June 25, 2014

Missed photo ops and other critter interactions


So my pale blue and white floral cotton jeans are in the washing machine.  Today I’m wearing a pair of pale khaki light cotton jeans.  Why do clothing manufacturers seem to think that small children stop being sticky and dogs stop having muddy feet and we all stop being clumsy just because it’s SUMMER?  Pastels are overrated.  At least below the waist.  I even used a proper mop on the kitchen floor this morning before I let the menagerie out on the theory that at least I won’t get dirty knees from kneeling on it.  Until everybody has gone out into the courtyard and tramped what they find there indoors again which is why kneeling on my kitchen floor generally produces dirty knees.  I was playing our standard morning maniacal tug of war with the hellterror* AND DISCOVERED A SPOT OF BLOOD ON MY PALE KHAKI LEG.  . . . And could find no trace of bloodshed on either the hellterror** or me.  So clearly it was just a random drop of blood coalescing out of nothingness by the irresistible attraction of a pair of clean pale khaki trousers.  Sigh.  Washing machine and spot remover.

Then while I was chopping veg for the hellterror’s breakfast*** I was gazing out the window while the hellterror in question twined around my ankles like a cat, hoping for dropsies.  And lo and behold there was daddy robin and two fledglings variously perched on the suet feeder.  Daddy robin can just stretch his neck through the squirrel-discouraging wiring to reach the fat-with-dead-bugs slab, yum—I think I’ve told you before that the wire cage is supposed to let small birds through but my resident robin is about half the size of a hellterror.  Of course by the time I got the hellterror fed—once you are clearly getting a hellterror meal you had better not stop till this task is completed†—and could fetch my camera the robins had left the feeder and were sprinting about the garden, but I’m glad to see that there was some baby-robin action here this year, and the way they were behaving I suspect the nest is tucked into my jungle somewhere.  The parents scorned my greenhouse after all the excitement last year with the wall falling down and the weeks of strange men and barrowfuls of mortar.  Enough to put any reproductively-minded robin off I’m sure.  Maybe next year.  I have a bit of greenhouse shelf permanently sacrificed to the possibility of a bird’s nest.

But the truly tragic photo op miss was a couple of days ago at the mews.  Wolfgang and I drove in to discover Peter’s next door neighbours staring fixedly at the brick wall the mews, and Peter’s cottage as number one, is built against and out of, and which is covered in roses.  Wolves? I inquired hopefully.  No, no, they said, a song thrush is shepherding her just-fledged babies on an excursion.

Sure enough there were three little floppy-fluttery things and mum having a shrieking meltdown.  And as I stopped to watch, one of them took waveringly to the air, zigzagged vaguely for a second or two, decided that I had a safe, tree-like look about me . . . and landed on my butt.  A baby bird weighs zilch but I felt its wings, and I could feel the faint scrabbling as it got at least one foot in my hip pocket.††  Mum was having a total heart attack in the shrubbery and the neighbours were going off in conniptions.  Har de har har.  The fledgling got its breath back and decided a spot of mountaineering was in order and started clambering up my back.  I bent over because I’m a very nice, cooperative tree.  It was a hot day and I was wearing a very thin cotton tee shirt and the tiny claws prickle.  Peter heard the commotion and opened the door, Fledgling A launched a dive off my back . . . and Fledgling B, not to be outdone, took to the air in its turn and flew through Peter’s door.

Whereupon we had shrieking mum in the shrubbery and shrieking baby frantically boomeranging around the front hall and trying to cram itself into nonexistent cracks in the stairs.  You know how you’re always afraid of hurting them?†††  So it took me several tries to get hold of it in a way I thought wouldn’t damage the little idiot—and I remember Penelope, who was a bird ringer in her day, saying that if you get them gently but firmly around the body with their wings trapped and just their heads sticking out, they’ll quiet down.  WHY?  But this one did just that—teeny heart going so fast it was nearly a buzz—and I’m muttering, Don’t die of shock!  Don’t die of shock!, and I put it carefully down on the top of the water butt, which is quite a substantial space if you’re not much bigger than a bumblebee, and mum yelled at it to stop messing about and come home, and it did.  The third fledgling had spent all this time staying obediently put in the shrubbery and it’s not going to have any stories to tell its grandchildren.

