Anne Dickens | The Day After Yesterday

Yesterday was a momentous occasion. Such a momentous occasion, that I am briefly interrupting the posts about my holiday in Cornwall.

"Why was it momentous?" I hear you cry, "have all the world's nations decided to work together to achieve peace? Has global warming been solved? Has Bolly been permanently discounted?"

Crikey no, none of that rubbish (although the Bolly bit would make me happier than a kangaroo with two cocks).

Here's a clue: Diem natalem felicem mihi! 

Yesterday was ...... wait for it ........... [drum roll and cymbals resulting in an impressive climax] ...... my birthday! Yep, yesterday I reached the grand age of 42. I don't think that ladies are supposed to disclose their age, but I am blase about things like that, and some may even argue that I am not a lady because I have never had my nails done. Anyway, according to Hitch hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the answer to everything is 42. That's got to be an omen.

Ecce, denuo ago, sicut soleo! Non enim possum facere quin Latine loquar [oh, darn, there I go again! You know, I just can't help speaking Latin].

And because I am kind like Ghandi, except that I wear designer flip-flops, I have got some pictures for you.





As you have probably guessed, I love eating out, I do. And I was particularly impressed with him choosing The Mole Inn because it's got a great reputation in Oxfordshire. And although the food was lovely, I have to admit that I found it a bit odd.

I ordered the lamb as my main course. But when the meal was served, I ended up more perplexed than a bee attempting to fly through a window pane.

On the left hand side of the plate, there was the lamb, sitting on a bed of minted chard, peas and potato. Then on the right hand side of the plate, there was a pot of vegetable Korma curry, with a poppadum on top. It was the weirdest combination of food that I have ever experienced. It tasted great, it's just that I wouldn't have put it all together. 

I still scoffed it all though because it was free.



All in all, a bally good time was had by all. And just in case you were wondering whether I accept belated presents .... I do. And I also accept all major credit cards.

An update about Naughty George

After I posted about Naughty George crapping on the kitchen floor and Izzy skidding through the subsequent detritus, a couple of you (well, mainly Anne Boleyn -  hey chick!) expressed concern that he might have an underlying illness and suggested I get him checked out. 

Given that NG is about 17 years old, it seemed like a sensible suggestion to me. So on Friday afternoon, I dragged him (he didn't take a single step and left two lines behind him in the dirt) to the Vet's surgery. 


He instantaneously knew where he was and started sweating and shaking like a Paris Hilton in a sex video. The vet eventually called us in, and asked me to put NG on the examination table.

"That's not a good idea," I said to her.

She dismissed me with a smile. "We'll give it a go." 

I duly picked up NG and plonked him on the table. He woofed vacuously, standing still for maybe 15 seconds (to lull her into a false sense of security), before launching himself off the table, towards the general direction of the door.

Luckily, I managed to catch the git before he hit the tiles and did himself an injury.

And so it transpired that the vet examined George on her knees in the corner of the room, next to the exit. She listened to his heart, looked in his ears, shone a torch in his eyes, felt his abdomen, and prodded around his chocolate starfish (that has gotta command a six-figure salary).

Finally, she stood up and proclaimed; "there's nothing wrong with your dog ......... He is unbelievable for his age," before adding; "he is a bit cloudy around his peripheral vision, but other than that, he's got years left in him."

The only recommendation was that I feed him 'Senior Dog Food', which is more readily absorbed into the system, thus creating fewer doggy missiles, and eliminating brown surfing in the kitchen. 

So there you go ...... the mutt has got the constitution of an Ox, just like his owner.
So dahlink, what are you up to this weekend?

Gordon Bennett! As I sit at my laptop, gazing out of the window, all I can see are thunderstorms and torrential rain over Oxford.

It is tres exciting, but I am glad that I wasn't taking Naughty George on his daily drag when it all kicked off. It could have been perilous. The lightening could have struck a tree, causing a branch to land on our heads. And Naughty George has got so much bling on his dog collar that he's a natural scampering target for any self-respecting lightening strikes.

I am not implying that I want him dead or anything, but NG reached new levels of git-dom today.

Picture the scene; I was abruptly awoken (with a pounding headache because I've had a cold for the last couple of days), at 6.30am by Izzy shrieking; "MUM! MUM!"

I leapt into action and ran downstairs brandishing a frying pan that I had found under the bed, half expecting to find an intruder in the living room.

Instead, I found Izzy in the aforementioned living room, standing stock-still like a statue.

"What's up chicken?" I asked with a perplexed look on my face.

"Naughty George has pooed inside,"  she said with a stricken expression, staring at her contaminated foot. 

I surveyed the scene, and it quickly became obvious that not only had Izzy stood in the shit, but she had undertaken a victory lap encompassing the whole ground floor.

