Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 20

Oh I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside. Cyprus...

This time last week I was in Cyprus.  Summer holidays, whether home or abroad, are embraced for all sorts of reasons.  Mostly a holiday is all about taking a step back from busy lives and re-charging the batteries.
It was with a sigh of pleasure that I hopped on a plane and briefly escaped Britain’s dismally wet summer and grey skies.  Of course, the moment I jetted off England sniggered behind its Union Jack flag and temperatures soared to 27 degrees for three whole days!  But I didn’t care too much.  I was about to embrace 40 degrees. 
There was a moment of panic on arrival.  ‘Where’s the rep?’ asked Mr V.  ‘Follow me,’ I instructed and trotted off to a lady waving a Thomas Cook placard.  She checked her clipboard to see which coach we should embark upon.  The tip of her biro traced the passenger names on her list.  ‘Oh dear,’ she chewed her lip, ‘you’re not on the list.’ Now I’ve been suffering from a terrible affliction for the last year.  It’s called Menopausal Memory.  Every now and again the fog lifts and I have a moment of clarity.  The grey matter did a bit of mattress plumping and – ding! – I suddenly remembered that I’d booked the holiday with a completely different tour operator.  Thomson.  And sure enough, there was another rep – a man this time and not standing a million miles away – waving a placard and searching the crowd.  ‘Viggiano?’ he called forlornly.  ‘Anybody seen the Viggiano family?’
Hasty apologies were made and we scampered over to the Thomson chappie.  ‘Sooooo sorry,’ I murmured to the sweating rep.  ‘No problem, you’re here now,’ he smiled, mopping his shiny face with a hanky.  ‘All I need is the name of your hotel.’  Ah yes.  The name of the hotel.  ‘The name of the hotel,’ I rummaged through my handbag for the paperwork, ‘is...er...the name of the hotel is...it’s right here...somewhere...it’s...um–’  No paperwork.  Where was the paperwork?  Menopausal Memory had returned.  I looked at Mr V.  Who looked back at me.  ‘Where’s the paperwork Debbie?’  This question you understand was delivered through gritted teeth.  I had a tiny inkling Mr V’s temper was rising to match the Cypriot weather.  ‘No problem,’ I assured my husband and turned back to the rep.  ‘I can tell you exactly which hotel we’re staying in.’ The rep looked relieved.  ‘Yes, it’s the one with the really massive swimming pool.’  Out of my peripheral vision I could see Mr V rolling his eyes.  My daughter, like all teenagers, was being dramatic and whimpering about heat exhaustion.  We’d only been on Cypriot soil for ten minutes.  How was she going to cope for the best part of a fortnight?  The grey fog once again shifted.  ‘I remember now!’ I squeaked excitedly, ‘we’re staying at the Hotel Anus.’  There was a stunned silence.  Even my teenager shut up moaning.  ‘I think you mean the Atlantica Aeneas Hotel,’ the rep said carefully.  Yes.  That’s what I said.
And so began our holiday.  Every day I would stretch out on a sun-lounger.  Rivers of water would cascade down my sides.  I wasn’t sure if my body was crying from the heat or whether some part of me had simply sprung a leak.  The only exertion was to press the page-turning button on my Kindle, take a tug on the straw of my Seven Up drink, or put both aside and take a dip in the pool or sea.
Were there any holiday mishaps?  Yes of course.  Like getting on a bus one evening to explore and getting lost.  We ended up in Protares.  Well in all honesty I dragged my husband off the bus after 40 minutes muttering something like, ‘I’ve had enough of being in a sweat box with hundreds of wannabe clubbers necking booze and rolling spliffs and I’m getting off right here right now whether you’re with me or not.’  It was one of those moments when my husband recognised the wild look in his wife’s eyes and didn’t argue.  Especially as my previously freshly washed sheet of sleek hair had turned into a sweat drenched mass of wild ringlets turning me into a dead ringer for Medusa.  We walked through Protares which was akin to landing on another planet.  Clubbers abounded.  We were possibly the only three people in the street decently attired.  Bare-chested young men were everywhere.  And whilst the women weren’t exactly bare-chested let’s just say that nothing much was left to the imagination!  Across the road was a nightclub that I myopically mis-read as Boobies.  Which was quite appropriate all things considering.  ‘Drink,’ Eleanor gasped, ‘I need a drink.’  We headed towards a familiar neon sign.  All the way to Cyprus and there we were in McDonalds.
