Am I getting old, or am I just darn tired?

Dear Friends,

I write to you in the strictest of confidence, for I do not think that there is anyone else who will take me seriously. I fear that I have begun the process of marination (better known as ageing), several years too soon. I cannot confess this to anyone else but you. However, I assure you that this is a genuine affliction and not a moment of intense hypochondria. I entrust this most worrying of afflictions for your eyes only and believe that your discretion would be fabulous. 

Kindest regards,

Mildred  

*

Hello, hello, hello.

Today I write to you full of grave concern for my personal welfare. I fear I am getting old- which, let's be honest, isn't really a fear but a fact. Life is linear, meaning we cannot deduct age. Although, scientific advancement means that by the time we're 70, we can look as though we're 37... Now I'm not going to lie, but I'm sure that by the time I'm 70 I won't want to look about 37, because that would be weird. I mean, if my (potential) marriage (one-day) were to fail and I were to end up back on the market, it would just be very very odd if a man of 37 approached me, totally unaware that I was 70! 

So you see, I am aware that I'm always ageing and that that is an irrefutable fact. It's just the whole process that I'm slightly concerned about. You see, yesterday I went on a trip to London with my friend Sophie. It wasn't a particularly entertaining trip (but don't tell Sophie I told you this, because it was actually a roadshow for florists and she is is a florist). Much of the day was spent sitting down and this is where the concern first begins. 

We sat down in the car to drive to the train station.
We sat down on the train to the roadshow venue.
We sat down on the tube on the way to the roadshow venue.
We sat down at the roadshow and listened (or pretended to) for two hours.
We sat down when we arrived at a restaurant for dinner after the roadshow.
We sat down on the tube back to the train station.
We sat down on the train back to the car.
We sat down in the car on the way home.
I then went to sleep.


So, all in all, not a very active day. Though, much of the day was broken up by little bouts of walking to get us between location A and to location B. But for some reason, I was exhausted. Who knew that listening and sitting could be so tiring? I most certainly didn't. And now I'm paying for it dearly.

Foolishly I agreed to take Gma (that's Grandma) to Church at silly o'clock in the morning. With hindsight, I should not have done. This decision was magnanimous and had several repercussions. Remembering that last night was of course Eurovision, I had to fight the extreme fatigue my body was undergoing and watch a bizarre concoction of Europeans cavorting on stage in the name of national pride. Like many Briton's, I was immensely relieved that we were not in last place. Phew! Bring on next year Mr Norton and I'll be ready.

But back to Church. The vic chatted and did his bit as I went through the motions of sitting and standing and sitting and standing, a bit more sitting, then a bit more standing and then lastly, sitting again. Why it can't just be on one level puzzles me, but I just copied the masses and got on with it. But by the end of the hour I was drained. I was literally clinging onto the pew in front to lever me off the seat. And then there's Gma sat next to me, springing up like a jack-in-a-box every so often, highlighting to me how old I'm getting. Not good.

After Church, I went to lunch with Gma where we indulged in the ol' Sunday Roast and pudding. Afterwards, I was TTT- which, to those of you who don't know, stands for 'Tummy Touching Table'. I was absolutely full-up and ever so slightly sleepy.

When I returned Gma to her house, I went for a nice long walk in the afternoon. I stumbled across one of those school race-track's that are painted onto the grass and always transfer onto your shoes. Wanting to prove to myself that I still had the ability to run, I did the 100m sprint and felt mighty fine. Or at least I felt mighty fine when I was trotting along.

It was just after that I didn't feel so fine as my legs turned to jelly. And it's been such a while since I last went running that I can't remember if that is normal, or if that means I'm getting old.

Dear friends, I think you'll agree I need to slow down the pace of life. Or do I?

Am I actually getting old? Or am I just darn tired?

I think perhaps, I am in need of a nice long sleep. After, I'll be able to tell you if this blog was born of tiredness or actual ageing.