However nobody whipped out their smartphone and took a picture.  But I can at least tell you about it.

* * *

* Speaking of photo ops.  I should figure out a miner’s-helmet camera deal so as to get a close-up shot of bull terrier playing tug of war, with the little pointed ears flat back in intensity, the little forehead furrowed in concentration, the little evil eyes gleaming and the jaws of death clamped for glory around the Yellow Rubber Thing.  It is an awesome sight.

** Who was of course happy to be rolled around for examination.  All rolling and rubbing is good to a hellterror.

*** She gets veg in her meals because it means more food.  If I was just giving her wet food and kibble there would be less food.  More food is always good, like rolling and rubbing is always good.  Rules of life if you’re a hellterror are blissfully simple.

† Hellhounds of course would be saying, mount an expedition to the Antarctic before we get fed?  Great.  Don’t hurry back.

†† Usefully pre-flattened by hellterror hind feet.

††† I’ve told you about trying to catch an escaped lamb, haven’t I?  This was out in the wilderness with no obvious farmer to apply to.  I tied the hellhounds up at one end of the fence and started driving it toward them, assuming that it would not want to go that way and I could get hold of it.  I did get hold of it—mum on the other side of the fence having an ovine heart attack, which seems to be the fate of mums—but lamb skin is vastly bigger than the lamb, like puppy skin, I was afraid of hurting it . . . and it got away.  I did find a farmer to tell however.

Procreation. Stop it before it spreads.


THE FRELLING FRELLING FRELLING HELLTERROR IS IN SEASON.  IN JANUARY.*  WHAT THE.  THE.  THE. . . . FRELL. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.  I assumed, fool and inexperienced entire-bitch owner that I am, that when she missed out the autumn I was, in the first place, safe till spring, and in the second place, possibly going to be lucky and she’d be a one-annual-heat bitch.  I’m very strongly of the if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it philosophy, and aside from questions of whether or not I’m going to try to breed her** if she doesn’t make the hellhounds crazy she will probably keep her bits.  If she doesn’t make me crazy.  Which is presently being reassessed.

We have here the Incredible Hulk-ette.  I swear she’s bigger (and greener) than she was last week.  There’s noticeably more noise*** including her seeing off a much-wider-than-usual selection of invisible monsters in her crate—and her telling everyone in Hampshire, when we go for our hurtles, that she is not interested, that her swollen rear end has a mind of its own and she does not share its manifest desire for immediate copulation and to keep your distance, whoever you are.  I believe this is the stage described as ‘will not stand for the dog’.

Honeybun, I have no intention of letting you stand for any dogs, now or next week.  The hellhounds, at present, are saying, oh, gah, this again, and putting their heads under the blanket.  But it’s still early days.  Waaaaaaaaaaah. . . . 

* * *

* That is, in the northern hemisphere.  It’s probably a perfectly good month to get your livestock preggers in the south.

** Which I am putting off absolutely for at least another year.

*** It’s always welcome to have your resident goblin barking her head off when the neighbours have the poor judgement to be holding their conversation under your kitchen window.  Especially at, oh, 8 a.m. or so.  At the moment hormonal sensitivity seems to be extending her aversive range to the entire length of the cul de sac which is not short enough.  Plus her hearing is much too acute.  If a beetle farts in the hedgerow I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT.^

^ Wildlife.  Feh.  Did I tell you that the local Pet Shop Proprietors say that birdseed take up is bad all over Hampshire?  So it’s not just me.  I did eventually get Birdseed Feeder #2, now so clean it hurts,+ put back together again, despite the manufacturers’ best efforts against, my success mainly due to a misspent youth playing those horrible hand-held tilt games where you’re trying to get the coloured ball to fall through the right coloured hole.  I performed this feat of dexterity with the frelling microscopic screws that hold the base on and whose sub-microscopic holes are unattainable by super-microscopic human fingers.  I got the nasty little frellers out with a miniature screwdriver whose business end is about the size of a hummingbird’s tongue, but getting them in again?  Through the squirrel-repelling hard wire cage?  Whose base is a crosspiece perfectly sited to prevent you getting a finger through (let alone two, since you probably need two fingers to HOLD a microscopic screw)?  AND THE BIRDS CAN’T BE BOTHERED TO EAT MY BIRDSEED?  Fine.  You guys all need to fly to Tahiti next winter.  I’m sure I can create a few tall thin planters out of these ex-birdfeeders.