What other mishaps?  Oh yes.  My husband’s Speedos.  Mr V simply will not embrace long swim shorts covered in neon palm trees.  I don’t know why.  I’ve told him such shorts are trendy.  And it would make him look younger.  But for some reason he prefers to hang on to his ancient Speedos which are...well...saggy to say the least.  Mr V didn’t fully appreciate just how lacking in the elastic department they were until lying sideways on his sun-lounger.  And inadvertently exposing himself.  Which gave a whole new meaning to that charming English colloquialism dropping a bollock. 
There was another sticky moment – quite literally – when my daughter charmingly discarded several pieces of used chewing gum by spitting them in the direction of our bathroom’s toilet.  But her aim was off and everything landed on the toilet seat.  Being a teenager, she simply left it there.  In due course Mr V came along and quietly shut himself away in the bathroom with – triumph – a copy of the Daily Mail bought for an extortionate price in the local souvenir shop.  At this point I would like to point out that my husband is...how to put this delicately...hirsute.  Indeed I swear his veins contain gorilla blood.  So when Mr V sank down gratefully onto the toilet seat, he wasn’t expecting to have one thigh welded to several globules of gum.  Or to be shrieking in pain ten minutes later whilst his wife cut him free with a pair of nail scissors.
Meanwhile my daughter had packed a suitcase of shorts that, in all truth, were little more than Denim underpants.  Certainly they gave a whole new meaning to the word cheeky.  Boys flocked around and Mr V did an awful lot of huffing and puffing.  ‘Debbie, have you seen what Eleanor is wearing?  Can’t you do something about it!’  As if I have some sort of control over a fifteen year old.  Ha!  Has he not yet learned that teenagers are a law unto themselves and there is no reasoning with them until they have passed their 18th birthday?  Annoyed, Eleanor stomped off to the bar.  ‘And make sure you’re only drinking Coke!’ Mr V shouted after her.  ‘Yessss,’ she hissed.  In all fairness to her, she did drink Coke.  It’s just that it had Malibu in it too.  Rather than get involved in a row, I stomped after her and ordered my own Coke.  With Bacardi.  Foreign measures are nothing like British measures.  Within minutes Eleanor and I were absolutely plastered.  Mr V pursed his lips and took himself and his one bald thigh off to the bar too.  He ordered a gin and tonic.  Five minutes later he too was totally smashed. 
Now the trouble with extremely short shorts is that they have a habit of finding all your nooks and crannies.  By the time we’d finished our drinks and were ready to stagger into the restaurant, it became apparent Eleanor was in difficulties.  ‘C’mon,’ I slurred, ‘Geddup.’  Eleanor shook her head.  ‘Can’t.  Gotta wedgie.’  So Mr V and I had to form a screen around her while she stood up and made the necessary adjustments. 
Later, on the way back to our hotel room, I came across a stray cat.  It eyed me suspiciously.  It’s been a long time since I’ve had a moggy.  This pitifully thin creature captured my heart, especially when I spotted five tiny kittens hidden in the cool depths of a nearby geranium plant.  Mummy Cat allowed me to peer into the flowery depths.  At that moment a stick insect ran down my arm making me jump.  Mummy Cat hissed but fortunately didn’t impale her claws on my face.  The kittens were adorable but it was obvious they had an eye infection.  A couple of them had eyes glued shut with thick gunge.  Two children materialised by my side.  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ asked the tallest.  ‘They have conjunctivitis,’ I said.  ‘Oh no,’ said the youngest looking close to tears, ‘can you fix it?’  I looked at them.  ‘I think so.’  I went to the local pharmacy and bought antibiotic drops.  For the rest of the holiday me and my two nurses – Isabelle and Trinity – would swaddle the kittens with an old t-shirt and drip the drops into their crusty eyes. 
Isabelle named all the kittens.  There was a dear little tortoiseshell called Tikka.  Two tabbies became Tiger and Mischief.  And two tabby-and-whites were suddenly finding themselves addressed as Alvin and Chipmunk.  ‘I think you need to re-name Alvin,’ I said one day.  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Trinity.  ‘Because Alvin is female,’ I replied.  ‘We haven’t given Mummy Cat a proper name,’ cried Isabelle, ‘what shall we call her?’  ‘I know,’ said Trinity, ‘let’s call her Debbie because she’s a Mummy too.’  So there you have it.  Somewhere in Cyprus is a cat called Debbie. 
Which reminds me.  Did you hear about the cat that swallowed a ball of wool?  She went on to have mittens...