Anyway, onto A.O.B. (any other business).

• Yesterday, on our trip, Sophie and I met a fabulous pair of people called Heather and Eddie. Strictly speaking, they weren't in the floristry business, but they were very nice and made us smile. So I'd just like to say to them- if they're reading, I hope that your venture goes well.
• Yesterday, it was reinforced to me that you should watch Eurovision with low expectations, so then wherever the UK finishes can only ever be a win.    
•  Yesterday, I met a lady called Laura who was wearing the most fabulous hat I have ever seen in real life on any living person's head. So, I commend your hat wearing panache and hope to one day be able to follow in your hat wearing footsteps!

 But for now, I bid you farewell. I'm off to bed, so nighty-night!

If you built me an ark, I would make a fantastic Noahetta... to some animals that is...

Dear friends and followers, today I write to you about animals, for in the last few days I have had some interesting incidents with man's companions.

Some of them were good, others were not so good.

But first, let me start by saying: if you could build me an ark, I would make a fantastic Noahetta. (For those of you who don't know, Noahetta is the female version of Noah. For obvious reasons, I cannot be a Noah. Nor can I be a Mrs Noah as I do not know any man with a first or last name that rhymes with mower. So, that is how I therefore deduced that I would make a superb Noahetta).

I think that I'd quite like life aboard an ark. After I'd led my animals in two by two I'd lead my friends in two by two and we'd all live happily ever after... Well, that's how it works out in my head.

The reality- I'd imagine, would be highly different. Dad wouldn't want me at the wheel of the boat, especially if I said I was driving it. This would be because 'you cannot drive a boat, Mildred', he would say. 'I've told you time and time again, you Captain it, so you have to wear a hat. You can't call left and right left and right, because when at sea, it is starboard and port. And, in case of an emergency you'd need to be proficient in Morse code in case your mobile phone goes out of range.'

Evidently, Dad doesn't think I'd drive- sorry, Captain, an ark that well. He's probably right. I won't lie. Last time I was in a boat that I Captained, I was in America with my good friends Sara, Brendan and James. Admittedly we weren't in very big boats. In fact, we were actually in very small boats. Well, the definition of boat is being pushed here slightly a lot. We were in a kayak. Sara and me in one and the boys in the other. When we parked the kayak along the stony bank due to calls of nature, Sara and I accidentally dented the front of it because we weren't sure of the correct docking procedure. (It was an accident I'd like to here add). Luckily, we didn't sink when we resumed the boat after business. Whilst one of us was acquanting ourselves with nature, the other 'guarded the boat', though who we were guarding it from is quite a mystery as there was no-one around in the American wilderness. Ahh, such fond memories.

Given that what I have neglected to share with you is that when Sara and I boarded the kayak, we ended going about 50m against the current, before realising we were going the wrong way. Our one saving grace was that we did not get lost (though we had an accidental detour)...

Anyway, I perfectly understand why Dad would have his reservations about me steering the ark to rescue. I think I'd have to leave it to him. I mean, if he can Captain an aeroplane, how tricky could an ark possibly be?

I'd like to think that if Dad went, Mum would go too (because they're a pair after all), but I have a funny feeling that she'd get really bad sea-sickness. And then we've got Graham whose fear of confined spaces would get out of control in that environment. Then we've got my friend Sophie whose spider phobia would be exacerbated due to the close proximity to these eight legged foes.

All in all, it's a recipe for disaster.

But then again, if I were to kind of 'help' the process of natural selection along a bit, would I really need to bring on all those animals whose only purpose in life is to induce fear in humans? For instance, wasps.

Yesterday, I was cruising along at a breezy 50m.p.h with my window half open when all of a sudden WHACK! A great big wasp cannon-balled itself into my car and then got caught in my skirt, all the while buzzing at me angrily, as if I was in the wrong. Sir waspalot, please explain this to me given that I was simply minding my own business when you propelled yourself at me, an innocent human being. It hit my arm with such ferocity that I was left with a huge red splodge on it for over 2 hours. But I have to say, the whole experience was totally alarming as the shock almost caused me to collide with numerous stationary objects (grass by the road in case you were wondering). I had to wriggle about indignantly to get this wasp off me  and then it fell on my seat into prime bottom territory...

