Yawn porn

Roxy is a very affectionate dog, and misses us terribly if we aren't around. Dogs are very social animals in any case, and you aren't supposed to leave them alone or outside for too long a time. It must have been a lonely time at the rescue centre; three years on no family, just a rota of centre staff (who were wonderful) and an uncarpeted pen. This is why were indulge Roxy a little more than we perhaps should.

One of the ways we interact with Roxy is kissing - in the dog sense. If they lick your face, it is a sign of affection, and of admitting you are higher in the social standing than they are.

For the longest time, this was seen as being unhygienic and unhealthy. Now, while the first may be the case (until you have been woken up by dog breath in the morning, you may not agree), it seems that being licked by your dog is beneficial in many ways. It improves your mood - and the dog's; it helps with social bonding; it also can boost immune systems.

These days, kids are being wrapped in a sort of sterile bubble, not being allowed to play in in rough areas or rough ways. Lots of sterilised surfaces, sanitised this, anti-bacterial that. Unfortunately, this gives our immune systems nothing to do, and they dwindle through lack of use. This means that when something does come along which the system needs to face, it finds it is trying to fight a battle after the equivalent of military cutbacks has slashed its effectiveness drastically.

That said, Roxy can become a little too enthusiastic when she shows her affection - especially if you happen to mention the word W.A.L.K. On more than one occasion, I have been pinned to the armchair by 29 kilos of excited, slobbering dog.

Sunday mornings are a little different. We take a bit longer about getting going in the morning. A slow breakfast, followed by a cup of tea as we all sit on the sofa. Since it was morning, I was checking my phone for updates, fairly oblivious to the fact that there appeared to be a yawning contest taking place just to my left.

As everyone knows, it is almost impossible to keep from yawning once another member of your group has already done so. So it was that Julie and Roxy were taking turns in yawning, each apparently gaping wider each time - right up until I heard an exclamation from Julie.

Well, based on what I said about immune systems above, perhaps Roxy was just checking for cavities...

Roxy means no 'arm

Finally, after what seems like forever, I have a job. It's not great pay, it's temporary and part time. But it's work - and it's better money than the benefits route.

Because we now have a dog in the house, there has always been the thought of trying to find something so that Roxy doesn't spend too long on her own. As I have mentioned before, she is a bit clingy, but spending over three years in a rescue centre will do that to you, I imagine. My job, beginning next week, is on the twilight shift, finishing at ten pm. As Julie will be home before I leave for work, there won't be any issues. This week, on the other hand, I am working afternoons, so there are a couple of hours where Roxy has the house to herself.

Where is he?

Four days into the week, and Roxy has behaved herself so far. Only one day where Julie came home to a puddle. However, being very much a family member, she doesn't like it when people go away for a while. That said, Roxy has got the idea that Julie will be back, and back at a certain time. Whatever she was doing before, when it comes near to time, Roxy will make sure she is near the door, or looking out of the window.

In my case, since I drive, every time a car pulls up, Roxy perks up. A pity that we live opposite a church hall that has events taking place every evening...

Of course, when I finally turn up, Roxy immediately demands attention, licking my face, holding herself close to me for a stroke - and then it's straight onto the sofa so the two of us can sit on either end, while she is in the middle, being the centre, as it were, of attention.

As you read this, it will have been yesterday evening that I got home and was mugg... er, greeted by Roxy before being allowed to greet my wife. On the sofa a short time later, I was stroking one of Roxy's forelegs. Roxy, in the meantime, was looking at Julie, who had dared to stop rubbing Roxy's belly.

After a while, Roxy relaxed and lay her head back on my arm, and it was such a cute picture that we had to capture the moment.

Altogether now - "Awwwwwww!"

There was just one problem. I wanted to move, but I didn't want to disturb her now that she was comfortable. Unfortunately, that decision was being taken out of my hands...

Over an hour after I extricated myself, my arm is still sore where Roxy's head was laid. I love ye, dog, but you're no lightweight.

Logic gets cold feet

I hate food shopping on a weekend. I am writing this on a Sunday (just about), having had a very pleasant afternoon and evening playing Magic with some friends. However, before that, supplies needed to be replenished.

Unfortunately for our sanity, it seems that everyone else had had the same idea, with the result that Tesco was packed with seemingly entire families. Why is it that parents spend ages chatting to someone in the middle of the aisles and then become angry with their children, who - for some strange reason - have got themselves into trouble through sheer boredom?

We actually happened across one of our neighbours, and it was a mutual decision on the part of all concerned that we would nod, smile, and then do our level best to get the hell out of there ASAP.