We’re All Going on a Summer Holiday...

As any Brit will tell you, our summer has been a total wash-out.  Oh we’ve had a few nice days here and there, don’t get me wrong, but they’ve never fallen in the time frame that is desirable.  Earlier this year, when my son was swotting like mad for his end of year final exams, it irked him to be cooped up with his laptop and masses of notes while outside the sun blazed away, its heat pressing up against the grime encrusted windows of his dowdy digs. Likewise my daughter was unimpressed to be shut up in a boiling classroom trying to get her head around some early GCSE exams when all she and her mates wanted to do was roll down socks, hitch up hemlines and toast pale limbs to the colour of honey.
Now that exams are out the way and the long summer vacation stretches ahead, it is just the Law of Sod that the sun has packed its bags and naffed off to warmer climes.  Trying to do anything – mow the lawn, wash the car, walk the dog, go for a run – is fraught with dodging cloud bursts and thundery rumbles.  Roads can become mini lakes in a matter of moments.
So in search of some sunshine, the suitcases are out and flights have been booked to Cyprus.  I’ve heard temperatures are currently nudging 40 degrees.  Good.  Because earlier this week I actually put the heating on for a few hours.  I’m looking forward to doing squat diddly other than reading, swimming, sunbathing and going for relaxing walks along a beautiful beach.  It will also be a pleasure to wear pretty summer dresses that have, in the main, remained unworn this year. 
So before I go off to do some packing, will leave you with this:  What did the pig say whilst sitting on a boiling hot beach? 
I’m bacon...

Happy Birthday to you. Again. And Again.

Her Majesty the Queen was actually born on 21 April 1926, but it has long been customary to celebrate the sovereign’s birthday publicly on a day during the summer, when better weather is more likely.  Her Majesty’s official birthday is marked by Trooping the Colour.
As this summer has been pretty much a total wash-out, it would seem my daughter has taken a leaf from the Queen’s birthday book.  When my daughter turned fifteen on 6th July, the weather was incredibly wet.  Nonetheless we celebrated, taking our brollies with us as we headed out to a local restaurant.
Eleanor extended her celebrations with friends the following day.  Unfortunately the weather was still atrocious.  Celebrations are now into their third day with a scheduled girlie shopping trip taking place, as I write, at Bluewater Shopping Park.  And as Eleanor’s bestie is not available to celebrate until next week, a fourth and final birthday celebration remains outstanding.
This extended bout of celebration has cost me dear.  And as my Bank Manager will testify, I do not have the Queen’s purse.  And conveying ten girls from their restaurant outing last night back to our house afterwards was tricky to say the least.  ‘The trouble is,’ I said to Eleanor, ‘I don’t have the Queen’s carriage.  I have a Nissan Note.  How are ten girls going to fit in my car?’  Eleanor looked thoughtful.  ‘Can’t we at least try?’ she finally asked.  Yes, she was being serious.
We resolved the conveyance problem by dragging Mr V away from his viewing of tennis/football/golf/motor racing.  He was given orders to transport half the girls in his car.  That said, it was still a squash.  Despite him having the bigger car, it was the girls with the smallest bottoms who made a beeline for his motor.  I found myself transporting the girls with legs longer than lamp posts in my small run-around.  One girl, 6’5” in her heels and towering afro, had to fold herself up like a deckchair to even get into the car.  She ended up lying in the foetal position across everybody’s laps in the back.  There was a moment of anxiety when her hair got shut in the door.  The door re-opened and the hair was scooped inside.  Driving along, I checked my rear view mirror and was alarmed to find one of the passengers sporting a beard.  Closer inspection revealed a face framed by her friend’s afro hair.
Meanwhile, my daughter is now counting the days to her sixteenth.  When you get to my age you tend to forget about your birthday – it is no longer a big deal.  As one person said:
Forget about the past, you can't change it.
Forget about the future, you can't predict it.
And forget about the present, because I didn't get you one!

