The last few days seem to be of the ejaculatory sort. As you do. Firstly there was the moth. The moth that as I was drifting off to sleep came on my arm. I realise I have missed a word out here that being "landed." And so it was when I recounted the mediocrity of my life to the giggling teens the next night that when I said " a moth came on my arm" that they fell about laughing. This was made even worse when they asked I got rid of said beast " I tossed it off" I replied. More guffaws. "...and I had to wipe it up with a tissue" They were crying genuine tears. What? What did I say.
However my moth was nothing to The Dachshund. If you are squeamish look away now. There we were, the girls and me, enjoying a glass of three of Sauvignon Blanc giddy with half term holidayitis sharing tales around the table of this busy restaurant. First there was the gaff of Good Catholic Environmental mother of 3 who had told her colleagues earlier in the week that one of their team had died. When in fact he hadn't. Still when he died later on that week they had all had a dress rehearsal. Then there was the story of the grandad who dutifully picked up his grand daughter up from Reception. Only to discover when the parents came to collect said child that he had collected the WRONG ONE! And finally I give you the dachshund. This story followed my moth story as otherwise I have no idea how we would have ever found out that my VG curly haired friend once had a sausage dog rubs his Frankfurter rather to vigorously on her as a teen and came all over her mohair jumper. Enough said.