But worry not, you'll all be pleased to know that at the traffic lights that were mercifully red, the wasp got knocked unconscious as it was scooped up in a high-heeled court shoe and thrown out of my open door (the wasp that is, not the shoe).

Note: If you are a lover of all animals, you'll be pleased to know that the wasp regained consciousness before making contact with the ground and was able to fly off into the distance, alive. If you are not a lover of all animals, you'll be disappointed.

Later on in that same day, I saw four small rabbits lining the road at various intervals. The fifth one I saw was no bigger than the palm of my hand and was all cute and fluffy. But, it was under attack from a predator. The predator was a magpie, but luckily, due to my unknown recently discovered Noahetta knowledge, I was there at the right place at the right time and Benjamin bunny lived to see another day (ta to Beatrix P for the name).

And yesterday, I saw a giant rat thing the size of a cat! Well, that's not quite true. It was about the size of half a cat- no smaller, but with it's tail, it was the length of our next-door neighbours cat Versace.

So, it is with all these experiences that I have deduced that I have new-found animal magnetism. Unfortunately it does not seem to be for the best. But if you're up to the challenge, feel free to build an ark and I'll see what I can do. Or- as the case may be, I'll see what my Dad can do.

Until next time, Mildred the Noahetta must sail off into the distance to come to the aid of the rest of the animal kingdom.

Are we alone? Yes? Phew! I'm skiving...

Look left, look right, look straight ahead. Can you confirm that we are alone? If the answer is yes, then read on.

Technically, I am supposed to be helping my friend Sophie move house, but after packing and packaging galore, I needed a moment to escape where I would not find myself in close proximity to that icky coloured brown tape. You know the stuff; stick it to your arm like a home waxing kit... only it never works does it? In fact, it's rather painful (understatement of the century). Why I know this is beyond me, because I've never got rather bored and stuck a load of tape over my arms to see what happens... never....

Ah, who am I convincing?

Of course I've done that! I am- naturally, talking from experience, which therefore allows me to provide the best pain quantifier there is. NOTE: If there are any children reading this, do not try this at home. Also, do not tell your parents that I told you about this as it is not an experience that would impress them were they to become 'guinea pigs'. Many thanks. Your discretion is duly noted.

But moving on I think! Sophie doesn't actually know where I am. As far as she's concerned, I've just popped back to my house for 'the loo'. I thought I'd be incognito. But with hindsight, I have realised that when she notices I have been absent for an hour or more, she will only assume that I have been slacking. And I wouldn't want her to think that I've been a bad friend because I have abandoned her in her hour of need... which I haven't. I mean, it's not like I'm really skiving because my mind is still house-occupied. I think I'll just have to say to Sophie that I'm in dire need of some figs and fibre and... well you get the gist of things. That way it seems like I've got a case of stubborn number two's that wish to remain with me. (I'll leave it at that before things become too explicit and require a '12' rating and I lose my 'PG' certification).

So, I got thinking as I helped Sophie pack up all her things. To be honest, it wasn't the funnest of times we've spent. Last month, she broke up with her boyfriend. They'd been together since we were about 16- less than five years later they'd moved in together in a nice little flat round the corner from me. Two years after that they got engaged, but Sophie's just found out that Brad has had an indiscretion. I won't say anymore as if she reads this, she might get a bit upset. Needless to say, he wasn't very well behaved. So, after 10 years, Sophie and Brad are parting ways. It's quite sad really, made worse by the fact that I've known them both for over 20 years. But I guess it just wasn't meant to be.

