Sick

Oh dear, every one is poorly.

Each of us, to a man.

I have been dispensing cough syrup to Lulu and Tutz, who are sharing a duvet in Martha and I's shared coat cupboard.

Fat boy Faggot has been terribly sick in the hall.

Giggsey Girl the Stupid Slug Face is huddled on a cushion which lays on the top of the sofa and rests against the wall, from which she can gain the most benefit from the rediator.

Fing is laying on his cushion, the one next to mine, in bed and is too grumpy to speak and instead is coughing in an irritated fashion as if to illustrate a point.

Trotter won't be spoken to and instead is waiting for Martha to come home, a dejected figure at the bottom of the stairs.

I just don't know what to do with myself. I've got no one to speak to, well unless one of them calls out for a lemsip or cough syrup or a hot toddy, I may as well not be here.

I'm off back to bed to watch old episodes of Quincy and Lovjoy.

Twig

Of course somethings never change.

Trotters madness is one of those things.

The form of the madness can change in itself however adding new dimension to the insanity you experience.

As such, the world moves on.

Martha has become obsessed the channel 11's 'The Dog Whisperer' celebrating the quiet work of Los Angeles Ceasar Milan, the worlds foremost dog psychologist. As such we watch every episode, every evening as soon as Martha returns from Varnes.

I think that Martha hopes that we can glean some hint, or method, in which to subdue Trotters madness.

It has is some small way helped.

Through Ceasars tutelage we have stopped Trotter barking at you when you make sandwiches. In turn, he no longer barks at you when you eat pizza.

It hasn't stopped him barking at the broom however, and Trotters hatred of the mop bucket lays unabated.

It is said that from small acorns tall oaks grow.

I think with luck and perseverance we may end up with an unkempt bonsai.

I just can't bear it

I am sure I am not alone in reading of the brave adventures of a Romanian boy called Petre and his 3 legged dog Cotanogu.

The boy, his mother and the dog were collecting fire wood in the shadow of the Carpathian Mountains when a brown bear emerged from the shrubbery and charged the small group, before grasping the mother around the neck.

At this point the redoubtable Petre raced towards the bear brandishing a piece of the aforementioned firewood shouting at the top of his 7 year old voice, closely followed by Cotanogu, barking with menaces.

The startled bear abandoned his choice of supper and shambled post haste back into the shadows of the Carpathian Mountains, leaving Mrs Petre only slightly mangled.

Hurrah for 7 year old and small brown terriers with 3 legs! Hurrah! Hurrah!

(without wishing to belittle their brave adventure, I can only assume that the bear was old, and a bit arthritic, and presumably devoid of teeth, because normally if a brown bear grabs you round the neck your head becomes detached and rolls down the slopes of the Carpathian Mountains, utterly mangled)

Ware the beast

So much water has passed under the bridge that i scarcely know where, or how, to begin. So many adventures and mishaps, dance competitions and bake-offs, the world is truly my oyster.

I think I shall start with a tale of the erstwhile Filipa Hole, who had popped round to mine to get ready for her part time job at the Brewery Gate.

I had cooked a spot of supper, and we sat and drank some tea, before Filipa ventured upstairs to pop on her uniform.

I was utilizing the facilities when suddenly an anguished cry came from my bedroom,

'Honey! I've had a hideous accident!'

I raced into the room to find Filipa gripping onto the tallboy with one leg raised in an unwitting parody of a Morcombe and Wise sketch.

It would appear that wile Filipa was donning her apparel Trotter had casually pottered into the room and done a discreet poo on the floor. Tragically the unsuspecting Filipa took a step backwards and planted her foot smack bang in the middle of Trotters fragrant offering.

Needless to say it was a calamity of the highest nature and resulted in some very unladylike retching in the lavatory.

Welcome to the World of Trottrandfing

It is some times said that all good things come to those who wait. It is also said that revenge is a dish best served cold.

Make of that what you will.

Trotterandfing would like to announce a commencement in services otherwise rescinded through lack of technological advancements.

It's never made sense.

Welcome home.