As we passed by one section, we noticed that there were some items that had been reduced in price. That is, Tesco had stopped overcharging for them so much, in an effort to clear some space in their warehouses. One such item was a pack of foot warmers. Essentially a gel pack that warms through chemical means once the pack is opened, just like those available for hands, backs, and various other parts of the body.

Yes, but these are for the feet, yes? That means they need to have a different shape and a new pack. Oh, and a new price...

For 75p, though, I did have to admit that it might be worth a pop, just for the one try. Not for me, you understand - my feet tend to be fine. Julie's feet, on the other hand, frequently resemble blocks of ice. Being the thoughtful husband, I pointed these out, but there seemed to be a problem.

Something about my blank stare must have told Julie that I didn't feel all that up to speed on the conversation, so she generously explained that she had, in fact, been referring to her ankles.

...riiiight...

Baneful Bunnies

I'm always thinking of other people; if I see something that a member of my family or one of my friends would like or be interested in, I will instantly make the connection and think that it would be kind of nice to get it as a surprise gift.

With that in mind, I always look at the bird/wild animal feed sections of shops, normally to get ideas for possible gifts for my mother, who is something of a bird-watcher. Well, she tries to watch them, but the feathery buggers disappear as soon as my mother manages to get hold of her binoculars...

It's not just seed and hedgehog food on those shop shelves though. Normally, you will also find stuff for popular pets that aren't dogs or cats; guinea pigs, mice and rabbit - that kind of thing.

We were shopping yesterday, and I saw this product nestling on one of the shelves.

A dandelion salad for rabbits and rodents? Cute. It also brought to mind Sharron, one of my friends. I have mentioned her before, but usually in connection with one or the other of her daughters, both of whom have a wonderful knack of coming out with wonderfully innocent and sweet comments. This time, though, I remembered that Sharron has a couple of rabbits, and I thought this could be of interest to her - well, the rabbits, at least. I mentioned this to Julie, although in retrospect, I should have phrased it differently...

Dem bones

We have spoiled Roxy something rotten - but it's what you do, isn't it? Only this weekend, I suddenly found myself becoming a 'baby bore'; Julie had to nudge me sharply and tell me to stop showing this poor woman photographs of Roxy. I wouldn't have minded, but Julie had already shown people the pictures on her own phone...

Of all the toys that Roxy has available to play with, the one she is currently most enamoured with is a tatty orange football that somehow appeared in our back garden over the last winter. Nobody has laid claim to it, so I decided to let Roxy play with it. And play she does. Now partly deflated, it serves as a chew toy, a tugger and something to chase and fetch.

Apart from that, she has a tennis ball, a rope-pull, a long rubber tug-toy, and a vinyl bone shaped chew toy that is apparently bacon flavoured. I say apparently, as I have yet to have a nibble on it. Wait - that makes it sound like I want to... Nope. Nuh-uh. No way.

The bone looks a bit like this, and Roxy does like to have a chew on it now and then. The only problem is that her teeth appear to be a little delicate; We often see little specks of blood on it when the gums have had a little too much battering. Fortunately, Roxy does seem to know when to stop, so we are happy to let her keep it for the occasional chew.

The other day, we were all in the living room, and Roxy decided she wanted to chew on the bone for a bit. After a while, she stopped and began to smack her mouth and lick her lips. I knew what had happened, and a quick glance at the bone confirmed it.

I now have this image of a pig, snout down in its trough, oblivious to the fact Roxy is determinedly gnawing on its back leg...

Burning Peter to save Paul

Eastbourne has a problem. A big one. We have a hospital here, which is as it should be for a town our size. In fact, since we have the only main hospital for at least 20 miles in any direction, you would think we would be happy with it.

But we're not.

Bit by bit, our hospital is being closed down and the services are being transferred to a 'nearby' hospital, The Conquest in Hastings.
Like I said, nothing else for at least 20 miles. And that's not counting the fact that the main road is guaranteed to slow to a crawl for miles during peak times. Or if there are road works. Or an accident... 'Alternative' routes involve minor roads, many of which have cars parked along them, forcing traffic into a perpetual slalom. Unless you opt for the picturesque route, which, while relatively trouble free, adds an uncomfortable five miles or so onto the journey.

(map taken from Google Maps)

First, the maternity unit was closed down, despite lots of protests, petitions, demonstrations and talks (the kind of talks where only one side appears to be listening, apparently). It was put off and then sneaked back onto the agenda when they thought nobody was looking.

Three days after it closed, the first 'taxi baby' was born, en route to The Conquest.

Now, any scheduled surgery is to take place there too.

