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Eighteenth Century Ringlets and Dog Diarrhoea





There is one thing necessary to my felicity on occasions when ladies and gentlemen come to call: the satisfaction in the knowledge that my best gun dog's bowels have not been made lax through an injudicious diet. Furthermore, that my honoured guests, while setting foot upon the threshold of my abode, will not step, hop, or jump in any such blob, puddle or mucussy portion of dog poo; especially if it has corn sticking out of it.



Alas, dear readers, it seems to be my most melancholy lot in this life to coincide the great milestones of my family with human intrusions and canine extrusions. And so it was today: B day, that is Ball Day; when my eldest was preparing for her happy debut. AND I SPENT 3 FREAKING HOURS ROLLING UP HER HAIR IN FIFTY FLIPPING RINGLETS! Upon my word! That was a mighty undertaking. I must own that I am a great proficient, indeed!
Yes, well now she is gone! This minute she is likely dancing in her $665 merriment! ($675 if you count the money I paid her most beloved sister to help clean up the inconvenient diarrhoea on the verandah, some hours before the mamas and their children arrived prior to the group departure.) Luckily, Fortune was with me and when the doating mothers suggested photos out there to catch the view, I declined (for the smell was merely still masked though the solids (and liquids) were gone) but citing "unpleasant memories" I waved them over into the front yard for a more agreeable location.


The hour is now 10pm and it will be gone the midnight chime before my cherished one bustles into the vestibule and inner lobby of my open plan drawing room/kitchen . Or even 1 a.m. if they go through the Macca's drive-through on the journey home. Nothing will promote my happiness more if she brings me tales of delight and respectable partying plus a choc-caramel frappe.




Water for the dog.