Happiness Is.... No. 5

Happiness is..... lying in bed taking your mind off your headache and stomach cramps whilst listening to the sound of your cat happily chasing a ball bearing up and down over the floorboards of the bedroom on the floor below.

It's even happier when she bats it into the air and then tries to catch it in a frantic thudding flurry.

Truly. One of the best sounds I've heard for a long time.

Alice xxx

PS: in case you are wondering, actually watching Suzie play with the ball bearing (a small metal ball the size of a large pea. Goodness knows how and where she found it, but it's hers now, in any case) is unfortunately impossible. Thanks to the treatment she received before she came to us (dealt out to her by people that will some day, I am sure, be rotting in Hell having the same treatment dealt out to them as punishment), she is far too shy and skittish for that. The best we can do is listen to her and smile, imagining what it would look like.

Anyway: ball bearing plus privacy plus a nice wooden floor equals a happy cat.

= smiles =

For Your Amusement; Some Things I Overheard:

SNIPPET NUMBER 1.

~ START ~

Scene begins in Kidderminster Town Centre. Alice is walking along singing - can't remember what - inside her head. Two other women are walking behind her. At a crossing, with everyone paused ready for the traffic to come to a stop, she hears a snippet of the conversation....

WOMAN 1: (balefully) ...so then he asked me to "drive over the roundabout".
WOMAN 2: (after doubtful pause) ...you DIDN'T actually go 'OVER' the roundabout...did you?
WOMAN 1: (indignant) well *I* didn't know! How could I know??
WOMAN 2: (stifles giggle) what happened after that?
WOMAN 1: well, he wasn't very pleased...

~ END ~


SNIPPET NUMBER 2.

~ START ~

Scene begins soon after SNIPPET NUMBER 1 as Alice pauses again at a different set of traffic lights in Kidderminster Town Centre. Two men pass by and part of their conversation becomes audible...

MAN 1:  ....Then she asked me if she looked fat.
MAN 2: (pauses. then, incredulous) Tell me you didn't say "YES"??
MAN 1: (sheepish) Well...
MAN 2: Oh, Bro; Never, EVER...
MAN 1: Well I KNOW NOW!

~ END ~


And while I'm in the mood: SNIPPET NUMBER 3.

~ START ~

Scene begins as Alice boards a bus (many moons ago). Two girls are waiting in line behind her as tickets are purchased, talking about their day at school...

GIRL 1: It's so unfair! THREE detentions in one week! And I have to scrape chewing gum off of all of the desks and stuff. Gross. I think Mr. Paddock's really horrible.
GIRL 2: (doubtful tone) well, to be fair, you DID set fire to the...
GIRL 1: (interrupts angrily) that was an ACCIDENT!
GIRL 2: well, yeah, but still...

~ END ~

Oh....BUNNY!*

Bingo is still what is classed as "under partial veterinary supervision". The site of the operation IS healing, but very, very slowly. The stitches had pulled themselves open - not ripped, they assured us - and were now useless; in fact they had started to become infected (antibiotics again: yay!), so they had to be taken out. The wound itself is "pink and healthy and showing signs of granulation", which, the vet said (over and over. At the words "opened" and "infected" and the phrase "so now the hole is a size of a 10p piece rather than a 5p piece" we both went rather grey) is good, really good. It's all just taking a long time.
    And Bingo is getting incredibly fed up, obviously.
    His energy levels - without his walks - are now so high that you can practically see them. The poor thing is desperate for exercise, simply desperate. And bored, so very bored. And his paw may not be hurting him but it certainly must be terribly uncomfortable, all padded and wrapped up in thick bandages...
    Oh, God.
    I know that everything is going in the right direction. I know the money will be given back to us (thank God for insurance). I know he will get better. But I want it to happen NOW. I want it to be finished and done with NOW.

I'm being childish, I know. That's how I feel, right now. Like a child; looking out at a very scary and unfair world and powerless to do anything to improve it. And, again, I know that is over-dramatic, but again; right now that is how I feel.  

Alice xxx


* my way of saying the "F" word without actually saying it. It came about a few days ago when I needed to rant and felt like swearing, but didn't want to scar the developing young mind of Squidgum. So hence, Bunny! was born. 