Look Into My Eyes

They say that eyes are the windows to the soul.  That when you look into a person’s eyes you can tell in a nano-second whether they are clean-living, kind and generous of spirit.  Well anybody peering at my peepers right now would deduce me to be of a suspicious nature with a penchant for jammy doughnuts.  Because that’s what they resemble.  Two puffy slits with bright red centres.
It all started off with hayfever and a dose of itchy eyes.  Within 24 hours I felt as though somebody had chucked a bucket of gravel at them.  The optician prescribed some drops.  And yesterday, when my eyes were so dry it was like blinking against sandpaper, a nice pharmacist suggested a bottle of lubricating jollop. 
So last night I went to bed with my eyelashes coated in oily gunk.  The eyeballs finally felt a bit more comfortable.  By morning the lids were welded together and I was convinced I’d gone blind in the night.  Somewhere along the way conjunctivitis had set in. 
Right now my in-laws are visiting.  I want to be entertaining and looking my best!  Not wearing a grimace and wrap-around sunglasses.  The sunnies are all well and good during daylight.  But it’s not such a fab look at night.  Whilst out yesterday evening, I attempted passing myself off as mysterious.  My daughter gave a mirthless laugh and suggested dodgy instead.  Mr V is calling me Roy.  As in Orbison.
Ah well.  It could be worse.  At least eye infections do eventually heal.  As one person quipped:  ‘Conjunctivitis.com – isn’t that a site for sore eyes?’

What happens when you leave your teenager and her boyfriend together?

Yesterday evening my daughter begged for her boyfriend to come over.  ‘But it’s Saturday night,’ I said, ‘and they’ll be nobody else at home.’  My teenager glared at me.  The words being left alone together hung, unspoken, in the air.  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ she snapped.
So we went out.  And trusted them.  It’s a funny old world.  You can torment yourself with a whole list of things that will happen while you’re out.  Apart from the sex-drugs-and-rock’n’roll thing, there’s also parties put on Facebook and coming home to find a house trashed; trying out driving your car whilst under-aged/unlicensed/uninsured; or even drinking your cocktail cabinet dry (although in our case it contains just the one bottle of ancient Egyptian vodka – at least it did when I last looked).  But never in a million years could I have guessed what was really going on while I sat and attempted concentration on a film called The Five Year Engagement.  And no, I can’t tell you what the film was about because of said brain being elsewhere.  But it did feature a giant pink bunny making the odd (very odd) appearance and an unappetising love interest in the form of Rhys Evans.  Anyway.  Back to what was really going on at home.
Okay.  As soon as the key went in the front door, I was aware of deathly silence.  And a very funny smell.  Wacky backy?  No.  Gas.  And I’m not talking about the dog’s rear end.  This was British Gas.  And lots of it.  I ran into the kitchen, turned off an unlit burner and then threw open the windows and doors.  ‘Don’t turn on any lights,’ I screamed to Mr V, who naturally did just that.  Fortunately the house didn’t implode.
The teenager and the boyfriend were upstairs.  In her bedroom.  Blissfully unaware we were home.  Or of leaking gas.  Or anything other than the no-good they were up to.  Yes.  My daughter had pierced her boyfriend’s ear.  ‘Is that all?’ I hear you sigh.  Well I’m not entirely sure how well this is going to sit with the boyfriend’s parents.  Firstly – and no offence to any men out there with pierced ears/lips/noses/eyebrows/tongues/nipples – I hate piercings on men.  Okay, if it dongs their gong, all well and good.  But I don’t like it.  And I have a feeling that the boyfriend’s parents don’t like it.  So not only are they going to be a teeny bit cross, but it’s not exactly going to endear my daughter to them either.
And the reason for the gas?  Because my daughter had ‘sterilised’ a needle from my sewing box over the hob.  Except she’d had it in her head that you gassed a needle rather than held it in a flame.  So much for all the extra private science lessons we’re paying for.  And such was their eagerness to get on with the job, she neglected to turn the gas off afterwards.
Still, I must look on the bright side.  The house is still standing.  And nobody is hurt.  Other than the boyfriend’s sore ear.  Which reminds me.  How much do pirates pay to get their ears pierced?  A buccaneer...

