Dog Day Afternoon

Today's post comes to you from the comfort of my sofa where I am blanket-swathed and enjoying the poor quality viewing of Gossip Girl and Paris Hilton's BFF. I'm not well and nothing helps me re-couperate faster than some rubbish TV.

Having packed The Husband off to watch rugby with friends, there is only one other form of life I know who will indulge my viewing needs without complaint. To be honest, he's just happy to be in front of the fire on his favourite rug and isn't actually watching, but The Dog is providing excellent company none the less. And a good thing I've got his back too - tonight is the village fireworks display and I can already hear a few going off. With each bang, his little face turns to be with its big brown eyes for reassurance. And each time, I give him a pat on the head and tell him not to worry - I'm not going anywhere. Why would I? Come Dine With Me is about to start.

Stay tuned - I'll be back on my feet shortly. Expect tales of dubious truth from the Welsh countryside... next weekend is going to be a large one with some new friends from Canada...

The (f)Art of Communication

[The Husband is smiling broadly at me]

Me: Have you just trumped?
The Husband: No
[looks dejected]
The Husband: That was my 'I Love You' face.

Wee Bits of Hill and Glen

One day in the office, The Dog got a little restless. He said "I wish we could go away on vacation."
"Where?" we asked.
"I dunno." he replied, "I'm not good with maps. I chew them, I don't really read them."

"How about somewhere up North?" The Husband suggested. "Where the hills are small enough for us to chase you and the grass long enough to hide your shits?""Sounds perfect! Where the hell is it exactly?" asks The Dog, excitedly."Scotland." says The Husband.
"Will there be funny places that we can make rude jokes about?" asks The Dog.
"Sure" replies The Husband."Will you read all the interesting crap on those plaques to me?" asks The Dog.
"Sure" replies The Husband.

"Will Mum take those trying-to-be-artsy-fartsy black and white pictures?" asks The Dog.

"Just you try and stop her!" replies The Husband."And you promise not to drive fast like you do for work and make me feel sick?" asks The Dog.

"I promise" says The Husband

And so it was decided. To Scotland we should go for a week to relax by a fire, drink pints of beer and walk some hills...

More from the land of shortbread soon.
Suffice to say, The Dog is having a brilliant time.

I Am Six

That's what you'd think if you knew that I am going to Alton Towers tomorrow and could see how giddy with excitement I am. I'm not known as a massive fan of theme parks, well, not like some people but the prospect of hanging upside down, screaming my lungs out on rides and eating candy floss til I puke excites me like a 6 year old.

I will most certainly be having a go on this, the Oblivion ride:

And what's the occasion?

Our first wedding anniversary.

See, I stuck to the rule of buying something 'paper' (tickets) whilst The (wiley fox of a ) Husband opted for a classy Shaun Leane piece.

Fear not, I'll get him back at Christmas.

Jacking It In

Tomorrow I'm heading to the Nationality Checking Service in my local council. They will take roughly £40 and in return check I can fill out a form. They will also make photocopies of my passport and send my application (and a further £720 of my hard earned cash!!) to the Home Office and in exchange for saying I love Britain, Benny Hill and the Queen - or something like that.
Whilst I'm happy I am finally at this point (and remember folks, this has been an 8 year process for me) I feel like a traitor to Australia to be offloading half my nationality. I think I'll have to have an extra thick layer of Vegemite on my toast tomorrow.
And maybe sing 'Waltzing Matilda' a few times.

Glasto-rella

Thanks to my Eco-blackbelt friend who jumped on the phone lines this morning at 9am while The Husband and I woke up in a strange but luxurious hotel room with massive hangovers, we will be heading to Glastonbury next year. What's even better is that it's the 40th anniversary of the event, which means it will be even more massive than ever.

Cannot wait! Time to invest in a decent set of gumboots though...

Going To Eat A Lot of Peaches

Finally, we've booked some vacation time. I've taken only 1 day off since I joined my current employer and I wasted that sitting in Manchester airport. It's time to reclaim my personal life.
So, to avoid dealing with Ryanair and my separation anxiety from The Dog, we've booked ourselves a little Scottish hideaway...It has a dishwasher, iPod docking station, wi-fi... I may never come back!

Guitars at the ready... it's time for some serious chillaxing.

New Vegemite - the verdict

I was stunned when I heard the news. For me, it was one of those 'you know where you were when you found out' kind of moments. Like Princess Diana's death, September 11 and the passing of Michael Jackson, I stared blankly for minutes while the information sunk in.

There is a new Vegemite.