Sophie's found herself a lovely new flat and I agreed to help her do it up. (Sensible really, because now it appears to Mum that I am at least on the search for work). We've been through colour charts and stuff and I've helped her design a Mil-and-Soph-ified fabulous abode. It is not humble in the slightest.

At the moment, the removal men are having a late lunch. When I left, Sophie had her nose buried in the latest edition of OK- she wanted to commit to memory the most spectacular wedding of the century, so I left her to it. I saw no point in reading the magazine myself when I know that later on, she's going to go through it cover to cover with me with a commentary to ensure we DON'T MISS A THING.

I'd best be off in a minute- hopefully Kate and William will have enthralled her enough for her not to notice my absence!

Anyway, what I was going to tell you was that over the last few days, I have realised that home isn't the building you live in or what you have. It's what you make it. The other stuff is just accessories. I look at Sophie and see all the unnecessary things that we have packed into a dozen boxes and I realise that I don't need half of the stuff I've got. All I need is myself, because it doesn't matter where I am, where Sophie is or where you are. Isn't home the same for everyone? For I have learnt that home really truly is where the heart is- an ethos I am sure I share with the snails that survive the tribulations of human feet antics. After all, their home is on their person (rather, snail) at all times.

Mildred

Hmmm... I wonder what to talk about? Maybe the event of the year? Yes, I think that's it.

So, congratulations to the future King of England and his new Missus!

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the subject of this bloggio. Now, I won't lie to you. Until this morning, I wasn't really one of those people who'd jumped onto the whole Royal Wedding band wagon. But then I went into the lounge and found Mum with a bottle of bubbly (yes, bottle) that she'd cracked open at the grand old hour of 10:30 a.m. So, wanting to be the diligent daughter that I know I am, I thought I'd keep Mum company and enjoy the festivities with her. And I have to say, once I got nuzzled into the empty three seater sofa and tucked my feet under the fluffy cushions I realised that I actually secretly wanted to watch this shindig. Plus, it was a convenient excuse not to have to get dressed. PJ's are so comfy, don't you know? They're the next big trend too (information that is hot off the press).

I won't lie. To my utter surprise I quite enjoyed watching loads of rich folk and scrutinising their ridiculously over-sized- or as it seems, under-sized hats (where were the regular sized specimens?) with my Mum. At the moment that Dad popped into the lounge, Princess Beatrice emerged from a chauffeur driven car wearing a beige outfit and what can only be described as a pair of lopsided antlers. Without thinking, Dad turned around (after requesting the fizz from Mum) and quite loudly asked the room why there was an extra from the Lion King at the Royal Wedding. (The room may not have been that large, but it was big enough for Dad to receive two sets of reproachful glances from Mum and me).

Between us, I may have agreed with Dad, but I felt I had to justify P.Bea's outfit choice due to the fact that we share the same gender. I felt that I had to stand united with her and declare my allegiance to woman-kind, when really in reality I know that there's no way I would dress up in something so un-hat like that defeats the point in even wearing a hat. Because, let's be honest: does that keep the sun of her face? I think not.

Hats aside, Mum and I waited eagerly for Kate to arrive as we got sucked into the romance vortex. Well, we- like zillions of other women (and possibly men), were not disappointed by THE DRESS. (Notice how THE DRESS is capitalised? Well, this would be because in the news broadcasting, THE DRESS was given as much attention as THE VENUE, if not more). When I saw her, my heart leapt a little: for her, the dream that every young girl has came true. Ever the romantic optimist, I shall stay true to myself and wait patiently for my day to arrive and the opportunity to wear a fabulous (but not as expensive as Kate's) dress. First, I need to find a fella. Here, I'm going to apply that old adage: good things come to those who wait.

Yes, I believe they do.

Well, I should really pop off. Since getting dressed, Mum, Dad and I have attended a nice street party in our road that's still going on. Lots of people are on their way to being slightly sozzled, which made the old 'people-spotting' game all the more amusing (but keep that between us)! You know the rules... watch people very carefully, but never give the game away. Honestly, it's thrilling stuff when you're mostly retired neighbours have been sipping a variety of drinks for much of the day. I know how to get my highs! Don't let it be said that my life isn't a whirlwind, because it's truly fabulous.

