When daddy resembles a Scotty dog

One of the most pleasurable things about Sunday mornings is the fact that a lot of dog owners grab a coffee in Starbucks while I’m there. Since the change in dog allowance, a lot more come in and it’s a veritable Crufts, Best in Show, lined up along the counter.

This morning was no exception. One attractive example of doggie-hood held a young boy enthralled, to the point where he insisted that his parents buy a dog. The mother seemed particularly keen and said her first choice would be a miniature Schnauser, something the child seemed rather keen on.

Just before they left, patting the dog on the way out, the father piped up with his suggestion. He wanted them to get a Scotty dog because “…it will look like daddy and then I can enter and win the dog that most resembles its owner contest.” I think I was the only one listening because he was ignored by his son and wife as they headed out for the lion and lamb statue for a bit of climbing.

As well as dog admirers, there were a lot of cyclists in Farnham today. This was because it was the annual bike ride of various lengths around town. As I crossed a delightfully closed off Castle Street, the riders were lined up for the off, being told in no uncertain terms by the announcer that they must ring their bells like Billy-O at the start.

There was a camera set up at the end of the street and a Youtube video of the actual start would be available afterwards, the announcer stressed. So far I haven’t been able to find it, however, here’s a photo I took of them all lined up.

And so, with a cacophony of tinny little bells, they departed on their various lengths of pedalling. Then, coincidentally and at the other end of the race, I saw the first person arrive at the finish line in the shortest race.

Mirinda is slowly improving though it feels akin to waiting for the retreat of a glacier in order to uncover some lush greenery beneath the ice. And the cough seems to be taking over the house. There’s not a corner of it where it cannot be heard or its influence felt.

Possibly the worst part of the day was the discovery that my friendly butcher for reasons known only to him, had removed the skin from this week’s pork roasting joint. This, of course, means there was no crackling which, it seems, is the only reason Mirinda likes my roast pork with green butter. I shall have to have words.

On a much, much, much brighter note. Waitrose has suddenly started selling my favourite whiskey.

Oh baby yeah!

I guess that means I can stop rationing myself with the bottle I have at home.

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