The fat balls are disappearing at a rate however.  I hope it’s my penguin-sized robin (who is too robust to get through the squirrel cage wire) who is consuming these.++

Further in wildlife news:  We haven’t seen the frelling churchyard hedgehog in a while +++ but a few nights ago hellhounds and I came around the corner onto the main street again and . . . saw a fox loping lazily away ahead of us.  I think foxes are dangerous vermin and while this town, plonked down in farmland as it is, is doubtless swarming with foxes in the vicinity I prefer to avoid close encounters.  Therefore imagine the adrenaline spike when we’d rounded that same corner two nights later and . . . there’s a break in the terrace row of little old houses where the let’s-make-it-obvious-we’re-fabulously-wealthy owners of the big house on the corner have installed ye Gate of Gates at the back~ thus creating a niche.  Hellhounds’ heads came up and they careened round the wall into the niche before I, it’s very late even by my standards and my reflexes are not too good right now anyway, hit the brakes on their leads and apocalypse by the sound of it ensued.  I thought it was the fox, and that the vet bills were going to be really expensive.  I had done my hellgoddess in a panic trick and thrown myself against the ends of their now-fully-extended leads and began dragging them away from whatever was happening, like fishermen winching waterlogged nets up onto the shore where they can get at them.  I was amazed that, as hellhounds emerged, backwards and mostly on their hind legs, no one seemed to be bleeding.

Nothing else emerged.  I waited a couple of seconds, got hellhounds on very short lead—the kind of very short lead I can hold them on—and we walked past the niche.

And there was Phineas’ marmalade ex-hellkitten, sitting at the very back of the niche against the closed Gate and his tail curled around his feet, looking utterly unbothered.  Cats are masters of the Happened?  Did anything happen?  No, I didn’t notice anything happen, nonchalance, but I assume my winching had taken effect at an opportune juncture.  Although I would have sworn there was more noise than two hellhounds, even two excited hellhounds, could have made.  Speaking of noise.

+ And therefore badly out of the cottage décor.

++ One of the items B_Twin brought from Australia are . . . wait for it . . . peppermint chocolate frogs.  I’m sitting here eating peppermint chocolate frogs.  I want you to know I find it very disturbing to bite the heads off frogs, even chocolate ones.#

# No of course I’m not going to eat them tail first.  I want them to die a swift, clean death.

+++ I hope it’s just hibernating and hasn’t drowned.  The sky pitched it down again yesterday and we’re back to standing water in all directions.

~ With the glittering high-tech dashboard set into the wall which keeps going wrong so the Gate of Gates often stands helplessly open and any riffraff could wander in.  Hee hee hee hee hee.

It’s nearly 2 a.m. and I still have to write the blog


It has not been a good day.  I overslept—which at least has the advantage that I got some sleep—but I was racing around tripping over a puppy very anxious to be helpful trying to catch up with myself and failing, of course, does anyone ever catch up?*, and one of my split-second decisions was to leave the GIGANTIC HOUSE SPIDER perched precariously on a skirting board near the front door—he was too big and he didn’t fit, and was having to extend some of his supernumerary limbs around the corner and grasp the front of the bookcase—and finish throwing the last six animals and twenty-two knapsacks in Wolfgang and get down to the mews before sunset.

