I am still a little shaken having had to take Bob’s dog Weasel for an assignation on Tuesday evening. A little background at the risk of providing too much information, but she is nearly three now, gorgeous and on heat. After much badgering from Bob who I suspect sees this as potentially a nice little earner for his “GAP year” account Sophie has agreed that she can have a litter of puppies. Hardened recipients of this missive might recall Bob previously had a dog called Twiggy. Well it’s a nice twist to the tale that the dog Weasel is being introduced to is Twiggy’s nephew. I’m boring you now I know. Sorry. Anyway, Bob had taken Weasel to meet Archie once previously and, according to Archie’s owner, had been forced to have a post-coital cigarette so stressful had he found the whole business. It was not apparently a completely conclusive union so, Bob having nipped over to Milan for a party as one does, it fell to me to take her for another session. I don’t mind telling you I nearly took up smoking again myself standing in a strangers garden with his young daughter watching the two dogs getting on with the job…..very conclusively. Weird scene and I still don’t really know why I’m telling you this story except I suppose to put the picture I received in a WhatsApp message from Bob as he and his girlfriend took in the sights of Milan and did a bit of window-shopping into context. It was his girl-friends WhatsApp account actually. Bob had left his phone in my car when I drove them to the airport on Monday morning. At least he can’t lose it. Only Bob would end up in a pet-store on a visit to a city with the vast range of attractions that Milan no doubt has to offer. He was wondering if we could get one of these for Weasel and her puppies:
So…possibly 62 days till D-day. I’ll keep you in touch with progress and maybe you’ll let me know if you’d like one of the progeny.
Meantime Jimmy is also in Italy. Florence to be precise and the messages from her are about the delicious cakes, wonderful art galleries and beautiful architecture. She’s not all culture and haut-cuisine, having spent last week at a reggae festival in the south of France. She believes she was a Rastafarian in another life and insists she is moving to the Caribbean once she has finished reading Archaeology and Anthropology at Bristol, but I’m not so sure she’s got what it takes. Hen was down at the festival as well. They were all camping and living pretty rough I imagine. On departure day Hen and a friend had to leave particularly early in the morning and were tip-toeing considerately around the campsite to be sure not to waken anyone when suddenly they heard Jimmy f’ing and blinding in the way only she can. “How the hell am I meant to sleep with that bl**dy racket going on” screeched from inside her tent. Hen and her friend looked at each other aghast and guilt ridden. “I XXXXXX HATE CICADA’S” Jimmy continued in her rant much to their relief and enjoyment.
I had lunch with an old friend the other day who kindly put pen to paper afterwards. Love that. What a gentleman. Well, I am presuming he was thanking me. I think he enjoyed lunch as much as I did and I imagine he’ll see the funny side of it as I choose to reproduce page one of his letter. If I really concentrate and let the imagination loose I can decipher perhaps one word in three. If you can do better than me let me know what he was trying to say. I might add it didn’t get any more legible on the other side and the only reason the letter actually got to me at home was because he wisely asked someone else to write the envelope!
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