘hmmm, I could do with a job’. Just a little job, you understand: something to keep me out of trouble and make me feel slightly important. The trouble is, I live in the middle of a field, miles away from civilisation, and my childcare options are severely limited. Basically, then, I need a job I can do from home, or one that I can do only when the kids are at school. I’m wracking my brains here but I can’t think of a single thing. Maybe I need to do some kind of course so I can learn something home-based. Of course really I’d like to be Nigella, or Rachel Allen, or even Delia at a push I suppose, but definitely not Anthony Worral-Thompson.

So last night in bed I was thinking about my strengths and weaknesses (I read in a magazine survey that you should write a list). So strengths then? Well, I can spell and type and all that secretarial stuff - I’m good with people and doggies, not bad with children (not small ones though), I can cook (some would argue that point but hey) and I can find my way round a computer. Bad points? Attention span of a gnat, very untidy, can’t add up for toffee, talk too much…

Ah well. I’ll work on my CV. And in the meantime if anyone hears that Rachel Allen’s retiring, maybe they can put my name forward?

So the Paddy’s Day parade was fab. I was especially impressed with this little tot who’d made a huge effort for the occasion. We saw yachts (yes, really!) and huge 4x4s on floats, as well as an alarmingly large amount of men in drag (what is it with any celebration when seemingly normal blokes feel the need to don fake boobs, wigs and tons of slap?) and obviously we filled up on ice cream (well, the sun came out - just for a minute). Whatever you’re doing today, have a fantastic St Patrick’s Day. Mwah! xx

Jeez, it’s a dog’s life alright.

So it came today!!! I’m SO excited. It’s very pretty actually, it’s a rather nice shade of blue, with hints of purple. I love it. It suits me, and I know it’ll get loads of wear.

So what is it? A handbag, maybe? A beautiful necklace? The latest shade of Chanel nail varnish? Nope, it’s better than that, it’s my new laser card! My very own, shiny, new little plastic square of infinite shopping potential!

I’d like to add here that, apart from the potential shopping pleasure, my excitement is somewhat due to the fact that it’s taken me two years to achieve this pinnacle of financial independence. My first visit to Hubby’s bank went something like this:

Me (after queuing for half an hour): ‘Hello, I’d like to open a bank account please’

Lady with Strangely Green Hair Behind Counter: ‘Oh, you need to go to the customer service counter over there’.

Me: ‘But I’ve just queued for half an hour’

LwSGHBC (with ‘firm but fair’ smile): ‘Sorry, I can’t deal with new accounts at this till’

Me (after queuing for a further half an hour at the customer service counter: ‘Hello, I’d like to open a bank account please’

Man behind Customer Service Counter with Unfeasibly Thick Lensed Glasses On: ‘Certainly, Madam. I’ll need two forms of identification, such as passport and driving licence, and a utility bill’.

Me: ‘Oh, I don’t have a utility bill in my name. I do have my passport, driving licence, birth and marriage certificates though…’

MBCSCwUTLGO: ‘Sorry, I’ll need that before I can open the account’

Me: ‘But my husband came over here while I was still in the UK and all the bills are therefore in his name’

MBCSCwUTLGO (standard bank issue firm but fair smile appearing): ‘Sorry, but those are the rules. We’ll need the utility bill before we can open the account’.

Me (quietly): ‘Bollocks’

MBCSCwUTLGO (cheerily): ‘Next please!’

Oh and my woes didn’t stop there. We were just about to move anyway, so decided we’d leave it until we registered at our new utility providers and put my name on the bills. Anyway, I was quite happy using Hubby’s credit card - there was no rush, I reasoned. Eventually, though, I made my way back to the bank, waited half an hour in the correct queue, then smugly handed over my passport, driving licence and Eircom bill. But there was a problem. By this stage, Hubby had acquired a Personal Account Manager (bloody show off), who returned to his counter looking concerned and clutching my passport. So get this: on a UK passport, there’s a transparent film covering your photo. It’s dotted with little shiny snowflake yokes (I thought they looked a bit like the little patterns on Louis Vuitton handbags, but Hubby couldn’t see it) that presumably act as some form of safety measure to stop you fiddling with the photo. Unfortunately for me, when my passport was photocopied, I had a big, shiny snowflake yoke smack bang in the middle of my nose. This, I was informed, was no good at all as I couldn’t be identified.

‘But it’s me!’ I stuttered. ‘I’m here with Hubby, and you’re his personal account whatnot, and he can tell you that it really is me, because I’m married to him and God knows I’m so bloody annoying that he’d never forget my face, trust me’ (Hubby nods helpfully at this point).