Anyway, I must go check on proceedings outside. Marjorie next door seems to be flashing a bit too much ankle to be appropriate...

Bank holiday, schmank holiday... enough is enough!!

Hello there. Long time no see: it's been a while for which I must apologise. You see, I have been delayed in my writing to you by the bank holidays... Bank schmank... they've just gone on and on and on. And yet, we have another two in the next week. Joy of joy! I don't think I know what to do with myself at the moment. I mean, Mum and Dad have both been crazy busy. Dad's been flying galore and Mum's been covering extra shifts at the hospital, so I've been left to fend for myself all alone in our big empty house...

Who am I convincing? No one. It's been alright. Although, the problem I have found with all these bank holidays is the amount of errands I've had to run on the parents behalf and Gma's. Plus, because they've all been so crazy busy I've had to do the rounds.

You know what I'm talking about: the rounds.

Oh, you don't know.

Well, the rounds are when you spend the bank holidays visiting long-lost relatives you didn't even realise you had. I have seen great aunts and uncles and loads of old folk that are all biologically connected to me who I don't ever recall meeting in my life. You see, through an impartial vote (consisting of Mum, Dad and the brothers) I was elected as the official McManus representative for this year. So that meant that I had to do the rounds. Although, this year was worse than my last stint as I didn't recognise 99.9% of them due to additional wrinkles obscuring facial landmarks. (However I did recognise my Great Uncle Sydney due to the abnormally large mole on the end of his elongated left ear).

Anyway, moving swiftly on! Today we McManuses had a barbecue in our garden. It was a 'BYOSD' (better known as 'bring your own stuff do'), but I didn't BAS (bring any stuff), because I figured that my presence was enough of a gift.

Only joking! No, I didn't bring any stuff because the barbecue was being held at my house... Well, I say my house, but really I mean the parents' house. However, by proxy it is my house because I live here and because I am their daughter and we abide by the policy 'what's mine is yours' (but only when it's convenient, and this was one of those convenient moments).

It was a nice day. Mum was definitely the hostess-with-the-mostess and Dad was unquestionably the barbecue king, though why that is I have never known. This year, I took the liberty of reqeusting my sausages be 'medium-rare' in the hope that they'd only be ever so slightly charred. But no, that request fell on deaf ears as Dad truly out-did himself this year when he presented cremated sausages that disintegrated the moment they caught sight of a bap. Oh Dad, please retire the apron and step down from your post as barbecue king. Retire gracefully while you still have some barbecue dignity left and pass the apron onto one your two sons. They will gladly receive the honour of barbecue prince, because I don't think you're ready to relinquish the title of barbecue king... Ah, parents.

On other matters, I thought I ought to let you know that all is forgiven between my friend Sunshine and myself. We've put our little spat behind us now and are ready to move on. I have said that he may reinstate his hat since the twins (bites) have left me. All is now well in Mildred-land.

So, what are the barbecue morals that I have to share with you? Well, I think they're very important, given that we've got even more bank holidays to look forward to.

• Never- and I repeat, never, try to assist a father that considers himself to be king of the barbecue. Simply accept your lowly status as food carrier or even food eater (or at least food attempter).
• If you have to do the rounds, make a list of each person's distinguishing features and memorise before hand. It'll make life much easier.
• Always stay on good terms with Monsieur Sunshine, otherwise he might try to burn you... I have learnt my lesson after my blaspheming of him last week...

Oh deary me. My mind has gone on strike.

Ladies and gentlemen.

Hello.

I write to you today with a heavy load preoccupying my mind. I am afraid, my mind has gone on strike. You see, I am greatly concerned with this weather, and what it is doing to me. At long last, my orange tint has finally begun to subside, but I won't lie: I've moved on since that incident. I've got more serious things concerning me; namely the weather.