Which means he’s still at the cottage.  Somewhere.  Waiting for me.  Unless of course he’s found his beloved and they are experiencing marital bliss . . . somewhere.  You don’t seem to find pairs of spiders so I’m ASSUMING I don’t have to worry about the happy couple(s) once they are.  But it’s now definitively nighttime and by the time we all** get back to the cottage I’ll be tired and . . . I know it looks like a really dumb decision.  But there’s the additional factoid that neither of my spider catchers are actually up to the job of autumn-sized house spiders, the ones that are as big as your hand.  That Godzilla I posted photos of a couple of years ago is still a personal worst, but this time of year there are always several jolly little pony-sized arachnids that, like the cockroaches outside Charlie’s Coffeehouse, you can hear as they clatter across the lino’d*** floor.  Ugggh.  But I wonder what spider-catcher-inventors are thinking about when they design something big and strong enough to tackle a somewhat undernourished daddy-long-legs?  I have never used the box one on anything bigger than my thumbnail because I dislike cutting legs off, even of spiders . . . and I’m probably not going to bother with a spider that small anyway—I’m a sort of mutable arachnophobe—and the box-catcher, while it was sold to me for spiders, is useful for wasps and Other Things That Sting.

I have been put off forever using the bristle-brush catcher, where you plop the business end of this bushy broom thing over your spider and then run the handle down toward it so the bristles close over it, TRAPPING IT SECURELY.  Yes.  Indeed.  An autumn-sized spider says ‘hmm, indoor hedgerow, don’t like it’, bursts through the plastic bristles without breaking a sweat AND RUNS UP THE HANDLE TOWARD MY ARM.  Exit screaming.†  I may have told you this story before.  The memory lingers.


. . . I thought this early story-arc of the hob was dead obvious. Dead obvious isn’t necessarily bad—see previous response: OF COURSE I’m going to feed a friendly hob—but it’s usually, erm, obvious. You must read too many engineering texts or something and your eye has got out for fiction.

Well, yes, looking back, it was obvious. **defensively** I’d just turned 70 the day before. I was rather shaken by the idea that my extended middle age is over. 70 is undeniably old.

I seem to have left a piece of my brain behind. But, hey, I’m 70; I have an excuse. Right?

I’m sorry!  ::Grovels::  I meant to be teasing you.  —It goes on being a problem, this communication thing, even after 1,000,000,000,000,000 years of evolution from space dust or sea-bottom slime or whatever††, and email and the internet have just super-extended it into eleventy-seven new dimensions.  You get so used to talking with your fingers that you forget how many of the traditional social cues you’re not picking up.

Er . . . happy birthday?  I had a friend commenting when she turned seventy several years ago that everyone was telling her that ‘seventy is the new fifty’.  No it isn’t, she said.  That would make sixty the new forty, and I can vouch that sixty is not forty, new or otherwise.


. . . Best insomnia cure for Christians: Read Leviticus.

::Shudder::  Not for me.  Leviticus is too full of horrors.  You’re supposed to do what because of what?  Noooooooo.  Not to mention killing all those poor critters and splashing their blood around.†††


I cook for my home group regularly, and we have some people with very restrictive diets. I would always rather know as much as possible as soon as possible (within limits of what they are comfortable telling me, of course). For me, hospitality is a big deal. So if someone does have a limitation and they don’t tell me, I always feel bad that I wasn’t allowed to provide them what I provided everyone else with (or at least the equivalent). It makes my hospitality feel incomplete. I would say I do feel like you would be ministering to me by telling me because it would relieve me of the guilt I would feel for being inconsiderate of someone else’s needs, even if it was unintentional. . . .

Sure.  And I have emailed the organiser.  But I don’t like eating in a group and I resent being forced to do so.  I wouldn’t join a home group that required me to accept the food hospitality of the organizer as part of the regular meetings:  if this Alpha course began every meeting, instead of just the first one, with a group meal, I wouldn’t sign up.  Hospitality, and providing for your guests, is your big deal.  What if one of your guests has a big deal of being able to eat in private without someone’s need to be hospitable looming over them?

Diane in MN

. . . hellhounds are, erm, undesirably reactive to rabbit and venison and they won’t eat any of the other within-my-price-range options.

If you haven’t already tried it, you might look at turkey as an alternative to chicken. The taste is similar but the proteins are different (I was allergic to chicken, but not to turkey), and if it’s a new food they might not be sensitive to it. That’s assuming turkey is as commonplace in your markets as it is here, of course.