A fun fact about Eastbourne; It has the oldest (average) population in Britain. A large town, comprised mostly of OAPs, all of whom have to somehow make their way to someplace they aren't necessarily familiar with, via whatever means necessary

Fun fact 2; Discounting taxi, there is no one single form of public transport that will get you from Eastbourne to The Conquest. The Conquest is at the back end of Hastings, well away from any busy transport routes. This might be fine for patients trying to sleep, but for anyone trying to get there, it's a bit of a bugger. And if you should decide to drive there, then you have to fight for a parking spot in one of the most fractured, compartmentalised car parks I have ever known.

Julie has said to me that she wouldn't be surprised if they were trying to turn it into a cottage hospital. I poo-poohed this idea, but when I mentioned it to my doctor today, he replied that he wouldn't be at all surprised.

Well, crap.

Naturally, the residents of the town aren't taking this lying down - they can't because some of the wards have been closed and there aren't nearly enough beds... In the windows of many houses, you will find small posters defending our hospital. Most of them seem more plaintive than anything else...

Nice flatline...

Julie, being a life resident of the town, is obviously very much against the transfer of services (as am I). One day, we were out for a walk, and we happened to pass a house with one of these posters in the window. Julie felt moved to have a little rant.

Well, yes. Although a tad on the illegal side of things.

Time to sleep

As I type this, it's 1am. Yesterday saw some abysmal weather of the rain variety. Or, to put it another way, it was pissing down for most of the day, and just when some idiot commented that "it couldn't rain much harder", someone Up There replied with, "challenge accepted." Yeah. Thanks for that.

I have a weight problem, and as part of an agreement with a dietician, I'm trying to walk at least five thousand steps a day. Some days are good, others not so. Part of the problem is down to the headaches I get, partly the fact my main hobbies involve sitting down (reading, internet, Magic gaming) and, of course, the weather.

Not me, but the pose is.
Especially the mug of tea.

Yesterday involved a case of  'all of the above'.

Because of the weather, me and Julie decided to drive to a garden centre that we knew was under cover, but was still quite large - in other words, we got to have a bit of a walk. Unfortunately, I started feeling a bit woozy, and we had yet to do the food shopping.

On our way home, we called in at Morrisons, mainly because they have a fantastic salad bar, and their cous-cous is amazing. I was very glad to get home, though, because by that stage I was definitely feeling under the weather (no pun intended).

After a brief time surfing the web while having salad and a cup of tea, I gave in to the inevitable and decamped to the front room, took painkillers and gingerly placed a cold wheatbag across my eyes and forehead. And slept.

All too soon, I woke up. Grumbling, I made a cup of tea, tried some other painkillers and settled down again.

The face ain't mine, but the expression is.

10:45 pm - awake once more. Bloody hell. At least the headache had subsided somewhat. And - surprise, surprise - so had the rain. It might have been late, but I was definitely in the mood for a spot of fresh air.

And here I am. Still tender in the temple, but getting there.

Here's Julie on the subject of taking a nap:

Fancy a stiff one?

Last weekend, me and Julie visited Sissinghurst Castle.

OK, if you want to be precise, we didn't go inside - that costs money, since we're not members of The National Trust. The main reason we visited were the grounds (free!) and the fact there was a craft fair taking place that day.

It's also apparently a good place to take your dogs for a walk around the lakes. As you can imagine, I was completely fine with this idea, as it meant I could make a fuss of a steady stream of gorgeous canines. My favourites were a black Labrador and a Jack Russell terrier, both part of the same family. The terrier was living up to its reputation though and was leading his companion astray by taking him off to hunt for rabbits for hours.

But I digress.

The day before, Julie and myself had engaged in  some gardening. Unfortunately, neither of us are in peak condition, so all the bending down, kneeling and stretching left us feeling somewhat less than flexible. It wasn't too bad on that evening, but when we got up to have our day out, our backs and legs were definitely showing signs of displeasure.

Nevertheless, the got a picnic together and folded our frames into the car and headed off.

Everything was fine and dandy for the journey there. It was only when we reached the castle and parked up that our problems began. Specifically, trying to get out of the car when our legs were protesting. Julie put it well, but a little confusingly:

Well, that told me.

Touchy about temperatures

A little while ago, we decided to have Chinese food for dinner. In order to save a little money, we bought some ready meals at Tesco, and rounded it off with a pack of spring rolls. When it came to cooking the food, later that day, we found that while the spring rolls needed to be cooked in the oven, the meals and rice had to be done in the microwave.

With a little planning, we worked out the order in which everything needed to be cooked and set it all off.