"You utter bastard, George" I muttered under my breath ..... over and over again ...... as I spent 25 minutes cleaning and disinfecting my daughter, the floors, rugs and other miscellaneous soft furnishings.

And throughout the whole gut-wretching experience, Naughty George was lying in his basket, on his back with his paws in the air, snoring contentedly.

As you can imagine, I was quite keen for a bit escapism after such an intimate encounter with such a large volume dog of squit. Hence I was glad to jump back into my blog and continue with the goings-on of my holiday in Cornwall.

If you remember, I went on holiday with Izzy, my friend Sarah, and her friend Gary. And because I am like Mother Theresa (except that I probably quaff more bread and wine), I have got some photographs for you.

Oh, but before I forget, the photographs are of a day out that I had planned. On my own. Without a spreadsheet or internet connection (there wasn't one). It was like being a caveman, except that I didn't paint a picture of a bison on the caravan wall using crude colours.

Here goes ...............
































So that's about it when it comes to the Lost Gardens of Heligan. I have to say though, that it was a lot more magnificent than the pictures depict (I should be on commission or something). You could literally explore for two days and not see everything.

Enough of that. By the time we finished with Heligan, everyone was Hank Marvin (starvin'). And because I was responsible for planning, I had organised for us to go to a small harbour town called Fowey for dinner.

I love Fowey because it was another place that I regularly sailed to as a kid (with my Dad, obviously. Otherwise I might have been considered precocious). It's also the place where all the yachties hang out. And because the yachties generally have a dime or two to rub together, you could be sure that as well as being picturesque, Fowey had lots of fine eateries, and an endless supply of Bolly. 

I really do have to apologise about my tardiness in blogging. I fully intended on finishing the posts about my holiday in Cornwall within a week. But this week has conspired against me - I found out that I need to find somewhere new to live (more about that in a later post), Izzy had problems at school, and Naughty George discovered new and exciting ways to discharge stuff from his body - namely puking a lot of yellow chunks, and crapping what appeared to be long lengths of string with mutt-turd attached.

The stringy turd was freaking me out the most: He would sweat and shake before ejecting it an inch at a time from his rear end, and then it kind of dangled from his butt, swaying in the wind before finally detaching itself. Maybe he'd eaten a ball of string or something?

Suffice to say, I did not envisage my future including weird dog-turd configurations. It was supposed to revolve around me reclining on a sofa, being fed grapes by a sinewy Adonis-type chap. It appeared as though things had gone awry. Anyway, I digress. Back to my tardiness ..............

I tell you now, if I was employing myself to write this blog, I would sack myself immediately. But luckily, because there is only me involved, I decided to be lenient and give myself a second chance. I'm kind like that.

Anyway, back to business. As you will remember, we (me, Izzy, Sarah, and her friend Gary) were snatching a quick week-long holiday in Cornwall before the end of the summer holidays.

Sarah is a History teacher by profession, so she really loves all old shit.

Picture the scene: we were all loafing around in the caravan on the second evening of our vacation, perusing the tourist brochures that had been provided for us. 

"Can we go and visit Tintagel Castle?" Sarah piped up.

Gary and Izzy immediately jumped to their feet and started clapping rapturously. That's Sarah's superhero power - pleasing everyone all of the time (but in a historical rather than a rude way).

In the face of such castle jingoism, I could do nothing but acquiesce.  Not that I minded too much. Hell, castles generally have Knights in suits of armour and there is generally scrapping involved.

And because I am kinder than Mother Theresa, except that I would consider laser surgery on any upper-lip fine lines, I have got some pictures to show you ....................

















But enough of Tintagel and it's waist-high castles.

I like eating - a lot (as long as I am not cooking it). And immdiately after Sarah had suggested visiting Tintagel Castle, I had consulted a map and noticed that it was perilously close to a town called Padstow.

And handily enough, Padstow was famous for it's gourmet cuisine, provided by one Rick Stein (in case you live in the US, he is a bit like Gordon Ramsay, except he doesn't shout "Fuck" so much). 

After I pointed out Padstow's proximity to Tintagel Castle, and the possibility of some gourmet nosh, Sarah and Gary jumped up and applauded.

Hurrah! I was now the popular kid in school. Except for the fact that Izzy pointed out that she wanted chicken nuggets. But it was easy to ignore her though because she was small and easily over-powered.

And so we headed to Padstow ........









So was our anticipation of eating Rick Stein's fish and chips worthwhile?

Well, I gave it an 8.5 out 10
Gary gave it 9 out of 10
Sarah gave it 7 out of ten (because when she was a student she had worked at a chippy in Leeds)

But the biggy was that it cost over £50.00 ($81.00).

For a takeaway meal. For three and a half people.

That we ate in the back of the bling machine.

Crikey O'Reilly. That was a tad steep in my book.

Never mind me anyway ...... how the devil are you getting on now that the school holiday's are over? And has anything exciting happened this week?