Gawd ALMIGHTY!

Well! What a to-do!

I got to work this morning to be confronted by both Bitch and Colleague; Bitch looking grim and Colleague looking anxious. Wondering what was going to happen, my footsteps slowed to near on a stop, but that didn't help, as they merely made their own way towards me.

Steeling myself, I smiled brightly and waited for the storm. Something that I had done, hadn't done, hadn't done properly...?? ...Nope! It was none of those; in fact, it was nothing that could conceivably be considered my fault.
    What had actually happened was that Colleague's wages had been wrong (again) and that having finally gotten through to a person that had the power to delve into the system and attempt find out what had happened yesterday afternoon, she was informed that the amount owed to her HAD been paid, but Into MY account. MY as in 'me'; Alice Collison (in case that hadn't sunk in).
    Stunned, I opened my mouth and closed it (do a very good fish impression, me) and looked from Bitch to Colleague and back again. There had to be some kind of mistake...but no, apparently, there wasn't. I was flabbergasted. Getting the amount of hours wrong, sure - not acceptable, but at least understandable - but surely they couldn't have actually paid someone else's wages into a completely different bank account, even if they did work at the same place. Our 'contract number' may be the same, but the 'payroll' numbers - the one the system supposedly uses to calculate hours and wages and whatnot - are COMPLETELY different from each other, and although our first names begin with the same letter, our surnames are...=counts=...four letters apart from each other. And it wasn't a case of adding the hours onto the wrong wage slip accidentally, either, as when I received my slip it showed that MY wages had been (miraculously) correct, but a full separate payment; money that should have been paid to Colleague.
    There was no real explanation as to how this had happened; they had no idea. It "shouldn't have" happened; all that could be put forth as a reason was (yet ANOTHER) "computer glitch". A very BIG "computer glitch".
    Anyway, after a few more fish impressions from me (I really AM very good), Colleague explained that the woman she had spoken to (henceforth known as Pleasant But Generally Useless Arse, or PBGUA for short) had said that going from where they were now - with Colleagues money currently sitting in my bank and not hers, that was - there were only two options. Option one was for ME to pay HER the money directly, either by cash or cheque. Option two was that the company start the proceedings for the money to be deducted from MY account and then paid into hers afterwards. PBGUA  did admit, when pushed, however, that the second option would probably take a lot longer than the first; by about FOUR WEEKS.

=SIGH. HEAD-DESK. SIGH=

Colleague had "gone mental" (her words) over the phone at that point; and terribly justified she had been, too. She had bills to pay and food to buy for her and her children (she's a widow, managing alone) and thanks to the company messing up her wages and underpaying her over and over again fortnight in and fortnight out since she started work for them a year ago, there was NO MONEY in her account, an account that had direct debit payments pending RIGHT NOW.
    As she told me all of this, I could see that she was close to tears; a woman at the end of her tether, and rightly so. I assured her that I would check my account - I was due to go to the bank and get cash out today to pay a couple of bills anyway - to see if the money was there (which, knowing the company we were dealing with, was a 50/50 chance) and then contact her.
    So off to the bank I trotted after my shift. Sure enough, there was an extra payment of £143.45. I texted Colleague: would she like me to write her a cheque? Forty minutes later the phone rang: Colleague. She was really really really sorry, but if I wrote her a cheque it would take at least seven business days to clear and she needed the money NOW; please please please could I get it out in cash? She needed to pay it in by 11:30-am to cover the direct debit payments.
   Now, ordinarily this wouldn't have been a problem; after all the money was there and it wasn't an amount that I'd banked on (no pun intended), but the thing was; I had already removed the daily limit in cash with my card for the bills (which had already been paid, by now). Again, not a problem ordinarily because I could write myself a cheque and get the money over the counter, but; I hadn't got my cheque-book with me, and there wasn't time to go home and get it, then go back to the bank and queue up, then get the money to Colleague so that she could then get it to HER bank and cash it all in, before 11:30-am. I told her this and she started to panic. Did I bank over the internet at all? I didn't. Couldn't I draw more money out over the counter with my card, so long as I had identification? Her bank let her do that. I didn't think I could, but I assured the poor girl that I would try.
    So back to the bank I trotted (I had been in the ironmongers at the time, looking for impossibly thin wire for The Grandmama. Long story) with Mother - who had been paying bills with me - in tow to see what could be done.
    The short answer, as it turned out, was "nothing". Without my cheque-book and with my limit already reached there was no way to get any more money out (as per rules/agreements etc.) with my bank card, no matter how many forms of identification I had with me (only one, as it happened). Crap, crap, crappity CRAP!
   At my wits end, I stood there staring with helpless pleading at the un-moved bank clerk (you know, as a mature adult does) doing my fish impression (yes, again), trying to think. All seemed hopeless. I was lost... And then out of the blue; Mother (who had remembered HER cheque-book) stepped in and came to the rescue! Hooray Hurrah! A cheque was written - twice, actually: she made a mistake writing the first one. I thought she was going to start screaming there and then - and cashed to the sum of £143.45 and placed carefully into an envelope and we exited the bank at warp speed. There was still time, just, to meet the deadline...
    Fifteen minutes later, Colleague had her money and gratefully signed the receipt we had written out (in case company tries to deduct the money from me anyway) and mother and I headed home a full hour later than we had intended to. Whew!