Turkey is available over here at Christmas, at £1,000,000,000 per carat.  If there are other turkey options I haven’t found them, although I admit my google-fu is poor.  I’ve had other Americans suggest turkey—and duck, which is nearly as expensive although available most of the year in case anyone wins the lottery—and I’ve tried the dog-food turkey and duck, either 100% or at least grain-free, and hellhounds, of course, won’t touch it.  Fortunately Pav will so all those frelling tins aren’t going to be wasted.


. . . I adore Bendicks Bittermints, they are not thin and squidgy but thick and solid with a really intense mint hit.

Yes, I remember those.  Before I discovered G&B, and before I was clobbered by the ME, I got through a lot of Bendicks Bittermints which are, as you say, excellent.  But the ME comes with a lorryload of chemical/environmental sensitivities/intolerances as well as the straightforward food issues and I’m pretty paranoid about organic.  And Bendicks, unfortunately, is not organic.  I admit that I wonder what kind of corners G&B may be cutting behind their behemoth corporate front, now they’re no longer independent.  And do things like disguise inferior new product in a superior old product’s packaging.

3rd dragon

Yeah, I’ve been VERY lactose intolerant for about a year now, and the thing that I hate most is how difficult it makes communal food (especially dessert). My church is making efforts to be better about labeling . . . but mostly in the direction of being accommodating to people with gluten sensitivities. . . .

Food allergies and intolerances are so common now—and commonly known about—it amazes me, not in a good way, how slow how many providers of public or communal food, including restaurants, are to respond in any useful way.  One of the things that used to make me crazy when I first moved over here is that any vegetarian option WAS UP TO ITS ARMPITS IN CHEESE.  It’s like the entire country had got stuck in the early Moosewood Cookbook stage.  It’s better now, but it’s still not uncommon to find the one ::trumpet fanfare:: vegetarian option on a restaurant menu to be three kinds of LOCALLY SOURCED!!!! cheese artfully woven through some risotto rice.  And if you’re dairy- tomato/potato/eggplant/etc- and gluten-intolerant HAVE A NICE LIFE.  Somewhere else.  If you can.  Fortunately I do—and can—eat meat‡, or I’d’ve starved to death years ago.

Restaurants are fun, too. Last night, for example, I found myself dragged along to an Italian place. And it’s not that I don’t like Italian food. But ALL ITALIAN FOOD IS BETTER WITH CHEESE. . . . If anyone has suggestions for what Italian food I should be ordering that would still be interesting without cheese or milk, I’m open to ideas.

Okay, I may be able to help here.  Back in the days when I was only lactose intolerant I discovered harlot’s sauce.  Most Italian restaurants have it and I never had a bad one—famous last words I daresay.  I can’t immediately find my recipe since it’s been retired and while I’m used to being dairy-free I still suffer lingering sulkiness about being tomato-free, but this one looks like the right stuff:


* * *

* Don’t answer that

** The thirty-seven animals and ninety-eight knapsacks

*** We’re not supposed to call it lino any more.  Lino is scruffy and low-class.  I think it’s now vinyl.  I have a very nice floor, whatever it calls itself, except for the muddy spider footprints.  The hellcritters and I all wipe our feet carefully.  Yes.

† Pav is extremely fond of the bristle-brush spider-catcher, although not for the use for which it was intended.

†† And the hand of God, but in one of his obscurer moments.  Although on a bad day I think the entire Bible is one long, gruesomely over-extended obscurer moment.

††† Definitely an obscurer moment.

‡ AND LOTS AND LOTS OF (mostly raw) VEGETABLES AND FRUIT.  I’m so Paleo.  I’m probably healthy as **** and will live forever.^

^ Well, if I am healthy as **** it’s nice idea. . . .



Last night I turned the Aga back on*, closed the kitchen and attic windows for the first time in months and ate my first apples of the season off my little tree**.  I also wore gloves to take hellhounds for their last hurtle at glurp o’clock in the morning.  And it was dark tonight at eight o’clock.  Trying to get everybody hurtled at least occasionally in daylight is going to be more challenging this year, since the dream of a regular three-way hurtle isn’t looking too good.***

Good-bye summer, I guess.  But I’d like to keep my dahlias till November, okay?