A short while later, we took the tray of spring rolls out of the oven so that we could follow the instruction to turn them half-way through their cooking. Yes, we have tongs in the kitchen, but we couldn't be bothered to get them, so we just used our fingers instead.

That cartoon's not strictly accurate for the events. Partly because nobody cried tears (let alone what appears to be urine), but mostly because it was not me, but Julie that was wincing as she gingerly flipped the rolls over. Smiling slightly (I know, cocky bastard, or what?), I took over, nonchalantly turning each roll over, taking my time. Yes, I could feel they were hot, but they didn't seem to burn me, nor did I feel any pain.

Julie couldn't believe it, blaming it on some kind of machismo thing.
"Nah," I said, "I've just got asbestos fingers."
"What?" Julie exclaimed.

I explained:

Wait... so you want not hot heat...?

Rare Breed Week: Happy as a pig in wotnot

For our final post in our week-long special celebrating our trip to the South of England Rare Breeds Centre (SERBC), we're going to continue our stroll through the centre's extensive grounds, through wild woodlands, open fields and well-maintained orchards.
As I mentioned before, here and there along the route, there were notices, giving information about various plants and animals, both domesticated and wild, that could be found in that area. Furthermore, there was a series of fun questions for younger children, based on pigs.

In Wednesday's post, Julie seemed to be under the impression that pigs were mute until someone had popped them into the oven and begun to roast them. Yes, we were being silly (no change there, eh?).

A little further into the woods, we found another sign, one which was concerned with how pigs protect themselves from the elements...

Damn... now I'm hungry...

The Wedding banned

It's been about six and a half years since we were married. It was a lovely day, which was pleasant, considering the weekends either side of the one we booked were absolutely vile. Mind you there was one vile thing about our wedding day - my head. As the morning went on, my head grew progressively worse until I found myself trying to cope with a near-migraine level headache.

Toffed up, me and my best man got a taxi to the hotel where we got married, and began the process of meeting and greeting various friends and relatives. It was the first time I had met many of the younger ones, and I was pleased to note that they were a fairly well-behaved bunch. I'm not much for children at the best of times and I definitely didn't want any excitable kiddies that day.

Our home-made table centrepiece. Hedgehog, of course!

Apart from our tying the knot, we both agreed that the highlight of the ceremony was when my foster brother, who is severely disabled, acted up at precisely the point I had predicted.

Before the wedding, we had to drop by the registrar's office to discuss things. I was adamant that I wanted Jim to be there, so I was making sure that there would be no objections on the part of the officials. However, I did warn them that Jim has a broad sense of humour and, while unable to speak, he uses his laughs to communicate some things very well. And, being mischievous, he responded well to the question, "is there anyone who objects to these two being married.?"

Cue the snigger.

The registrar hadn't quite believed me when I warned her, so this snigger came as something of a surprise; I knew from our first meeting that, while efficient, she was also officious and patronising.

There was another incident concerning the registrar.
When we moved to discussing some of the finer details of our ceremony, the matter of restrictions was raised. Now, I had heard something about this. If you were to be married in a non-ecclesiastic manner, then the music played should have no religious references. This ban included Robbie Williams' hit 'Angels'.

I objected to this. Not so much for the banning of a Robbie tune (which I rather like, actually), but that there were restrictions being placed on our special day - one we were paying for. Nevertheless, argued the registrar, angels are a religious construct and therefore cannot be played at a civil ceremony.

Ridiculous.

The registrar went further; we were not allowed to choose any music that was inappropriate for such an occasion, and we would have to submit which songs/tunes we had in mind. Julie was also unimpressed.

I burst out laughing, but the registrar was none too happy, and gathered up her papers, saying, "well, I think that's all we need to discuss for today," before bidding us 'Good day' and leaving.

In the end, this was the music we chose for the ceremony. Approved, of course.

• Bride's entrance: 'Horizons' by Genesis
• Signing the documents: 'The Rose' by Bette Midler
• The couple leaves: 'Handbags & Gladrags' by Stereophonics (it's Our Song)

------------------------------------------

PS - apparently, the ban on ecclesiastical references in songs has since been lifted.

The extreme egg fiasco

We have a problem. We like food. Unfortunately, we're not too good at controlling what we eat, nor the quantities thereof. Oh, and by the way, that statement doesn't just apply to my wife and me, but Western civilisation in general. We have come to consume too much of the wrong things and too much in general.

I'm currently trying to work with a dietician. Julie, on the other hand, tried that and various diets a long time ago. In the end, we agreed surgery was the only option. Julie had a gastric bypass, a version known as the Roux-en-y procedure.