Happy Father’s Day!

Being a parent is a tough task.  Even more so if you are a full-time step-parent.  My husband should know.  He has effectively raised my two children (their father is deceased) and consequently taken a road he most certainly never dreamt he would one day travel. 

They say the path of true love never runs smoothly.  That is never more bang on the mark when step-children are in the equation.  Young children are affectionately called little monsters.  But what about when they grow older?  Yes, they become big monsters!  But a step-parent never dare utter those words. A step-parent has to let a lot of stuff go right over their head.
‘You’re not my real father!’ is a favourite accusation when a heated teenage tantrum is in full swing.  But equally that chippy teenager will seek out their step-father to hide behind if I’m on the warpath, verbal guns blazing.  My children have rejected their step-father, loved their step-father, shouted at him, cried on his shoulder, pushed him away, and hugged him.  Today they are spoiling him, and rightly so, with cards and presents.  It’s their way of saying, ‘Thank you for being there for me when my own Dad isn’t.’
Johann Schiller said, 'It is not flesh and blood but the heart which makes us fathers and sons.'  
So to all fathers and step-fathers out there – here’s to you!  Happy Father’s Day.  And if you are still struggling with ideas on what to buy your dad, have a last minute whip-round and purchase the ultimate gift.  A Sat-Nav.  Why?  I’ll give you a clue:  What are you never likely to hear your dad say?  The answer is, ‘Good heavens, I do believe we’re lost.  We must stop and ask for directions.’  And if funds don't quite stretch, instead buy him a pair of blue tights to wear under his underpants and simply tell him he's your super hero...

Jumping on the Kindle Bandwagon

After months of procrastinating, I’ve finally bought a Kindle.  As I walked self-consciously out of PC World with my boxed Kindle in its I'm-a-techie carrier bag, I did wonder if I’d done the right thing.  You see, I'm definitely not a techie.  And I also love books.  As in properbooks.  You know, made of paper with a spine that creases if you bend it back and pages that come unglued when you drop it in the bath.  Not that I’ve dropped a book in the bath for years.  Chance would be a fine thing.  But you know what I mean.  Anyway, I digress. 
I’m an author of novels available as e-books, so it seemed faintly ridiculous not to own a handbag-sized e-reading gadget.  Now that I’m a ‘Kindler’ I can take advantage of all those wonderful free downloads that periodically pop up on Amazon.  Indeed I’ve had a pleasurable time trawling through freebies, looking inside, having a bit of a read and umming and ahhing whether to download or not.  It’s been a bit like browsing in a bookstore, except in the comfort of my own home.  That said, Waterstones have just done a deal with Amazon and in the not too distant future e-readers will be able to browse electronic books in this favourite bookshop – clearly a sign of the times as far as the electronic book publishing industry is concerned.
So far I’ve downloaded about twenty books.  Twenty proper books would be weighty, take up space on an already overcrowded bookshelf and, once read, gather dust.  I can't help marvelling that twenty novels are sitting within this pencil thin gadget.  And it's so easy to read.  No eye-straining glowing screens.  It's just like...um...reading a book!  I’m totally sold!
Of course, you'll always have somebody who won't like making the transition.  For example, did you hear about the two dogs who loved chewing things they shouldn’t?  One chewed a Kindle while the other chewed a paperback.  The former said, ‘Don’t know about you, but I still prefer a real book.’
When the dogs’ owners returned home the husband said to his wife, ‘Oh no, isn’t that your Kindle in Fred’s mouth?’  The wife said, ‘That’s okay, let him have it, he’s a Golden E-Reader.’  Okay, I’m going...