So! Now I am waiting to be able to get in touch with PBGUA to inform her that the money has been paid (to try and waylay the sending of any snotty letters in my direction), I am mightily pissed off with the company yet again (as is everybody else), an hour of my life has been wasted due to someone else's (gross) mistake and I owe mother £143.45.
    Oh, and get this: the money paid to me instead of Colleague wasn't actually the correct amount. She is still owed another £100 after this.

=SIGH. HEAD-DESK. SIGH=

Alice xxx

Ow Ow Ow!

One week I had off; one measly week.
    Just seven days away from work. You wouldn't have thought so, though, to see me today. It was as if my body had never cleaned before, let alone cleaned professionally. By the time 9-am rolled around, not only was I so far behind that I couldn't catch up - there may well be complaints tomorrow, and well deserved they will be if there are - but every last inch of me was throbbing as though I had gone through a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson.
    =sighs=

I know it will get easier, but right now: OW OW OW!

Alice xxx

Update (On The Update Of The Update? Or On The Update Of The Update Of The Update...? I've lost track):

Bingo is STILL being fussy. He WILL eat his regular food (treat-type stuff, of course, goes down with with no hesitation whatsoever), but only once per day as apposed to twice, and only if I stand a few feet away from him blocking his path, with my arms folded or hands on hips in a Xena-esque pose. THEN he'll eat. Eventually.

I know I've said this already (probably more than once), but I can't wait for all this to be over, I really can't.

...As an aside, though: I bet I'd look great dressed as Xena, don't you?

=grins=

Alice xxx

Well, That's It...

....my week off is coming to an end. Tomorrow I go back to work.

It is a good thing that I have a job. The employment rates in this country are such that many people would be grateful for the 19 hours a week that I have. And it is - Bitchy Supervisors aside - good, honest hard graft that helps keep me fit (like going to the gym for 3 hours, six days a week. And getting paid for it).

But all that aside, there is one overriding feeling regarding my imminent return:

I DON'T WANNA! =stamps foot=

That is all.

Alice xxx

=SIGH=

I thought that one of the reasons that people chose dogs rather than kids was so that they didn't have to deal with crap like this....