This, without a word of exaggeration, has changed her life completely. It's entirely probable that it saved her life. Compulsive eating is a psychological problem, one that our primitive bodies are ill-equipped to cope with.

For those who can't stomach (sorry) looking at graphic details of operations, the notion is a simple one. Basically, the stomach is cut in half and the appropriate tubing is connected up to a much smaller gastric pouch.
Initially, the diet is severely limited, but with time, the patient can once again eat much of what they did before - just in drastically smaller portions. Even then, the stomach is still an elastic organ. It can stretch, and does. However, even taking that into account, one would still never be able to eat the massive portions as before.

It's a difficult situation, not just for the patient. A lot of human social interaction is based around the consumption of food and drink, and most pubs, cafes and restaurants don't really understand the concept of needing a tiny portion. Indeed, many get rather shirty when you ask for a child's portion when you have clearly left childhood far too long ago.

So how small does the stomach become after the operation?
About the size of a hen's egg.

Seriously.

Obviously, you're never going to be able to take in what you could, so if you have this op, then you're going to have to take a daily dose of vitamin & minerals in tablet form..
As I mentioned, the stomach may regain some magnitude, but only in a small way. Maybe twice the size of an egg, maybe a bit more.

It's not an exact thing, because everyone is different. Some keep their diet to minimal levels, some find they can't eat certain foods any more; some can't handle sweet stuff, others have trouble with greasy food - oh and it really doesn't take much alcohol either.

So, when Julie and me were in a cafe having a bite to eat, I was ploughing through a nice panini. My wife, however, was gingerly picking at hers. Oh, she was enjoying it, but necessity meant that she had to take it carefully, or she would end up with a side-effect known as 'dumping' - although this is more usually encountered in association with sugary foods.

With this in mind, we began to discuss how much her stomach will have changed in the few years since her operation.

...ummm...
...ok...

--------------------------------------------------

Just in case you didn't know, the World Book Night Prize draw is now closed. We will be filming a clip today for the drawing of the winners and posting the results tomorrow.

A-groping and a-growling we will go!

It's been something of an open secret for the last few months that I have been suffering from acute depression and anxiety - enough to give me panic attacks out in public. I've been trying various forms of treatment and medication, but for one reason or another, they have not managed to do the trick thus far.

Readers of this blog will know that my mother has a dog, a Jack Russell terrier by the name of Toby. He's a family dog and something of an attention whore, but a highly intelligent one, nonetheless.
Intelligence was a hotly-debated topic with our previous dog, Skip. He was a pure-breed English Springer Spaniel, and bloody huge. I don't mean fat, but tall and stocky - I would often have people stop and ask me what breed he was, because you just don't get Springers that large. However, Skip was either clever and sneaky or just plain bloody daft. Honest - we couldn't work it out, even after a dozen years.

Back to Toby.

He loves to cuddle up next to you on the sofa, wedging himself tightly between you and the arm of the sofa (or chair, if you're skinny). In fact, it's slightly alarming, because he curls himself up so much you wonder how he manages to breathe.
However, once he's there, it then becomes a case of symbiosis. He's feeling so much better for cuddling up to you, sure. But, as you stroke him, you feel yourself feeling better too. It's an established fact that petting animals can help people's mood to change for the better - generally. There are limits, of course.

Me - I'm a dog person through and through. Some months ago, Julie thought it would be a good idea to visit a rescue centre, one which allowed you to meet and greet the animals.
Wow.
We both came away wanting a dog - different dogs, though. Julie liked a Jack Russell, while I fell head over heels for a female boxer by the name of Princess. She'd been there a long time and had developed that institutionalised mentality; resigned to her fate. I'd walked up to her pen and managed to coax her to the door. We sat there for a little while, 'chatting', while I tried to stroke her through the gate.
Unfortunately, we can't have a dog. We don't have the money, we're both technically working full-time - and the terms of our house rent forbids it.
That meant that, after Julie came back to get me, I had to stand and leave Princess behind.
She started crying, and it broke my heart.

------------------------------------------

More recently, we were out on a drive and had stopped in Hythe in Kent. It was lunchtime and we walked along the semi-pedestrianised high street, peering into various cafes. Hythe was busy, and the cafes reflected this, so we kept walking, hoping to find somewhere a little quieter.

Enter Truly Scrumptious.

As you can see, it's set back from the street a little, sharing a courtyard with some other establishments.

It seemed to be a little quieter than the other places, so we decided to give it a shot.

