My spidey-nonsense is tingling...

I'm fairly appreciative of those eight-legged fly-killers we get in Britain. Not the nightmare fuel you find in other countries, eating birds, snakes, or small cars.

Oh look - it's Spider-Nope!

Feel free to much on the stuff that eats or craps on our own food, but leave us and ours alone thanks.

Julie, however, isn't too fussed on anything that doesn't go round on two legs. Come to think of it, not many of those, either... Out of deference to my sensibilities, Julie has managed to overcome her dislike enough to capture and eject most spiders she finds. As long as they aren't too big and/or fast.

The thing is, spiders tend to be fairly nondescript in Britain, and as such one looks pretty much like another. This means that this can lead to a case of mistaken identity.

There's kinky. It reminds me of this FABulous fella.

"Y-M-C-A!"

Speaking in tongues

Fancy a Trivial Pursuit Gem? We haven't had one in such a long time...

I'll be honest - it feels like Julie does invent her own method of communication on many occasions. As to whether it is an improvement or not, I couldn't say. It is, however, usually far more entertaining and interesting than plain ol' Standard English.

Found on http://www.toonpool.com/

As for the correct answer, I am not too sure now, but a cursory glance through various biograpaphies leads me to believe he may have enjoyed the French language.

Vaguely vegetarian

Sausages, bangers, whatever you want to call them, they're a popular dish wherever you go. Being something of a purist, I tend to shy away from the cheap supermarket ... things. If you look at the ingredients, there may be so much cereal filler in there that you might as well call it a loaf.

However, if you are talking about vegetarian sausages, that is a different thing. While I enjoy meat, I admit that you can find a decent veggie banger.

Er... no. not that one

THAT'S more like it.

We were discussing the merits of vegetarian sausages a while back, and Julie had this to offer on their origin.

Whu...?
It took me a while, but then I realised that Julie was under the impression that these were sausages made from vegetarian animals...

Top of the plops

My mother was the first to note a certain family trait; no matter the topic at hand, any conversation involving one or more of us will turn to shit. Or piss. Anything lavatorial, really.

Julie isn't a family member in the genetic sense, but when it came to integrating with my family, she hit the ground running, and has barely slowed down since. Certainly, when it came to my father, she could do no wrong. Anything she said, no matter how ribald or piss-taking it was, was greeted by a full-on snigger from Dad. Seriously, she got away with stuff we would never have even dared contemplate broaching with my father. The bald patch received special treatment, as I recall...

And yes, this does mean that Julie often joins in with phrases for flushing.

Today, for example, Julie decided to call it a night. Wearily dragging herself up the stairs, she decided to parody a certain little ditty made famous by the nephew of Kermit the Frog.

Yes, I know the word is 'down', but that doesn't really matter, does it?

"Uncle Kermit? That's not right, is it?"

He's right. It's not. Here's the original.

Equal ops for children.

Taking Roxy for a walk yesterday, I stopped for a rest (Roxy's request - she refuses to go past a certain stretch of low wall until we have sat there for a few minutes). Sometimes, Roxy will hop up onto the wall to sit next to me. This time, however, she simply flopped to the ground (a sure sign I needed to get her home soonish) and basked in the warm sun.

As we sat there, a small group of schoolchildren came along with a couple of adults carefully shepherding them in the right direction. When they were encouraged to ask questions of random people, I realised they were on a field trip.

A couple questions later, it seemed they had fulfilled their quota, and were preparing to head up onto the pier. Before they did so, the teacher wanted to make sure her charges understood what they needed to do and what to look for.

At that, the teacher held her clipboard over her face to hide a smile, while the less restrained man at the back of the group wheeled away, doubling up in silent laughter.

My own laughter was not silent, and I felt moved to literally applaud the young boy for an apparently progressive attitude. The teacher, may or may not have been impressed, commented to me that, "in all the years I have done this and asked these questioned, not once have I had that answer."

Win.

The gag reflex

Say hello to Bongo

Bongo is a staffie/labrador crossbreed, and a rather handsome chap. One of many dogs at the Last Chance Animal Rescue centre, he is also a long-term resident (just as Roxy was). Indeed, every time that we visited the centre, we would make a point of dropping by Bongo's pen. A lively, happy chap, he always had two tennis balls in his mouth. If he happened to drop one, he would then chase after it, retrieve it, and get it back to its rightful place.

In fact, we would like to have taken Bongo on, but he's just too big and boisterous. I hope somebody does take pity on him.

I only mention Bongo because every time Roxy feels like playing with one of her tennis balls, both Julie and myself are immediately reminded of Bongo and the two-ball grin.

As my mother will know, normal tennis balls never last too long with a dog - they are chew toys when fetch time is over, after all. However, most pet shops stock a hardier breed of ball - just don't use them to play tennis, because they will hurt like hell if they hit you.

Mind you, even those balls will not last too long with a determined doggie. Roxy's current ball has developed a weakness, one which means that it sort of folds in on itself to a degree. Unfortunately, this means that a tennis ball which is only just on the right side of 'large enough' is now in danger of being a little too small for safety. Naturally, we are always aware of safety, and Julie happened to notice that Roxy was chomping on the ball a little too much.

That last bit was directed at a husband, whose mind was dallying in the gutter once more...

That said, I went looking for link or images of these tougher tennis balls. It looks like I'm not the only puerile person around...