A Bit of a (Royal) Do

I’m a bit of a royalist.  I mean, the Queen has been around for as long as I’ve lived andsome more.  She’s part of all that is British.  She’s like fish and chips, a cup of tea, or a rainy day in a British summer.  In other words, the monarch is part of the fabric of life.  Whatever you think about the Queen or, indeed, the Royal family, I do believe she’s one amazing woman and that her reign of sixty years is something to celebrate.  So later on today I will be dishing up the Sunday roast upon a dining room table covered with a paper version of the Union Jack flag.  There will be red, white and blue serviettes and red, white and blue flowers as a centrepiece.  We shall raise a glass to Her Majesty and then finish off with coffee and red, white and blue cupcakes.  Happy Diamond Jubilee Your Majesty!

Teacher’s Pet (Hate)

Very recently Mr V and I attended Parents Evening.  With three children spanning 14 to 19, it’s fair to say we’ve ratcheted up quite a collection of evenings huddled around a classroom desk opposite a teacher.  In our time spent grouped around those various desks, we’ve met an awful lot of teachers.  The truly great and the ruddy awful.  This week was no exception.
We made our way over to the Physics tutor – a man.  And a very bored man at that.  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said in a flat tone.  He shifted one buttock from his plastic chair and scratched absent-mindedly.  ‘Right,’ he nodded at Eleanor.  We sat expectantly.  ‘What’s your name?’ the tutor asked.  My husband’s eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead and I had to stifle an exclamation of surprise.  This man had been teaching my daughter for nine months!  My daughter reminded him who she was.  ‘Okay,’ said the tutor looking none the wiser.  He then consulted a list in front of him.  ‘Oh yes.  Looks like you’re a C student.  Obviously you need to work harder,’ the tutor stood up and held out his hand indicating the meeting was over.  We didn’t take it.  Nor did we stand up.  I cleared my throat.  ‘Actually, this is a subject Eleanor finds quite tough.  So much so that we’ve had to engage a private tutor.’  The teacher shrugged in a so be it manner.  I ploughed on.  ‘Do you have any helpful pointers in how Eleanor can increase her understanding?’  The teacher shrugged again before acquiescing, ‘Stick with the private tutor.’  We stood up and wondered what on earth he was doing in the teaching profession.  With such utter disinterest, was it any wonder that his students lacked enthusiasm and high grade achievement?  We moved on to the next appointment. 
‘Good evening Mr and Mrs Viggiano,’ beamed the Spanish teacher.  We beamed back.  How refreshing to have a teacher who not only addressed you but also got your name right.  I don’t mean in terms of pronunciation, I mean in being correct.  My children are from my first marriage (their father is deceased) so they have a different surname to me.  And whilst my second husband had nothing against my first husband, he’d rather not be addressed as Mr Coveney.  We lowered our backsides into the plastic moulded chairs and huddled together.  The teacher gave us an earnest look before enthusiastically launching into her address.  ‘Now I know Spanish isn’t Eleanor’s favourite subject, but with a little bit of effort she could do so well.  Her written exam achieved a Grade A and she was just 2 marks off an A*.  The oral exam was weaker – a Grade C – but once again only a couple of marks away from a Grade B.  Eleanor has a beautiful accent and so much potential.’  The teacher then waxed lyrical about school trips to Spain, recommended some Spanish films to watch and suggested the attendance of lunch-time workshops that she held twice a week.  ‘I’m more than happy to give up a lunch hour for my pupils,’ she assured, ‘or you can seek me out after school with anything you might be stuck on.  Can I also suggest, Eleanor, that you read Spanish gossipy magazines to whet your interest in the language and increase vocabulary?’  We thanked the teacher for her time, shook hands and stood up. 
Now that was a teacher who didn’t just know our names, but knew her pupil’s name, her pupil’s strengths, weaknesses and potential. AND was passionate about her job and the subject she was teaching. 
Meanwhile Eleanor has noted her Spanish teacher’s helpful suggestions.  Whilst cleaning her room and sorting out a pile of overflowing papers on her desk into ‘keep’ and ‘throw’, I happened across an article ripped from a gossipy Spanish magazine.  Hurrah – my daughter was taking her teacher’s advice on board and increasing her vocabulary!  Delighted, I opened up the article to see if I could work out what it said.  Having never studied Spanish, it would most certainly have been a challenge to translate had it not been for the graphic illustrations of copulating couples. 
I appreciate my daughter’s curiosity, but that is one topic that can most definitely wait.  I put it into the ‘throw’ pile and replaced it with a book of Spanish verbs. 
Meanwhile this particular Physics tutor needs to ask himself if he’s a good teacher...