Here's the thing. Bingo has been on semi-hunger strike since the Op'. This is because the first two meals he had afterward were canned food, and he really quite likes canned food and would like to be given canned food all the time, rather than the dry stuff that I give him (which is boring by comparison); so when it came to being given dry food again, he turned his nose up. And this wouldn't be a problem normally - he's a Labrador. The longest he's lasted without cracking so far in his 8.5 years is four meals worth - but for the fact that he is taking strong painkillers that need to be taken with food, and the little slice of ham that I squirt it on (my word, that stuff smells BAD. Ham is the only thing that disguises the taste) doesn't really count. So it's important that he eats. But to give him canned food all the time - to make sure he could have his painkiller - would upset his stomach, as it is used to dry food and can't cope with anything else for long; even two meals' worth caused problems. So what to do? Well, I stood firm and gave him dry food (which he didn't eat), then at the risk of him being sick I gave him the ham soaked in painkiller anyway (which thankfully, he wasn't). Dinner time rolled around and I put his bowl back down, and he whined at me and paced, and still didn't eat it.
    Cue this morning. I gave him a fresh lot of dry food (or at least, he thought it was), and he looked at it, then sighed, then started to walk away. Oh HELL no. I was pissed off, now.
    Standing in his way, I told him, firmly, that I wanted him to eat at least a bit of his breakfast so that I could give him his painkiller and not worry that he might be sick. I didn't think that would work, to be honest, but with another pained sigh he turned back round and made his way back to the bowl.
    Once there he gave me a sideways glance - to see if I was still there - and I folded my arms, adopting a defiant stance. It was the same stance that I had seen various parents take up to combat their child's stubbornness; except that in this case, instead of a stubborn child I had a stubborn 8 and a half year old dog. And instead of a plate full of vegetables to chow down, the battle was over a bowl full of Bakers Complete.
    He whined a little and pouted to see if I would back down, which garnered the raised eye-browed response of "no, I won't". And I meant it. The little sod KNEW what I wanted him to do, and I KNEW that he was hungry; after nearly forty-eight hours he had to be*. The food was good - even though it wasn't what he wanted - and was the best thing for him, and damn it; I wasn't moving till he ate something.
    Well, he sighed again and picked up one piece of dry food, which he carefully placed on the floor beside the bowl (that's normal; he always does this). Then, after giving me another sideways glance - yes, I was still there - he gave a third sigh, the biggest I had ever heard him give, and ate it. Then he looked at me again.
    That was good, I told him, but I'd like him to eat at least a few mouthfuls.
    Another sigh. Another piece carefully placed to one side and then eaten - does anyone know why he might do that?? - and another reproachful glare, sigh and whine in my direction.
    Despite these impressive theatrics and sound effects, I remained unmoved; and though the process was repeated five times with five separate pieces of food before he finally gave way and got stuck in, give way and get stuck in he did.
    I spoke words of encouragement while keeping my arm folded position in the hallway - I knew that if I moved the bugger would abandon the idea - until he had eaten the whole thing, then I made a big fuss of him and he got his 'reward' of ham soaked in medicine and a cuddle on the sofa.
   He is now sleeping peacefully on his bed, with a nice full belly.

...Bloody HELL...

=shakes head=

Alice xxx

* I just want to point out in case anybody thinks me cruel that not only is Bakers Complete the best food for him - I repeat; for HIM. No criticism intended to anybody regarding what they feed their dog. Dietary needs differ from one to another - but there IS a nice bone in the house at all times - in this case a knuckle bone, which for the most part he ignores unless truly bored - should he get peckish. I was not starving my dog into submission. Or at least, I was, obviously, that was the whole point; but at the same time there was another food source available.

Remembered From Earlier:

On my home today after meeting Best Friend 1 & Squidgum in town (that would be the escape from the dog that I mentioned earlier) I ended up passing by St. Georges Park, and as I neared the gate I overheard a mother talking to her son. He wanted to play in the park; really really wanted to play in the park. And she wanted him to, too; but first a few ground rules...
    Yes, she said, he could play in the park, but only until his watch said 3-pm; after that he would have to come home because Grandpa was coming to visit. And yes, he could go anywhere in the park, except for the bicycle and skateboard ramps because he did not have either of those things and it would be dangerous. And, of course, he wasn't to talk to any strangers. Oh, and he wasn't to try somersaulting off of the top of the climbing frame again, either; because that was silly and the last time he had tried that he had ended up having to go to hospital and get stitches in his head, which had frightened her to death and made daddy cross.
    The little boy eagerly agreed to all of this and after a hurried kiss ran as fast as he could to the park with the kind of joyous abandon that only small children and dogs tend to have.
    Reaching me a few seconds later, he zoomed around me like a little blond haired bullet and made the following breathless declaration:

"Excuse me, grown up lady, but I am going to the park now and I need to run REALLY REALLY FAST!"