As we walked in, we heard rock 'n' roll music playing; that was a plus for me, as you all-too-often find that the omnipresent Heart FM will be worming its way through the cafe speakers. As I headed up to the counter to ask whether they had soy milk (I also have a milk intolerance), I was gratified to see the largest collection of teas and infusions I have ever seen outside of a supermarket. Heck - I've seen supermarkets with less of a range. Apparently, tea is an obsession of a level normally associated with coffee drinkers for one of the owners. That said, I was told that her husband (sorry! I forgot to ask your names!) is precisely that sort of coffee enthusiast.

Fancy a brew? Of course you do.

In the end, after some agonising over the infusions, I went for a pot of our celebrated favourite, Lapsang Souchong - with soy - and a plate of chips with cheese and chilli. Julie just had a sausage inna bun and a bottle of Coke.

As we waited for our order, more people arrived. In fact, it rather looked as though we had got there and ordered just in time to beat the rush. Some stayed inside, some went and sat outside. Mind you, since they had dogs with them, the cafe policy meant they had to remain outside.
We were sat next to a large plate glass window, and a couple arrived with their dog to sit at the table just outside from us.

Oh, but what a dog.

This is Finn. What a handsome chap.

Obviously, there is a large amount of spaniel going on there and since my family had had an English Springer before, I was definitely melting inside. At our table, my tea arrived, much to Julie's disgust. I paid it hardly any heed. The same went for the i crossword we were poring over. I was trying to decipher the clues, but I kept being distracted by the dog outside.

In the end, Julie gave up, exasperated in a good-humoured way.

Er, what? I think you'll find that's stroked' or 'petted', love.

Of course, I did give in to my impulse and went outside to introduce myself to the dog and his humans.* As it turned out, the dog went by the name of Finn and had an interesting story.
Finn was found wandering the streets, somewhere in Ireland (I forgot to ask which Ireland. Mea Culpa). When he was picked up, he was taken to one of the Dogs' Trust centres in Scotland and from there, he was then adopted by a couple from Suffolk. And there I was, an ex-pat Brummie (Birmingham) from Eastbourne,  on a day out to a Kentish town bumping into an Irish dog and his new family. Cool.

Apparently, Finn is a cross-breed, a mix of Springer spaniel and setter, the latter explaining the grey spotting on his coat. Funnily enough, his humans (whose names I also neglected to note. Sorry!), had always said they didn't want a spaniel, because they had had experience with them before and found that, like me and Skip, spaniels can be just a tad brainless.
Happily, Finn cast a spell upon them, and they were immediately smitten.
As was I.
>sigh<
Oh well. At least I didn't have to worry about Finn's future, he now had a good home, it would appear.

SERIOUS BIT
OK folks, I want to make a little request here.
If, like me, you want to have a dog for a companion, then I would like to congratulate you on your choice. However, when you go looking for one, please be careful about the people and places you get them from. Puppy farms are not illegal, but if you do go this route, be very sure that they are registered with all the proper authorities, and that the animals have had all the shots and medication, with the documentation to prove it.
Please don't buy from a small ad in a local newspaper, or via some unknown on the internet.
In fact, considering the amount of dogs that escape, are discarded or rescued from owners who mistreated them, why not go to a rescue centre, be a hero and rescue a dog yourself. You'll feel even better when you 'fondle' them, then.

*Yes, I did make a fuss of Finn. He was a happy dog, as most Springer spaniels are, and his grin and his energy was infectious. Yes, I felt a lot happier for his presence.

Webcomic - Foot in Mouth Training.

I dislike having headaches. I get far too many of them, despite dietary changes, medication and various other things. The headaches I get generally mean I am unable to concentrate, or I am too light-sensitive to cope with much of anything.
Unfortunately, this includes looking at a bright screen, trying to think of something funny to say.

Having missed out on prep time last night, today's Gem will therefore be a simple sharing of a webcomic.
Safe Havens is a comic all about inclusivity and the inter-relationships of a set of friends and family. Some are dead, others don't rightly exist at this time. Oh and Dodos are back, just like they are in the Jasper Fforde Books. You know what I'm talking about; the book I'm handing out for World Book Night in our free prize draw.*

>ahem<

Where was I - oh, yes.
Safe Havens is one of Bill Holbrook's many  projects, three of which are webcomics. Safe Haven I have mentioned, but there are also On The Fastrack and Kevin And Kell. Oh. You know I said SH was all about inclusivity? Well, it's still not got anything on K&K. Trust me.

At the moment in Safe Havens, one of the central characters is preparing for her wedding. There's a problem, though. She's also due to go on tour, playing the drums as part of a backing band for a best-selling singer. The stress must be getting to her, because her brain seems to have switched off here...