Not to be a misery-head, but when will it end? I don't think I can cope with much more sunlight, because we all know what sunlight does... that's right: it opens a can of worms. And once a can of worms has been opened, it's very hard to close it again because of the guilt issue. Who wants to be responsible for confining a worm family to life in a tin? Nobody. That's why I emptied my (metaphorical) tin into the compost heap- I thought it would be the opportunity of a lifetime; the chance for them to settle down and start afresh.

But anyway, look at me! What am I like? Talking about worms?! Oh dear Mildred, oh dear. But in my defence, the reason for this is two-fold:

1. My mind is a series of tangents at the moment because...
2. ... with increased sunlight levels comes increased bug levels. And bugs, ladies and gents, BITE.

I know this because I am harbouring twins. No, I am not pregnant. But yes, I have twins.

They are twin bites.
On my stomach.
Specifically on the belly button region.

They are not nice. They are bright pink and icky and I hate them. So by proxy, I hate all bugs and am in training sessions to see if I qualify to use the term 'bah-humbug' in the summer, because by secondary proxy, I intensely dislike the sun.

My bah-humbug-ness is becoming increasingly worse because I think that I am a bite magnet. It's like, all the crazy insects who get their highs from troubling people seem to be attracted to me. Yes, me, Mildred. Just as Father Christmas has a list that he checks twice to see if you're naughty or nice, I suspect that the Queen Bug has a list of names which is topped with mine. Superb (if you're the bugs that is). Oh cripes (if you're like me that is).

So you see, the twins are causing me jip and I blame the bugs. But most importantly, I would like to ask the meteorologists and weather people, where are the April showers?? If they don't return soon, I'm going to have to defect to a much chiller country. 

Anyway, I'm going to leave you here. I don't really have much left to say other than two very peculiar questions?

1. I saw a navy car yesterday evening and I got thinking: are navy cars a rarity? Is it just me, or do we seldom see them? Are they a cheap alternative to black cars? So when the car man says, 'what colour would you like Sir?' / 'Er, I think I'll have black or navy.' / 'Oh. Well, black cars cost an extra £500. Navy costs an extra £50.' / 'I don't think I need to think about it. I'll take it in navy please.'
2. I have had computer troubles lately and have been left to ask myself if technology is prematurely ageing us? The stress that my temperamental computer induced was evidently lining my face. Not good.

Well, all in all. It's a mixed batch. Yes, my orange sheen is receding. Unfortunately, I have become a bite magnet.

So, I would like to end this blog with one final thought.

• Embrace the sun while it lasts because I forecast rain, rain, rain. 

Until next time, I must love you and leave you.

Bye!

I'm taking matters into my own hands and renaming Sunday GOODAY.

Hello, hello, hello!

It's been a while since I have greeted you all properly, so I thought that in the spirit of 'summery thinking', I will say a little hi-dee-hi. And I have to say, what fabulous weather we are having. Oh dear, I hear you say, she's talking about the weather. Well, I won't deny it: yes I am. I am, my mother's daughter through and through. Although, as you can imagine, the weather gets talked about a lot in our household, what with Dad being a pilot and all.

Anyway, sticking with the weather for just a moment more, I thought that I'd keep this blog short, sweet and to the point. After all, who wants to be sat at a computer on a day like today when it's so fabulously sunny outside in April? (Please don't say I've tempted fate... I'm adding a disclaimer (to be sure)... A-hem. I- Mildred Annabel McManus, would like to certify that just because I pointed out that we are having an unusually Mediterranean (usually) rainy month, I cannot be responsible for any unforeseen changes in the weather direction- i.e., rain. It's not my fault!).

So, I have a few things that I thought I'd share with you today, and then I shall bid you farewell.