Well, I said; that that was great, and he was to have fun.

"Thank you!" he shouted over his shoulder as he disappeared through the gate: "Bye!"

"Bye," said I, in return.

That was it. A witness of maternal concern and a brief encounter between me and a boy that I may never meet again. And I'm not sure...maybe it doesn't translate so well second hand, or was one of those you-had-to-be-there-to-get-it moments, but I found the whole thing to be incredibly cute. It made me smile as I meandered the rest of the way home, anyway.
    I hope he did end up having fun.
    And I hope that one day he manages to make that somersault off of the top of the climbing frame successfully...

Alice xxx

Update On The Update:

Because, yes, my life revolves around the dog's. (Things here are just that exciting.)

Bingo is even better today - physically - so of course he is even more fed up - mentally - as a result. He is also full of pent up energy, because his walks have been curtailed from an hour or more to, well, nothing. 5 minutes is the longest we can do; just long enough for him to do - y'know, what a dog has to do.
    My Lor', but he is a bad patient! Whine whine whine, moan moan moan, cry cry cry; it just goes on and on.

Of course, I would be a bad patient too. So I get it, I do. I understand WHY it's happening and I know that it's not his fault; it's just exhausting and gut wrenching and at the same time highly irritating to live with.

I cannot WAIT for this to be over.

Alice xxx

PS: I saw a butterfly that I didn't recognize when I was out today - yes. I went out. Mother looked after him. After 24 hours of on and off (mostly on) crying, it was that or kill him - and want to know what it is. It was orange with brown spots, but I don't THINK it was a Meadow Brown.
    I shall have to find out. Problem is, I think that when I type in "orange butterfly with brown spots", I may get more than a few results...

Update:

Bingo finally relaxed enough for him to properly sleep by around 2-am, so after an obsessively long time listening to his contended snores at the door (then on the foot of the stairs, then half way up the stairs, etc. etc.)  I trouped upstairs went to bed myself. I didn't sleep well, though; I kept waking up and would spend several minutes afterward staring at my (wide open) bedroom door concentrating hard in case I missed any small sign of distress. I think I got about four broken hours in total. Thank goodness that mother agreed to take care of him for a couple of hours this morning so that I could catch up; by the time 8:30-am rolled around I felt really, really God awful and about ready to drop. Alice Collison needs at least 5 hours sleep to function; 6 to function properly. And seven to actually feel good.

Anyway, Bingo is much, much better; eating and drinking well and apart from walking a bit funny very steady on his feet. The drugs given to him for the operation (apart from an additional dose of painkillers that I gave him this morning) have now completely worn off and so he feels a lot less grotty and more able to relax; which is what he is doing right now. One thing he has taken to doing though, is crying at me incessantly to make sure that I concentrate on nothing else but him. Last night, OK; he had just had an operation, so no wonder. And this morning, OK; the painkillers would have worn off and his poor foot was probably hurting him badly. But the funny thing was that when it became impossible for me to be
there holding him - like last night for instance, at around 1:30-am when I realized that desperate crying notwithstanding, I was nodding off in my chair. Or this morning, when mother took the helm and I staggered upstairs, away from him - rather than becoming even more desperate, even more miserable, he actually calms down. No crying. No writhing. No desperate pleading stares. Nothing. Just a sleepy yawn and a re positioning before drifting off into dreamland again. Then the second I return: crying, writhing, desperate pleading stares, the full works.
    There was no sign of this, mother assured me, while I was gone. She was expecting there to be; after all, he felt ill and I was his mummy and I'd gone somewhere. But nope; not a sign. It only started two and a half hours later when I came back again. After deliberating on this for a bit - with Bingo whining his head off and pawing at me with aggressive vigour while I soothed him - we remembered that, y'know what; this was what happened last time. Every damn bit of this happened last time.
    Conclusion: my darling dog is acting. 'Hamming It Up', I believe the phrase is. Why, Lord only knows; he knows that I adore him and that I've been turning myself inside out worrying about him... =sighs=

I mean, yes; he probably feels pretty shitty. And yes, his paw will feel bloody uncomfortable even with the doggy version of morphine pumping through his system. But the moment it was suggested to me I could see it as plain as day. My beautiful boy is employing a very cold and calculated method of manipulation to make me do exactly as he wants. And the moment I realized this and told him that I did, the crying calmed down and he fell asleep and began contentedly snoring again.
    Go figure.