* * *

* It’s been off long enough that I’d got used to being able to put stuff on it.  What with the bowls of fruit, small decorative jars of (decanted) dog food, caddies of (also decanted) bird food^, piles of magazines and knitting there is no counter, you know, space, and I have to decide what to put my computer on.^^  At least I managed to remember to take the plug-in single electric burner off the top of one of the Aga burner lids.  I forgot last time and the little rubber pads on the ends of the legs of the electric burner melted.

^ I need yet another new bird feeder.  I have two of those squirrel-repelling cage ones, the theory being that the mesh is big enough only to let small birds through.  I discovered, by the simple expedient of doing the washing-up while the assault on Everest was being performed in my back garden, that the mesh is too small to let the (fat) resident robin through.+

+ The size differential among British robins is pretty extreme.  Of the breeding pair a year ago who raised two broods in my greenhouse# one was nearly twice the size of the other one and easily differentiated even when there was only one visible.  And it’s the bigger one that did most of the nest sitting and who disappeared as soon as the babies were half fledged, leaving the other to finish the job—which ought to mean she was mum.  But according to on line the male robin is slightly bigger.  Well, on line isn’t always correct, and maybe this robin has the short-man-likes-big-women complex.

# I have my fingers crossed for next year.  This year my greenhouse was full of the results of a fallen-down wall which is to say first a shortage of walls and shelves to put nests on and second a Strange Man wielding wall-building materials and a trowel.

^^ Fruit is a bad choice:  too knobbly.+

+ I am so looking forward to the hellterror being old enough to learn ‘go lie down [and stay there for more than ten seconds]’ so that I can START USING MY OFFICE AGAIN.  At the moment it’s just a bridge too far.  I can’t exactly work with her underfoot in the cottage kitchen but certain things are possible.#  And she has to spend enough time in her crate:  hellhounds and I don’t have to go upstairs.  Hellhounds flee occasionally## but I stay in the kitchen, providing her with a Focus for Existence, and balancing my computer on tall piles of mostly magazines.  It’s not a bad thing to have the computer higher than usual if I end up with a hellterror in my lap, which I mostly do.  This wouldn’t work at all at a desk, by the way.  My knees against the cupboard door and her butt tucked under the edge of the counter is what keeps her in position and I can still type.

# Chiefly fishing her out of the hellhound crate for the 1,000,000,000,000th time this hour.

## Although Chaos usually creeps down again and crouches on the stairs peering through the railing and waiting for me to notice and open the gate.  Then he quickly plasters his cranky-uncle expression on and bolts for the hellhound crate.

** Not so little really.  I’m still saying it has to get through its first winter after the wall fell down and was rebuilt around it before I stop worrying about the state of its roots, but the fact that it is producing lovely apples despite the gaspingly dry summer is a good sign.  I have been watering it—and I don’t usually water anything that is both well-established and in the ground since I have way way WAAAAAAY too many dratblasted pots to keep up with—but even a middling-sized apple tree is still a tree.

*** All five of us went to see Tabitha today.  Tabitha lives on the edge of one of the suburbs of Mauncester, with farmland starting at the end of her drive.  I hurtle while Peter is getting thumped.^  And the hellterror so loooooongs to be One of Us I can’t quite give up on the three-way hurtle idea^^.  So we all three/four went up the road and then turned to come back across the stubble fields.  I had a pocket full of kibble and half an insane plan to try and let them all off lead again.

Only the field was full of frelling game birds.  Even aside from the fact that they’ve no doubt been raised for shooting and the local keeper would not be pleased to have them exploded off the territory by havoc-running dogs, I’m not going to slip hellcritters when there’s wildlife in view.  Hellhounds are used to this unreasonableness from the hellgoddess.  Hellterror is used to nothing.  I thought (a) the frelling birds would fly when they realised that slowly ambling group behind them was going to keep coming and (b) that the FRELLING HELLTERROR would eventually give up when the birds didn’t fly but the hellgoddess didn’t let go either.