Oooops.
Trust your best mates to treat a slip of the tongue with all the dignity it deserves, too.
Read more at safehavenscomic.com

-----------------------------------------

*Heh. I know. Subtle, I'm not. There's still plenty of time to enter our free draw, with prizes sent anywhere in the world. Just email us with your name at juliesgems@gmx.com

Running and rambling

A while back, one of Julie's colleagues announced that she was going to take part in the Cancer Research Race for Life.

At the time, we congratulated her and didn't think much of it. After all, there is so much in the way of charity events taking place these days.
And then, in July last year, my father was diagnosed with a massive and aggressive brain tumour. Less than six weeks later, he died.
After that, our heightened sensibilities couldn't help but notice that so many people's lives had been touched by cancer. It's been tough, to be sure, but we're coming to terms with it now. Yes, we do find ourselves in situations that affect us. The first time I saw this video was hard for me, but I now see it as a positive thing.

Back to our friend. When she told us of her intention to take part in this, we wished her well and backed away. Not from sponsoring, but from the actual activity. You see, neither Julie nor myself are what you could term 'svelte' or 'athletic'. Not by a long shot. For my part, I like to walk; I'm built for a slow, solid pace and Julie is generally happy to accompany me.
Running? Uh... no, thanks.

Julie put it slightly differently, of course.

Heh. Dad would have loved that one.

Moooooo!

The body is a wonderful thing. Rather like the age-old comparison with the apparent grace of the swan, there is so much activity beneath the surface that it would be fair to describe the human body as a battleground, one that will only be calmed when one side it vanquished for good. Sorry, but you know which side that is. As the phrase goes,

"Life is a sexually-transmitted disease with a 100% fatality rate."

Cheering, eh?

Let's steer things back to lighter matters.
Everybody likes a fart gag, don't they? Gaseous emissions have been a staple of comedy since time immemorial, but it's as much about timing as anything else.
Imagine a hall full of students taking their final exams. Despite hours or revision and weeks of preparation, it's turning out to be far harder than any of them had imagined. Half an hour in, and already, despair is setting in. The tension in the air is palpable. Then, from between clenched buttocks comes a noise, a sound like a cornet being blown to a tone of E flat. There's silence at first, then a muffled snigger. Soon, the whole room is full of students trying not to make any noise and failing dismally. However, the mood has been lifted and who knows - some of the students may have relaxed enough to improve their score.

"What you see might not be real" is a sculpture by Chinese artist Chen
Wenling. It's an unsubtle dig at the financial crisis. The bull represents
Wall Street, and the human is Bernard Madoff. He was convicted
and jailed for 150 years for being a Ponzi schemer.

Alternatively, let's pretend you are watching a sitcom. The main character works in an office. He's been stuck in a meeting for what has felt like the longest hour of his life. He has spent most of the meeting regretting the full English breakfast. It was tasty enough at the time, but it's given him some terrible gas. Finally, the meeting is over. He grabs his papers and dashes out for his own office. When he gets there, he bangs the door shut behind him, but doesn't notice that it has bounced open again. He leans his knuckles on his desk and carefully relaxes certain muscles. The resulting fart is loud, sonorous and meaty enough to be put into pies. Them, just as he sighs with relief, he hears the boss behind him, "I hope you feel much better for that." Oh bugger.

See? It can be humorous. Obviously, it can be taken too far. An entire programme of fart gags is a bit much (although Bottom seemed to get away with something very close to it for several series).

On the other hand, when you feel the need and you happen to be in public, it's really not done to simply let rip. In that case, one will surreptitiously glance about, making sure that the coast is clear. Only then will we allow ourselves to let something out. Hopefully, it will be as discreet as your attempt to clear the area.
Yeah, right.
Poor Julie, on this occasion, managed to create a passable impression of a foghorn. I was gasping for breath, I was laughing that hard, and Julie was laughing just as hard. Then, just as I felt I was beginning to calm down, Julie decided to justify herself.

And I was off again...

What a lot of wotnot!

We decided to cheer ourselves up the other night by playing a game of Trivial Pursuit. It was... entertaining...
Part of the problem was that wave both been ill recently, with a combination of heavy colds and a virus picked up from Julie working in the hospital that made sure we didn't stray too far from a toilet. As a result, we were mumbling fairly often and our concentration was shot to pieces. And thanks to the cold, both of us had a mild tinnitus going on, which meant that we had a little trouble hearing things.