=sighs again=

Alice xxx

No Sleep For Alice.

Bingo has had an operation. The ugly blood filled wart / tumour thing is gone. He feels utterly wretched as a result and is spending his time half dozing and half moaning. If I try to leave the room, he cries. If I stop touching him (it doesn't matter with which part of the body I do it; right now it's my hip and upper leg), he cries. If I use my mobile phone, he cries. If I use my computer (as I just found out now), he also cries. If I move from one position to another, he cries. If I nod off, he REALLY cries.

Tonight is going to be very, very long...

The Good, The Bad & The Ugly:

THE GOOD:

1. I am on holiday for an entire week. An entire week! That's 7 days that I am avec free time and minus Company (bitch included). Whee!

2. MJ's birthday went incredibly well, considering. He was very pleased with all of his presents - which was a miracle of itself - especially the one I got him: a cheapy silly gift from Argos's "fun gifts for Him (£5 and under)" range, which in this case happened to be a Magic 8 Ball. He liked his other gifts, as I said, but it was this one that got him excited, along with the odds and ends I had picked up from Tesco's for his special birthday tea. I'm never going to understand that boy, but that day, things were good. We talked and laughed and even played a game. Fun was had by all.

3. I have been given a portable DVD player to use in my room! And it all came about because Mother's tape player broke...
    Mummy, you see,  had been using my old tape/CD/radio player ever since hers didn't survive the move from 84 Upton Road to here (seeing as how I rarely if ever used it and she would get a lot of use out of it); and it served her well all that time right up until the beginning of last week, when it finally gave up the ghost and died. After searching round and finally locating somewhere that sold them - the place we usually go for electrical goods is Curry's, but not this time: apparently "tape players are now completely obsolete". To buy new, it was Argos or nothing - she eagerly brought 2. That way we could have one each (she forgot that I rarely touched it, preferring instead to use my little Walkman. ...Something else, incidentally, that is apparently now "obsolete". =sigh=) and that would be lovely. All well and good. Except that when she got home the first one she opened up didn't work. Disaster.
    Terribly upset, she waited all morning for me to return home and then waited another hour while Best Friend 1 and Squidgum stayed for lunch (long story), then burst into tears the moment they left. It wasn't the money she minded - she had the receipts and could get that back - it was that the surprise (for me) had all been spoiled, and also that if it turned out that the tape players were all faulty for some reason, how were we going to find another one? Argos had the one type of plug-in tape player; ONE. She NEEDED to be able to play her (literally hundreds) of tapes!
    Well, I read the instructions thoroughly and tested the player and then to be sure, tested the other one too. Nothing. Then I calmed her down, explaining that it didn't matter about the surprise - it had been a lovely thought; the fact that the players were broken didn't detract from that - and that if we couldn't get a replacement at Argos, I would start hunting around online (Amazon would have some second hand ones, I was sure); she would NOT, I promised, have to be without a tape player for very long. Then we trouped down to Argos armed with the receipts and two broken (or so we thought) tape/CD/radio players.
    To mother's delight, once we got there, it was discovered that there was something elementary that we needed to do (which, I might add, was NOWHERE in the instructions. I checked and got the poor Argos employees to check, too) to start the damn things up; a small plastic thing that needed to be tugged off before they would work. Great. For the first one, anyway. Turned out that the second one actually WAS well and truly buggered, and - they were really apologetic about this, but - there were no more in stock.  No problem, I assured them (and mother); I wasn't really interested in having one anyway. So they refunded the money, and that was that. Good good.
    Only no! The story was (still) not done yet! Because mother (still) wasn't entirely happy! Yes, SHE had her tape player and that was all well and good, but what about me? OK, so I hadn't wanted one anyway, but she had planned on giving me a gift, and a gift I must have. What did I want?
    Put on the spot, I sort of blinked a bit. I couldn't think. We stopped for a can of cold something to counteract the blistering heat and I mulled it over while she waited eagerly for my response. I could have waited and slept on it, of course, but mother was already fraught (the term of back breaking mentally exhausting work has, well, broken her a little, and she was already balanced on a knife's edge, mentally, anyway) and desperate to give me a gift right at that very second, so I didn't want to do that, really.... then it hit me. My DVD drive (is that what it's called?) on Niles has broken and I had missed being able to use it - when mother and I wanted to watch something completely different to one another but still be in the same room, it was very handy - so how about one of those little portable DVD player things? How much did they cost?
    Well, her face just lit up, I'm telling you. We were running short of time at that point (evening of fish n' chips and games etc. at The Grandpapa's), so had to leave it and troupe home again to get ready, but I checked online on Curry's website and as it happened they stocked one that was the exact same price as the tape player she had wanted to give to me. So come Saturday morning, down we went to fetch it, and now I am the proud owner of a 9" screened DVD player. Yay!

