Anne Dickens | The Day After Yesterday

Blimey O'Reilly. I am so behind with my blog that it is unbelievable. Not only am I in the middle of writing (but have not yet finished) a series of three guest blogs for Ron at If I had a Blog, but I am scrabbling around to find the time to keep my own blog updated. Everybody panic!

Yep, I am proper tardy.... like a pig, and as a result I have decided to administer strict punishment on myself, which involves a few hours of self-flagellation.... commencing once I have finished this post..... oh, and eaten my dinner.... and walked the dog. Actually, the chances of me beating myself with a stick this evening are pretty slim because of time constraints. So I may have to reschedule.... let me pencil it in for tomorrow. Activity: Self-flagellation. Location: Oxford. Duration: 1h 20m. Invite Attendees: All welcome. Free coffee provided.

Anyway, enough of that milarky. After all the excitement of my blog feature: 'Email me a picture of where you write your blog', and surviving a playdate yesterday at my house involving four hyper-excited children, it was with relief that I downloaded some rather less frenzied photographs showing what I got up to on Sunday afternoon. Ahhhh, I could write a calm and relaxing post for a change.

And Sunday actually was pretty bloody genteel, and I was like something out of a Jane Austen novel except without the corset. I had arranged to meet my chum Sam, and her daughter Honey for lunch in a delicatessen called Jacob and Fields, in Headington, a suburb of Oxford.

The food was always excellent and Sam and Honey ordered a selection of the anti-pasti to snack upon.

"So Izzy," I said, "what would you like to eat?"

"Cake," she replied. Darn it, why is it that all the other kids are quaffing canapes and stuffed olives, my kid demands cake for lunch.

"Cake?" I queried, "are you sure dahlink? You aren't from the ghetto you know. Why do you want that when you could have sliced chorizo served with olive bread?"

"I want it cos it's brown," she replied. Fair play, it was a good a reason as any.


And so we whiled away our afternoon, eating and drinking coffee whilst the sun streamed through the window.

After we had eaten, I suggested that we take advantage of the last of the summer sun, and go for a long walk in the fields behind Forest Hill.


"Ugh," Sam exclaimed as we neared the summit of the hill that gave Forest Hill its name, "there's crap everywhere," she added, delicately extricating her Hunter welly from the suction of a deep cow pat.

"It's the cows," I said, "there seems to be no regulation regarding where they can shit."


"It's disgusting," replied Sam. "I mean, if your dog craps on the pavement you have to pick it up, and yet cows seem to be able to run rough-shod around the countryside depositing pats at random."

"I know, I know, farmers have a lot to answer for," I acquiesced sadly, before looking up to see Naughty George running past me at full pelt, pausing only to.................get this....... I nearly puked......... take a bite out of a cow pat!

The dirty git. He was still chewing on it, wide-eyed and benign-looking, whilst I shouted at him with disgust in my voice.


If there is one thing that I have learnt from owning Naughty George, it is that there are some dogs that you just need to give up on. Because no matter what you do, things will never go to plan.

And cows? Well they are a whole different ball game........ they are chaos-theory shit depositers, and I am sure that you haven't heard the last of them.