A Doggy Tail

How ironic that last week I blogged about my dog and her toots.  Twenty-four hours later she nearly died.
I felt horrendously guilty for not taking her to the vet earlier. But then again, you can hardly tear into a surgery crying, ‘Help!  My dog won't stop tooting!’ because most of the time dogs toot a lot - especially beagles who suck cuddly toys, chomp on socks, lick floors, chew on plants, and bust into your dustbin given half a chance to consume heaven only knows what manner of manky leftovers. The fact that they survive and escape unscathed merely fools you into believing they have constitutions of iron.  However, by Monday morning it was evident things were very wrong.  We hastened to the veterinary surgery.
In the waiting room, a nervous elderly lady was perched on a chair clutching a caged rabbit. The bunny was first in the queue. My pooch was second. Moments later a third patient came into the waiting room – a Staff, wearing a muzzle and sporting a plaster cast on one leg.  The Staff growled ominously as it clanked around. Hot on the Staff's heels was a massive German Shepherd.  The German Shepherd’s handler yelled, ‘Stand back everybody!  Move out the way!’  Exactly where everybody was meant to move to in a postage stamp of a waiting room I'm not sure, but the lady with the bunny was looking absolutely terrified. The Staff spun round to check out the German Shepherd.  It was greeted with a row of sharp teeth and baritone growling, whereupon it decided to launch itself at the German Shepherd. There was the sound of plaster cast meeting shaggy skull followed by all hell breaking loose.  The dogs tumbled over and over.  Leads entangled.  Owners shouted.  The elderly lady with the bunny flattened herself against one wall.  At this point, if you are eating or have a frail tummy, stop reading.  Or skip the following paragraph.
As canine war broke out, my terrified beagle's bowels lurched and she promptly crapped herself. But because she wasn't well, what came out was comparable to aerosol mist. My pooch fought against her lead to escape the mayhem, her quarters swinging around the waiting room.  And it would be fair to say nobody escaped being spray-canned by my dog's backside. The lady with the bunny nearly fainted.  The Staff's plaster cast went from grubby white to chocolate brown.  The German Shepherd stopped fighting and looked gobsmacked.  And the air turned not just brown but also blue as major swearing broke out.  Ever watched Love Story where Ali Macgraw tells Ryan O’Neal, ‘Love is never having to say you’re sorry.’?  Well no matter how much you love dogs, sometimes saying sorry just isn’t enough.  ‘Sorry,’ I bleated, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.’  I do not lie when I say everybody, even that bunny, gave me a shitty look. 
The vet appeared in the doorway and insisted my pooch was seen first.  We walked off down the corridor with my dog's backside spraying leaflets on worming and a wall showcasing a local resident’s designer doggy leads for sale. Total nightmare.
The pooch was diagnosed with Hemorrhagic Gastroenteritis which can be fatal if not dealt with promptly.  She was immediately hooked up to a drip and pumped full of antibiotics.  One week later she’s fighting fit, once again giving me a run for my money with needing eyes in the back of my head.  And hopefully we won't have to go back to the vet's waiting room for a very long time...