- My word, that was a long explanation.

THE BAD:

1. The shelter that took Destiny called on Sunday morning, early, to tell Karen and Gavin that unfortunately Destiny had not made it, after all. They said that there was nothing that could have been done, and certainly nothing that THEY had done while Destiny had been with them; it was just "one of those things".
    Poor Destiny. Poor, tiny little thing. Karen is beside herself, obviously. We were so hopeful... At least she had known affection, even for such a short time. That's the only (small, very very small) consolation.

2. Bingo had his yearly boosters a this Friday just gone. No problems there, only that swelled wart on his foot, the one that he keeps catching and making bleed (I mentioned it before, I think) may be more of a worry than we had first thought. I mean, I didn't like the thing; it looks horrid and the one side of it does keep filling with blood so that we have to drain and then bathe it, but it didn't seem to be bothering HIM any. I just mentioned it in passing with the intention of asking whether we should leave it as was or lop the damn thing off and be done with it, only to be told that there was a worrying mass just beneath it and it needed to be tested. Mother gripped my hand at this point, and I felt myself go pale. I managed to get through the rest of the visit - everything else was fine - then burst into tears as soon as we left.
    I know that I am overreacting (I always do, over Bingo. Mother says its a maternal thing) and I know that probably it will turn out to be nothing, but the idea of Bingo being mauled about (AGAIN) to take samples to be sent off to test (AGAIN) for goodness knows what is unbearable. Not to mention that if the results are 'worrying' (as they were last time) he will need another operation and there will be another agonizing wait while a biopsy is performed...and as luck would have it, we had bumped into a man I sometimes meet while we're both walking our dogs and the smallest of his three (aptly named "Tiny") has just been diagnosed with some malignant disease or other that they have detected in - you guessed it - a small lump found underneath a swelling on the side of her foot... oh, I just can't bear it....
    He goes in for "sampling" tomorrow morning. We should get the results three or four days after that. =sighs=

3. This is a completely stupid and whiny-arsed thing to complain about, but WHY do supermarkets seem to always have special offers on Coca-Cola rather than Pepsi? I mean, I LIKE Coca-Cola - we've been enjoying some over MJ's birthday weekend and it's really nice tasting stuff - but I prefer Pepsi, I really really do; yet all the big shops have only Coca-Cola on offer the majority of the time and not Pepsi. Why?? They're both gorgeously addictive fizzy drinks and both equally bad for you and both so expensive that nobody that has to budget their money even a little bit could afford to buy regularly unless they were on offer, so...? What is it that the Yanks say? Colour me confused...

THE UGLY:

1. I have a pimple just a little bit shy of the centre of my breasts. A big pimple. A painful pimple. A really ugly pimple. Oh, and I also have bug bites ALL over me. Everywhere. Including my face. Add that to being lank and slightly greasy (sexy!) due to the muggy weather and I'm not feeling terribly pretty right now, not at all.

2. MJ brought some clothes round to be washed. He has three sets of clothes, this is the first lot in 6 months and he doesn't do any himself. Need I say more?  

3. ...did I mention the pimple/bites?