Wrong on both counts.  I think the blasted birds were enjoying the show.  They kept looking back over their shoulders, clacking, and then going back to winnowing through the stubble.  ARRRRRRRRGH.  Fortunately I am the arthritic sixty-year-old skinny white girl version of Watermelon Shoulders and she didn’t have a chance.^^^  But by the time we got back to the car I was ready to give her away.  I remind myself that I spent YEARS threatening to leave hellhounds in a box by the side of the road with a sign saying FREE HELLHOUNDS.

^ Peter then falls asleep on Tabitha’s sofa while I get thumped.  When we get home again I fall asleep on Peter’s sofa.  It’s the Tabitha Effect and is why I try to book on days I am not ringing bells in the evening.

^^ As well that three-way would be saving me a little time and wear.  I am NOT THINKING about the possibility that—chiefly thanks to other people’s dogs#—it will never be really safe or practical to harness the troika.

# I believe I said recently that I had mostly sorted out the neighbour’s terrier crapping in the drive at Third House by keeping the gate shut?  Next time I went up there . . . there was a fresh pile of dog crap immediately outside the gate.  Very funny.  Very, very, very funny.

^^^ Fortunately she was in her shiny new padded harness after she ate her pink one.  Ten minutes unsupervised in the car and one of the crucial connecting straps was hanging by a shred.  This happened Saturday afternoon, of course, so I spent a day and a half threading the long lead through the bits of the harness that were still harness so that when the shred gave way I would still have a hellterror on the end of the lead.

The new padded harness is very flash.  And sturdy.  But it’s only red.  Sigh.




(Feh.  Yes.  Blog post tonight.  And here I had an excuse to skive off.)

. . . It started last night of course.  All the worst days start the night before.  It gives days with attitude problems a better run at being festering ratbags.

I’d had a fit of the sillies and bought half a dozen songs from an on-line sheet music shop who sells you the downloads and then you have to print the suckers out.  Hey, the shop was having a sale.  You don’t expect me to resist a SALE, do you?*  Have I mentioned lately that I HATE MY PRINTER?  I hate my printer.  Hate.  Hate.  The hellpack may have to live on dog food to let me squeeze out enough money to BUY A NEW PRINTER.**

I managed to get two of five or six pieces printed out.  By which time I was hoarse from screaming and all three critters were in various carpet-like postures, hoping to escape attention from Kali in her Destroyer phase.  And the printer was now permanently stuck in one of two responses:  PAPER JAM or PAPER TRAY EMPTY.  Print something?  Are you kidding?  It was totally betrayed and violated by the fact that I’d got any pages out of it at all.  PAPER JAM, it says, aggrievedly.  And when it gets bored with that, and I’ve opened and slammed shut ALL of its doors and turned it off and back on again two or three times, it declares PAPER TRAY EMPTY for a while.

Shaking with frustrated rage***  I went into the bathroom for a nice calming bath.  And discovered a wasp trying to fight its way through the screen.†  WTF, you moron?  It’s a BATHROOM.  I don’t use scented bath oil and my peppermint toothpaste is unsweetened.  I turned the light out for a minute . . . went back in and discovered the freller ON THE INSIDE.

I killed it.  I don’t like killing things, but I’m a little hysterical about aggressive things that bite.  And I was just getting into my nice calming bath WHEN I DISCOVERED THERE WERE THREE MORE WASPS ALREADY IN THE BATHROOM.  If the first one had been a honeybee†† I’d’ve at least tried to trap her in a glass and take her outdoors.  But FOUR?  Waaaaaah.  Well, I nailed two of ’em and couldn’t find the third, so I spent the night—what was left of the night—(a) with the bathroom window closed, which was horrible because it was a hot night and that bathroom window is the centrepiece of my cross ventilation system (b) not sleeping, of course, because I was lying there rigidly listening for buzzing noises, because aside from the missing third/fourth, if there were four there might be more and (c) when I got up for a pee slamming painfully into the closed bathroom door.  And (d) sweltering.

I am not awake today.  And there were handbells this afternoon.

