Ode to Dougal

He was ill fated from the start. Poor little fluffy bundle of joy, we’ve never had much luck with male dogs. Dougal the dogs untimely death needs to be noted somewhere. So here is my wee tribute to him.

He was of Scottish descent, naturally, but born as it happens in Wales. I remember driving miles out of London, to a non-descript service station in god-knows-where to fetch him. We’d left all our pets behind in South Africa, the only one we still have contact with, a large Siamese being systematically overfed, by my grandmother (who systematically overfeeds most everyone and thing).

Nevertheless, our house had been free of animal noises and fur and the general furious taps of paws on floorboards for many months. Having settled into this fine land known as England, with only terrestrial television, and these new fangled umbrella things to keep us amused we’d become acquainted with some strange customs. Countdown, Call My Bluff, a strange lady with buoyant flame red hair called Cilla Black who sought to fix the hapless love lives of countless women named Claire, or Clur on Blind Date and most importantly a small horde of Irish priests on Craggy Island in Father Ted. This is how Dougal, the Scottish terrier came to be. Part Welsh, part Scottish and now part Irish.

He spent his life terrorising squirrels along with his feline friends Tigger and Wallace. They taught him everything he needed to survive, most of which was relevant only in the cat world. He developed an uncanny ability to teeter on the back of sofas and armchairs, he enjoyed brushing up against your legs, and walking under them time and time again should you dare to rest your feet on the coffee table. He only failed on two counts, never quite mastering the meow or learning to play it cool at the sound of his rattling leash or the mention of walkies.

He devoted his life to being excitable and infinitely huggable. No visitor ever went ungreeted and no session on the saxophone unaccompanied. From being strangely feline to acutely human, he certainly was a splendid friend.

He was last spotted in a better place, with a grey squirrel firmly clapped between his smiling jaws.

A Single Woman

I have no patience. Zero. Squat-all. As a child I used tell my brother he was irritating. He would simply respond by telling me that I was irritable. Well it’s a fine line when you’re a woman. It’s a fine fine narrow piece of ice and my housemate is treading on it without any trepidation. He should be.

My threshold for daily annoyances has packed its bags and gone on holiday. I’m quite aware that this Saturday I move house, I move into my new, smaller, but less ikea’d girly and bookshelved flat and as such can no longer tolerate any annoyances I used to put up with. Is this normal? Am I some sort of intolerant freak? Am I to sit back and ignore the inhalation of cereal next to me, while words sputter out mid chomp? I guess this is just another addition to my list of middle-class problems, which I’ll throw in the furnace when I get a firmer grip of reality.

Speaking of not having a grip on reality, last night I watched When Harry met Sally for what was quite possibly the 50^th time. Which was preceded by watching 50 First Dates, another high quality contribution to the world of film, by a man named Sandler. All this on the one day that I normally pledge to resent love and be the bitter (prematurely) old woman that I am. The stupid universe snuck up on me. It filled my belly with paella, and then erased the fact that it was the dreaded V day from my brain and taunted me with a severely loved up tv schedule.  I wasn’t even bitter, not one bit, I even shed a little tear over 50 First Dates and dozed off blissfully before the final “and it’s not because it’s new years eve” speech of Harry and Sally. So in the spirit of positivity and ignorant bliss, I’l just assume that the little notes of secret admiration got lost in the post… hmmph.

On Saturday, still in the throws of ‘post-cereal-munching’ anger, I dotted off to the movies. By myself. This is hands-down, one of my favourite treats. I’m not some kind of freakish loner. I wanted to see A Single Man, with Colin Firth, and I didn’t want to risk it being ruined by company.  It was complete and utter film perfection, arresting, poignant, heart aching perfection. I’m in love with it, in awe of it and hanging on its every word. You should probably see it. 

The Joey Special

I’m not a negative sort of person. In fact I think I can describe myself as, well, overwhelmingly sunny. However, some things just get you down. Some things are well, rather unavoidable, so here is my first sunny instalment, of ‘Things that ruined my week’.

I’m going to start with something that happened on Thursday, because, like me, you are about to have your week ruined, when it is just about over. Firstly, what the hell happened to Joey Tribbiani?  “I thought we had a deal god?” I, for one, am a happy loser, that needs at the very least, a daily dose of Friends to keep me regular. My mood that is. On top of that, I love Joey. Love him. Yes I didn’t entirely care for the Joey-loves-Rachel and months later Rachel-loves-Joey-storyline, but come on! Joey in Phoebe’s pregnancy pants? Joey falling down a lift in Days our Lives? Joey’s secret roof top party? Joey and Janice’s day of fun? Sandwiches? And now, well he kind of looks like my dad, with a slightly less bulbous nose. Oh Joey Tribbiani, don’t save your sandwich, save yourself! I’m sure it’s a very excellent sandwich, but is it worth looking like George Clooney’s less attractive twin?

And that was just the icing on an already sludgy cake. I will now take issue with Great Britain herself. Yes the whole of you Britain, you, your entire incompetent self. Lets start with the facts. Lets start with the fact that just over a month ago I was waist deep in snow, in the American West. The wild wild, snowy snowy, American West. Blizzardly Blizzards swept through and yet, not once were we confined to the great indoors. Not once was there a motorway or mountain pass so covered in snow that we couldn’t get to our next destination. Look at you Britain, look at you in the heat! You melt, your underground train network is a deathly sauna, two words – air conditioning. Now look at you! West London is covered in a mere dusting of snow and down the road at Heathrow people are spending days on the airport floor. Rumour has it that at Edinburgh just before Christmas so many people were stranded at the airport, that John Lewis let them stay in the bedding department! Its not that I don’t love you, you’ve been my home for 10 years now, but dear god, we’re supposed to be the first world. The example of a functioning, capable nation…yet we cant even put enough salt on the ground to facilitate a walk from my house to the supermarket. God help you Britain.

My final rant, (I promise, oh bored reader) is about another bridesmaidly duty that has been bestowed upon me. It seems, yes, it has once again fallen to one of my many coupled up friends, to don the bling and pick her inferiors. So after what was quite possibly a solid month’s worth of scoffing, drinking and general celebratory weight gain, I was tasked with going shopping for bridesmaid dresses. Not only that, but my lardy ass was (to its surprise) the lardiest amongst a group of near anorexic fellow bridesmaids. Fatty McFat here was wedging herself into the size 14s, while the other two were flitting about in size 8s and 10s. Talk about soul destroying. Well at least my mum thinks I’m the prettiest and despite not meeting the other girls is almost certain I have a better personality.