A Year of Much Bickering by Jane Ayres

TRIUMPH AND DISASTER AT THE DOG SHOW Brexit has been a very naughty dog indeed.  I feel quite ashamed of him and can hardly bear to record his latest misdemeanour. Our morning walk started as it always does with Granny T’s spaniels dogs working the hedges and Trenton shuffling along beside me, while Brexit hauled on his extendable lead. We had just turned the corner at the holly tree on the edge of the copse when one of the spans put up a rabbit. Of course, The Sausage was off like a shot, reaching the extent of his elastic in a nanosecond…the familiar jolt nearly tore my arm out of its socket and then… it fell slack. The little devil had slipped his collar.  Well that was that. He was through the fence and heading like a train for Brig Parker’s place. I’ve never been one to shirk my responsibilities, but apart from calling and whistling, there was little I could do. Brexit may be able to wriggle through a stock fence, but I cannot.  By the tim...

A BIRTH AND A BIRTHDAY     Happy 55 th Birthday to me. Am I really that old? It’s a whole year since darling Brexit joined the family. Extra Bonios for him today. Crichton was up in town so I’d have to wait until later for a gift, but Cook did bring me breakfast in bed as a treat. 6.30am is a little earlier than I would normally wake, but it’s the thought that counts. Two poached eggs on toast with a nice big pot of tea and the Daily Telegraph crossword, then a lovely long bath with the  Toasted Coconut Ice Bath Gel  that Bunty had given me. It was rather gritty, and I came out smelling like a sweet shop.  Just cards from the children. I have long given up expecting gifts from them, but the emerald green stretch turban from Kitty was very welcome. It’s a wonderful to have a friend one  has known from one’s early childhood. When they’ve seen you wet your knickers during Latin, there can be no secrets, and ...

    ANOTHER BANK HOLIDAY    Much against my will we spent a trying  evening with the Whafflers in Islington. Alex and Jojo’s house is very nice, if you like living in town on five floors, and of course our room was at the very top next to the nursery.     ‘Oh luv-lee,’ said Jojo, ‘I’ll tell Harold he can come into you when he wakes up…he’s no trouble.’  At least we were spared an interview with him or his infant sister Clavical  (did her parents really christen her that?),  as they were in their cots long before we arrived.     Alex and Crichton got horribly drunk over dinner (M and S ready-made lasagne in a tin tray) and kept telling the same old stories that they’ve been sharing for thirty years. Some dull golfing pal of Alex’s  with another child wife came along too… Roger spoke of nothing but sand wedges and putting irons while Bambi disappeared to the kitchen with Jojo. I’m afraid I gave up...

   IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH    I was up early for the eight o’clock service on Sunday and left Crichton in bed with a cup of tea. I had hoped the dogs would have been walked and the dishwasher emptied when I got back. Not a bit of it. Man-flu has struck.   Crichton refuses to soldier when he’s got even the hint of a sniffle, and spent the whole day propped up on pillows, watching old episodes of The Professionals. He is not a particularly demanding invalid, and if one closes the bedroom door his little cries for Lucozade and grapes can be barely heard. But I can’t be doing with his histrionics. If he could see how stoically poor Edith Noakes bears her trials (the hip still isn’t properly healed) he would think again before demanding room service.  Now he tells me he can’t be bothered with his diary…well, I’m not having that.  We are in this together.  At least could do something useful if he’s going to lie about all day long.   ...