It seems to me, that Sunday should be renamed as 'Good-deed-day'- GOODAY for short, because I have done yet another good deed today. Last week, I took Gma to Church. This week I did not. The embarrassment factor was too high, what with my abysmal date with Raymond still lingering, not to mention my tangerine tint. Urgh, when will it go away? I am in quarantine. Well, self-induced quarantine at least. Mum tried to help me cover it up, but I don't see how it's possible to disguise an orange face. Scratch that, I know it's not possible to disguise an orange face. We just ended up going through the colour spectrum until I was bordering on Oompah-Loompah territory. Understandably, that was the moment I confined myself to the house. (I dared not risk enjoying this sunshine too much, in case- horror of all horrors, I get a tan and that brings out the fake one even more...).

So with that in mind, I definitely did not take her to Church- look how that good deed turned out: it back-fired gloriously. When will I learn? Perhaps, good deeds are over-rated. But I took my chances and performed one today. Luckily, there was no man to impress (unless of course you are talking about men of the canine variety). 

Mum and Dad were desperate for me to get out of the house. You know, keep my spirits up (and all that stuff), as by this point, I'd already done the deed and begun to explore the dangerous territory of self-pitying. Not good. You've guessed it... I'd cracked open the chick-flick DVD's in the hope that I might be able to live one of those lives and meet a man who whisks me off my feet, gives me butterflies, and then be done with it. Hollywood makes it look so easy, but what do they know? I mean, it's highly unlikely that I'm going to fall head over heels with my best friend after about a million years. Although, it is highly likely that at some point, I will literally, fall head over heels.

... where was I? Oh yes, I was going to disclose my good deed: today, I took our next door neighbour's dog- Mowbray, for a very long walk. You see, Marjorie and Alan are getting on a bit in years, so I thought I'd give Mo the chance to stretch his legs. It was also the excuse I'd been looking for to get out of the house. Plus, both Marjorie and Alan wear glasses, so neither one of them has 20/20 vision which was excellent for me. It meant that they didn't even notice the tropical shade of my skin. In fact, they said how much I 'glowed with the sun' and how healthy I looked, so not a total disaster after all on the fake tan front.

Anyway, I took Mowbray for a nice long walk. (Well, I say it was nice: it was a double dumper walk). Number two's aside, it was rather lovely. The only people I saw out and about were fellow dog walkers- none of whom commented on my citrus tinge, because they were too distracted by Mo's peculiar bark.

After a bit, I let Mo off his lead and then he went and did the obligatory territorial number one's in the middle of a bed of over flowering daffodils. A fellow dog owner gave me a look of disgust, as I feigned interest in an unusual marking on the tree I was leaning on and muttered loud enough to be heard- 'don't look at me, he's not even my dog'. Then, they did a very loud 'tut' and glared at me as their poodle trotted alongside them looking all proud and important and well behaved. Honestly, there was nothing I could do. Up against that poodle, Mowbray didn't stand a chance. After territorialising, Mo approached this jet black poodle called Dave (seriously? Yes). They had a bit of dog-frontation, but before anything could happen, Mo came scarpering back to me with his tail between his legs as this little poodle barked him away. I have to say, that was a classic display of short-dog syndrome. But truly there's no way a poodle named Dave could have messed with a dog who's real name is Melton Mowbray (seriously? Yes)- named after Marjorie and Alan's beloved pork pies.

Anyway, the rest of the walk passed without incident and when I returned Mr Mowbray

So, it just goes to show, it's easier to impress canine men than it is human men.
But, my final pieces of advice to you before I sign off are:

• If you are nervous about the colour of your fake tan, find an elderly neighbour (preferably one you know), and ask them what they think. If their sight's had better days, then the compliments will rain down on you and you'll leave feeling totally superb.
• Avoid the old chickus-flickus at all times. They are designed to make you feel worse, not better. 
• Best not to let your dog pee on flowers unless they are in the comforts of their own back garden.

Until next time, I bid you farewell!

Bye!

P.S. Honestly, I had every intention of writing a short blog, but you know...