There was supposed to be Oisin this afternoon too, although after the night I’d just had I might have bottled out of singing again, but I had to cancel to stay in for the Exterminator Man.  Who came, confirmed that my unwelcome guests are wasps not honeybees, THAT THEY’RE FRELLING RAMPANT IN MY GARDEN . . . and that there’s NOTHING HE CAN DO ABOUT THEM BECAUSE THE NEST IS SOMEWHERE ELSE.

So I have the joyous prospect before me of either boiling to death with all my windows shut . . . or knocking on a series disturbingly upwardly mobile doors—have I mentioned lately that I live in the high-rent district, and single-handedly lower the tone by relentless application of All Stars and an American accent and, lately, bull terrier puppy—and saying pardon me, have you noticed any wasps about the place?

Oh, and I’ve forgotten to tell you that my landline has died.  DIED.  Died.  No phone.  I don’t like phones but it is a little inconvenient. . . . And people get testy when you won’t give them your mobile number just because your landline isn’t working.

I decided that what I really needed was some monks.  So when my handbellers left, I am happy to add, unstung, I told the hellpack to Go.  Lie.  Down, I would be back later.

Well, I was back a lot sooner than planned.  They’d had night prayer unscheduledly early and the chapel was already locked.

A truly festering ratfrellerbag of a day.

* * *

* Also sheet music is cheaper than yarn.^  Awful lot of frelling yarn shops having summer sales too.  They figure hey, it’s August, September is coming . . . WINTER.  MUST HAVE YARN.

^ I could of course start collecting complete scores . . . which would put me back in the silk/merino/hand-dyed category again . . . but I’m not going to.  I have my complete SWEENEY TODD.  That’s enough.  Probably.  For now.+

+  Yarn.  Must have yarn.#

# Would also quite like a little more Olivier Messiaen.  I can’t read it, but just staring at the page makes me feel a little like how I imagine mainlining heroin might feel.  Whoooooosh.  Hey, another planet.  And Messiaen scores are definitely in the silk/cashmere/hand-dyed in small lots by virgin priestesses at the new moon price category.

** Since the angels tell me that getting the current purulent garbage heap rehabilitated would cost more than buying a new one.  PLANNED OBSOLESCENCE MY AUNT FANNY.  THE PIECE OF ROTTEN OFFAL ARRIVED NEEDING TO BE REPLACED.^

^ Some day . . . pleeeeeeeeease . . . some day may I have a printer I don’t hate?

*** Throwing it out the window would result in picking little stupid plastic pieces out of my garden for the next century.  Aside from the fact that my handkerchief of earth is so densely planted there’s nowhere for the abomination to land without crushing something innocent and friendly . . . no, Souvenir, speaking of guilty and hostile, is on the far wall.  I wouldn’t be able to heave the unholy object that distance.

† And then there are the Window Screen Wars.  England doesn’t believe in air con.  It doesn’t believe in screens for your windows either.  ARRRRRRRGH.  I can see some justification for a lack of air con.  I CAN SEE NO JUSTIFICATION WHATSOEVER FOR A LACK OF WINDOW SCREENS.  And the cut-to-size stuff costs £1,762,444 per square metre, and the square metre isn’t square, it’s in some kind of funny rhomboid shape specially designed for as much wastage as possible per window.  I think it’s the same company that makes printers.  Furthermore the cut-to-size stuff is stuck in place by Velcro strips and it’s a whole lot better than nothing but it’s a bit like the locks on your doors:  a really determined burglar/wasp will get in anyway.  What you want to try to do is not be that attractive.  IT’S A BATHROOM.  WHY DO YOU WANT TO GET INTO MY BATHROOM?

†† The horrible truth is that I cannot reliably tell one buzzy stinging thing from another.  I can totally do bumblebees, who are slow and furry, but those nippy little yellow and black things, not so much.  I know that wasps are the yellowest and blackest, and the nippiest, but unless I’ve got a wasp to hand to compare a honeybee with, the smaller, more slender honeybees look a little too wasp-like for my comfort.  Anything that has big yellow pollen panniers is also fine but they don’t always.  And you can kind of assume that something that is trying to get into MY BATHROOM is confused and therefore unpredictable and possibly cranky.

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