Several tries at the photocopier later, and the result was the same. I was the world’s first snowflake-nosed woman. And not wanting to set a precedent for giving bank accounts to people with strange noses, my case was referred to head office.

Me: ‘Bollocks’

Anyoo, head office saw reason and I was eventually deemed not to be a threat to national security (although I don’t think the ‘bollocks’ comment helped), but here I am, then, two years after my initial enquiry, and I have my very own bank account and shiny new laser card to boot. Phew. I’m off to make sure it works.

Hubby’s looking a bit worried.

So greyhounds then. I know I’m biased, because obviously Bertie is the best, most beautiful, most well behaved, softest, gentlest, cleverest…okay not cleverest, but loveliest dog in the world. Or at least in the whole of Cavan. First thing I would say here is don’t believe everything you hear about how cruelly treated greyhounds are. Yes, there are a minority of total arsewipes that breed shitty greyhounds, don’t treat them properly and then when they don’t win races (duh) abandon them, or worse. Luckily, most greyhound trainers and owners want their dogs to win races, and in order to win races they need to be properly treated, fed and cared for. In fact, some of these gangling buggers are treated like bloody royalty. I recently took the smalls to visit Doofus the Wonderdog (more of him later) at our trainer’s place, and they were like little toddlers in a sweet shop: ‘ooh, can we cuddle this one? And can we cuddle this one?’ and ‘ooooh… puppies!’. Each dog, I’m happy to report, was clean, waggy, friendly and delighted to see us. Unlike, I have to say, some of our foster charges who have arrived with those dead eyes and tail curled up under the tummy that indicate they’ve just never learnt that people are potential playmates. All very sad. Our trainer, M, has two small boys - the oldest of whom loves to lead the dogs out to the van on race days, that is, when they don’t tread on his wellies and make him fall over, with a cheery shout of ‘I’m okay, Dad!’ as he’s dragged along by an over-enthusiastic greyhound.

Which leads me neatly on to the main problem. There are far too many greyhounds in Ireland. Lots of them aren’t really successful, and those that are have only a limited racing career. Doofus the Wonderdog ran about 15 times and had one win. Now he was our first foray into greyhound ownership and whilst M’s terribly nice about it, basically Doofus is crap. He’s also lucky, because we’re his owners and will take responsibility for him once his racing days are over. Think about it, though, if you own several dogs, you can’t realistically expect them to all live out their days hogging your sofa like Bert. And that’s where the general public come in, or don’t come in where Ireland’s concerned. People just dont GET greyhounds as pets. Our plumber mentioned that when he tells people about those weird English people who have a greyhound as a pet in the house, they just don’t believe him. Now I’ll stick my neck out here and say that, in principle, I’ve got nothing against dogs being put to sleep. I’d much rather they were rehomed, but as M the trainer points out, not all greyhounds will make good house pets and sometimes the kindest thing is that they fall asleep and don’t wake up. Harsh, but I’d rather that than the horror stories of cutting off ears and shooting and all sorts of grotesque stuff.

In Italy, thought, people love greyhounds. They adore them. So J takes photos and does little descriptions of her charges, and then they’re bagged by people over in Italy, via a website run by J’s friend F. Then every few months, J waves her little retirees off on a transporter to Italy, where they live happily ever after. This happened, as you may recall, to Louis, who is now living a very jammy life, thank you very much, and learning to speak the lingo too, no doubt. Occasionally, greys are retired to homes in Ireland, to suckers like us. But not enough of them, sadly.

So have a think about it. A little room on your sofa? Or a corner of the lounge where a gangly fella could see out his retirement? Aw go on. It’d be rude not to.

So I’ve been suffering from a bit of bloggal diarrhoea the past couple of days, what with the Angry Bulldozer Lady and Bert being, well, Bert. Then Nats sends me one of those doofers where you have to answer a load of questions and I thought…ooh, I’ll pass it on to the folks. So here are the questions. Copy and paste them along with your answers into the comments, or email me your answers and I’ll put them up for you. So come on, all you ‘lurkers’ who read but don’t comment - this is your chance to stand up and be counted. Righty ho, then:

• Four jobs I’ve held:-
• Four movies I’ve watched over and over again:-
• Four places I’ve been:-
• Four places I’ve lived:-
• Four TV shows I watch:-
• Four radio shows I listen to:-
• Four things I look forward to:-
• Four favourite foods:-
• Four places I’d rather be:-
• Four people I email regularly:-

There. Easy peasy. Think of it like one of those ‘turn to your left and find out something interesting about the person sitting next to you’ things that they get you to do at conferences. Well, what are you waiting for? Get to it!