September 12, 2013

Happy Birthday to Meeeeeeeee . . .


. . . and also to Southdowner.*  I checked with her today if I could tell the blog about this bizarre serendipity that she was busy turning mrggle years old this time last year while Jesus was gripping me by the back of the neck (rather like Southdowner with a recalcitrant bullie) and saying, You’re MINE now, get used to it.

Oh.  Ah.  Um?

I should know my friends’ birthdays . . . but I don’t.  Some years I’m doing well to remember my own.  I’m probably only remembering this shiny new first birthday because it’s shiny and new.  But Southdowner tactfully waited quite some time last year—till I climbed down off the ceiling at least—before she mentioned casually that the twelfth of September was her standard birthday, the one she’s been having for quite some time now, decades in fact.**  Which is when we decided we should try to have this one together.

The day did not get off to a good start*** however when I opened another robot letter from my bank, this one saying that they are now bouncing cheques on the new account.  I went frelling boiling over to the local office† and I think I put out the brand-frelling-new raging fire, but I am not a happy customer.  Oh, I almost forgot, there was a second robot letter from my bank saying that investigating my case was taking longer than they anticipated and thanking me for my patience.

Patience my ass.  I want the Governor’s head on a plate.††

Also, the adrenaline spike from this latest round of fiscal folly was extreme and the rest of the day has been a trifle hazy.

Still.  Southdowner and I had an extremely good lunch at the entirely refurbished, dazzlingly upmarket and, crucially, dog-friendly Troll and Nightingale†††—Southdowner, me, Pav, and Ahab.‡


Hi.  We're cute.

Hi. We’re cute.





Also woozily woozily

Also woozily woozily


And we just go on being cute.

And we just go on being cute.

Note that Ahab really is about twice Pav’s size.  Pav is small but intense.

Don't try and fool us.  There is trout pate in that bowl.

Don’t try and fool us. There is trout pate in that bowl.


I'm supposed to be teaching her to stand like this for the judge.

I’m supposed to be teaching her to stand like this for the judge.  Um.  Gleep.


And then we went to the monks’ for evening prayer.  It’s only been a year. . . .

* * *

* And also to a litter of Vizsla puppies, born today, that a friend of Southdowner’s has been waiting for.

** On the other hand, she doesn’t need to turn Christian.  She already is.

*** And here I’d thought it was getting off to a good start because my back let me get out of bed and stand up, and when I bent over to open hellcritter crate doors I didn’t scream or fall down.

† With some hellhounds.  Although they aren’t nearly threatening enough.  The wagging tails are a real mystique destroyer.

†† And his testicles in a plastic bag.

††† This was the hard-boy pub I have mentioned in its previous incarnation, complete with exciting street brawls.^  Maybe I should worry a little more about the Street Pastor thing.

^ When it was not dog-friendly.  See?  Dogs are good.

‡ I can’t remember if Southdowner’s bullies have blog pseudonyms or not and since we’ve just been having another argument about Pav’s weight^ in which Southdowner says that my eyes have been wrecked by looking at too many ribby sighthounds and I say that you couldn’t find a rib on Pav without major excavation apparatus, it AMUSES me to pseudonize one of her bullies with a reference to a great white whale.  But Ahab suits him and Moby doesn’t, which probably proves Southdowner’s point, not mine.

^ This argument will be heating up in the next few weeks because I appear to have lost the other argument about showing her and her first live gig is in October.  Unless I’ve taken hellhounds, hellterror, all my money out of the bank and put it in a sock and run off to Tahiti+ in the meanwhile.

+ Don’t worry, I will continue to post KES.


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