Of course, you also need to bear in mind that Julie (and, occasionally, myself) can find difficulty with some of the questions at the best of times. Admittedly, there are some which are pronunciation problems, but they're something that doesn't really affect us that much. Generally, though, it's simply Julie's approach to the game that wins through; if you don't know the answer, bluff it. Big time. Over-egg the pudding, spoil that broth and go the whole hog.

But, whatever you do, please remember what makes you you. Julie does. Even if she doesn't have the wherewithal to say so...

Now, that's what I call honesty. Facing up to your own shortcomings and turning them into strengths. It's amazing how much work a 'wotnot' does...

World Book Night 2013 - update

Hi folks, you may recall that for the last couple of years, we have been involved with World Book Night, which encourages people to read by the wonderful process of giving away brilliant books for free.

Well, we're at it again. This year, out of the twenty titles available, I chose to give away copies of Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair.
However, in keeping with our previous efforts, we will also be giving away other goodies too. Over the next few weeks, I will be introducing them. Here's the first; Skallagrigg by William Horwood.

This is my all-time favourite book. It's not a fantasy novel, but it has an invented mythology within it. It challenges you to face up to facts of life that are extremely uncomfortable. What would you do if you suddenly found you were the father of a cerebral palsied baby and that the child's severe handicap was due to the car accident that also killed your wife?

The threads in this book are woven together with such care and skill that you not only find you are able to follow Esther Marquand's life in various care homes and schools, but that you also want to. You want to help her along, cheer her on and doff a cap to her when she achieves something amazing.
I love Tolkein's Lord of the Rings. When Frodo leaves Middle Earth at the end of the book, I will cry rivers for him. Esther Marquand is different. My emotions for her are nowhere near as primal. However, for a middle-aged man with no severe handicap to find himself identifying with a frustrated, heavily cerebral palsied young girl (and later, young lady), that indicates writing of the highest calibre.
Don't just take my word for it, though - here's a great blog about it.

Skallagrigg is going to be one of the prizes for one lucky person in our free draw. Since it's been out of print for a long time, the copy on offer is not of the highest quality, but it's readable and won't fall apart on you.

That's it for this time - next week, I shall reveal one of the other prizes that will be up for grabs.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness, apparently.

On a bright day recently, Julie and me decided to go for a little drive. Sunglasses on, Madness on the CD player, we headed off westwards along the A27. This route takes you right into the heart of the [newly declared] South Downs National Park, which features lots of old river valleys, broad and shallow. It's a nice place to be, and very popular with walkers, hikers and other people that don't mind getting rained on.

Since it's chalk downland, people in the past felt the need to make their mark on the landscape. Like the White Horse at Uffington, these marks are large and tended to on a regular basis. The Sussex Downs has two such things in our area. A solid horse on a hill near Alfriston, and the rather more famous Long Man of Wilmington.

As we were driving past the Long Man on this occasion, I noticed what I can only describe as a flock of paragliders circling over the hillside.
For those not in the know, paragliding is rather similar to hang gliding, except that when you throw yourself off the hill/cliff/whatever, your means of support is a lot less sturdy. It doesn't help that you have to have someone make the run-up with you, holding the parachute - in pretty much the same way someone would help you to get a kite up in the air.

For all my snide comments above, I have to admit that they did look especially graceful when they were up in the air and drifting about.
Julie, on the other hand, is nowhere near as enamoured with the paragliding idea.

...yes, lovey.

The gall of the woman...

A few months ago, my mum visited one of her sisters, partly just to drop by, but also partly because of health issues. Last year wasn't a good one for our family when it came to health, what with one thing and another. Compared to a lot of the family, I am fairly distant, both physically and emotionally, so it was during a phone conversation with my mother a few days later that this came to light for me.

For British people in general and our family in particular (as a running joke), the weather is a strong topic for discussion. Therefore, most conversation openings between me and Mum will run along the lines of greeting, weather, health.

"Hi, Mum, what's the weather like up by you? How're you feeling today?"

Scintillating stuff, I know.

Now, I don't know about you, but I find that when you have chats with people you know very well and have done for a long time, you tend to develop a sort of conversational shorthand. You will also take verbal shortcuts which will baffle outsiders, yet will be patently clear to anyone in the know.
However, there is a subtle danger here.
If either or both of the people in the conversation are feeling a little tired or are being distracted by something or other, then even long-established cues may be missed and confusion will reign.
Take, for example, this snippet from my mother as she tells me of her visit to her sister.

Now, if you did the same as me, you read straight through that without blinking and then thought, "hang on a minute..."
Of course, my aunt wasn't suffering from a meteorological disorder, it was just that I had heard two separate elements of the conversation as one sentence. As it turned out, Jackie was only in for a check-up - she wasn't about to have a weather vane installed...