I was up at 7.30am. I left Sam to sleep.
No Fluff this morning, first morning without her. She’s a little character, I found myself looking for her at moments. I even missed the clip, clip, clip of her claws on the floorboards as she followed me out of the bedroom. She had to sleep inside, in our bedroom, as she has never slept outside. When she first came to stay I said, “Oh what rubbish, she can sleep outside like a real dog." But, it was cold and neither of us wanted to risk her freezing to death.
We say that Buddy sleeps outside, and it is true, he does. But, he has a kennel, which has carpet in the bottom, topped by a thin mattress, topped by a thick mattress, which is covered in a woollen rug, which is covered in a washable sheet and then he has a smaller blue fleecy blanket and then he has his thick cream blanket. And he has a woollen rug that falls down and covers the kennel door in the winter. So, it is true, he does sleep outside, but he is hardly exposed to the elements, not really. You should see him in there, all nestled down amongst the bedding.
I ate muesli and drank coffee.
For some reason the Facebook "describe who you are" field came up very big as if it was demanding me to write something this morning when I first signed into Facebook, I don't know why? So with my first-thing-in-the-morning bleary eyes and before I had spoken a word, with my just brewed coffee, I gave it a go, and when I had finished it told me that I had written too much and that I couldn't post it, of course, and just as I was about to hit the delete key, saying my first words of the day, "Oh for goodness sake," I decided to save it here rather than rub it out altogether.
Transient, unimportant, recalcitrant, creative, cheap, insecure, selfish, imbued, Lavender, mercurial, eloquent, lazy, reclusive, diarist, truthful, uninterested, black humoured, grounded, perverse raison toast and nothing but baked goods in an old soul wrapped in cynicism
What is the adjectival version of lavender? I settled on lavenderial?
A few days ago, I posted a photo of a tree in the Carlton Gardens on Facebook pondering what the person thought 100 years ago when it was planted. A friend said that maybe it was sown from bird pooh, and maybe it wasn’t planted by a person at all, but maybe that wasn’t so romantic, she said. I’d been thinking about that since, so I tried to make it romantic
On a perfect sunny day, a bird's graceful wing feathers seemingly touched the sky as they beat in time to the earth's spinning rhythms, as the golden orb of sun, burning brightly in the perfect blue sky, kissed its tail feathers as it floated on a warm zephyr, its small pearl of pooh spun like a Catherine wheel, no, one fragment of fairy dust, gently shimmering down, twirling and skipping across the buttercup heads basking in the honey due of the burning sun, nestled in the verdant grass and the velvet clover leaves, coming to rest on the rich chocolate soil of the grassy knoll, just at the very moment a magical sun shower burst forth scattering crystals amongst the golden shafts of the sun’s rays.
Too much? Too much, I thought, they’ll love it. Too cynical? Perhaps, just around the edges. I remember, years ago, Aby and I decided that if your want to keep the GP happy, you just give them clichés. Yeah, I know, too cynical, but hey, they loved it anyway. It is what America gives them now a days. Clichés. Formula? What’s the difference?
Sam got up and cooked a big breakfast. I didn’t tell him I’d already eaten muesli, he’d have been cross. Oops. I forgot about the big breakfast when I ate the muesli. Sam would bring his fingertips to his forehead and then shoot his hands into the air making starbursts with his fingers. It is his way of saying, “What were you thinking.”
We sat at the coffee table on our laptops.
The sun shone in through the back windows.
Sam pissed me off with his nagging about it being cleaning day. Oh he does love to run the show and he never quite understands why I don’t jump to attention. Oh goodie, cleaning day. Grrrr! I got passive aggressive – I guess, I could have added that to my description above – and got my back up and stomped off for a walk for an hour. I’m not so sure if I was pissy about the cleaning, or guilty about the two breakfasts and needed to get out and walk it off. Perhaps, there was a combo of the two. I listened to U2.
I think it is reverting to a 10 year old, I’m not sure why? I’m a big boy now? Spoilt brattery? My mum making me wash the dishes? Put the washing out. Weed the garden. They were the chores that used to infuriate me as a kid. Infuriate, or drive me insane with boredom? The two emotions are very similar, almost the same. I remember distinctly being furious at the very mention of them, I’m not sure why. Immaturity, I guess? But my parents didn’t really make me do very many chores, not really. But I can still feel the residual childhood anger even now. I can go right back there, easily. I don’t really know why, because the chores I do even now don’t take long. I only have to vacuum 2 rooms and a hallway. That’s pretty much it.
We ate Caesar Salad for lunch. Andy had an old roast chicken in the fridge that needed to be eaten, so Sam turned it into quite a respectable Caesar Salad, the first one he’d ever made. I think, maybe, we are eating too much mayonnaise. I’d better do another hour walk.
We took Buddy for a walk to The Fitzroy Gardens. He walks so well off a lead now a days. When he meets people he just sits and smiles and looks up at them adoringly as they pat him and the people think he is adorable, a show stopper, as that lady once said, then he trots off after us.
We watched episodes of the Book Club late in the afternoon. I love the sound of the short story collection, Up The Junction.
We ate wraps for dinner. We’re gonna turn into wraps soon, ha ha.
I tell Sam that there is a part of me that is going to miss Fluff, and that prompts a whole new round of online puppy adverts and which French Bulldog would I choose? This one? This one? This one? I tell Sam that I can't go back to the puppy madness of a few months ago and didn’t we deicide that we were happy with Buddy and that we wouldn’t get another puppy?
“What about this one?” He shows me a black frenchie with a white flash up its face, my favourite. Weak as piss, I know.
Of course, I am no better than Sam really, as once I am looking at the puppy photos, I am never really able to say a definitive no. No! Oh Sam, we shouldn’t. We shouldn’t really? Should we? (Agree with me, because I am not at all sure) No… I am sure… I am… I… (that one is so cute. What harm could there be? What is the difference when you already have one dog? Two dogs isn’t twice as hard? Not really?) No… Sam… we shouldn’t…
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