As a good friend of mine says, "I'll let that marinate for a second".

A new Vegemite.

I can't believe it. I'm 16,000 kilometres away from anywhere that I can feasibly get my hands on a jar and I'm overwhelmed by a wave of homesickness - a desperate and sudden panick-stricken awareness that I am on the other side of the world.

Fortunately my needs were met quickly. An old school friend who calls Edinburgh her home these days, had already been sent a few jars by her dear old dad back in the mother country. She obliges with no hesitation and a jar makes its way to me further south.

I rip off the rid quickly and inhale the new spread's aroma. It's not strong. No problem, perhaps there's a killer taste waiting for my buds in this jar. The colour is not terribly inviting either. Paler than the original, it's more poo-like. Like, really convincingly poo-like. I put the lid back on because I'm sitting in my car at the Royal Mail Parcel Office and this is no place to be eating shit from a jar.

Back home, I tease a little from the jar on a knife and venture it towards my mouth. I normally spread my Vegemite to the edge - I'm not shy with it - so my first taste of New Vegemite underwhelms me completely. I had to double check the knife to make sure I'd not missed my mouth and spread it across my cheek in error - stop laughing, this happens more often than you think. My poor hand-eye co-ordination skills kept me a solid last-choice for many sports teams as a child.

Nope, it made it in (this time).

Hmmm, perhaps I'm not getting enough. Wait. I need crackers.

Second attempt, I have crackers. I'm all set. For the record, Jacob's Cream Crackers are the closest UK approximation to the god-like cracker of choice, SAO. You gotta work with what you can get over here in the savoury biscuit department - but that's a whole other post.

I slather a cracker with New Vegemite, take a deep breath and bite in.

Nothing.

Well, not nothing (I haven't missed my mouth this time either), but not much.

Truth is there is not much to like about this New Vegemite. It lacks the punch of Vegemite. It's almost-anonymous 'flavour' has to be applied in inch-thick quantities to make much of an impact. Even so, I'm feeling like the cracker is winning. Let's be honest, the flavour of New Vegemite is as aggressive as a natural yoghurt. It's just not right.

The promotion of New Veg revolves around public suggestions for a name. There's not even a prize. Wow. No flavour, no name and no prize. So what have they put into it?

Well, what it lacks in flavour, name and prizes, it makes up for in abundance of calories and fat. Like, loads of it. And that's the final nail in the coffin for it I think. No way in hell would I trade the smack-you-in-the-face flavour of my skinny jean loving spread for this bland 'get me my sweats' jar of crap.

So Kraft - you merchants of satan - a curse on your houses for trying to mess with our Vegemite.

You want a name for it?

Wuss Bag.

The One With the Final Part of the Trilogy

Finally - some time to finish the blog about Belgium. And for the 3 people hanging on, you're about to be rewarded.

So - where were we exactly? Ah - day 3....

So, after a less drunken evening we awake to the sad prospect to going back to England. But first there's a full day(ish) to be had before we go our separate ways. And no finer way to mull over the impending departure than Belgium's answer to Starbucks.

I'm feeling down about going, but I'm putting a brave face on it because I know I need to get back to work and earn a living, as much as I would love to stay and drink my life away in Brussels, I simply must go home. We overhear our American friends plotting to keep us in Belgium though.. and pretty soon, they've drafted in the reinforcements...

In a further attempt to convince us to stay, they showed us lots of pretty things somewhere in Brussels (Sablon!)...

...as well as some rather excellent new hats for The Husband..
and some macaroons... ...but mainly, more hats

But we assured them that we really had to go. And in our honour, they organised a street parade, because that's the done thing in the US, right?Boston even used his now-famous mad Google Map skillz to show us that he didn't really want us to leave...But in the end we did. And lo, the journey home was swift and painless - despite the fact the Ryanair let people take FOUR pieces of oversized carry-on on board, which is rich considering their hard stance on stamping a non-UK passport!

Thanks to Boston and Raleigh for their most excellent hospitality - you guys rock very much indeed...!

Lessons in Loving a Dog #78

Realise your dog's limitations.

If he's a digger, accept that your garden will never be kept tidy by your pooch. He's just not programmed that way. If he likes to grab the mail, try to keep him out of the way when the postman comes, especially if you are expecting nice birthday cards to arrive.

No matter how smart you think your furry lemon-brained friend is..

...he cannot read...

Just remember his job is to be super cute and love you unconditionally. And at those two things, he's a professional...

Another Interruption

I'll get to the final Belgian post, really I will. But first, a birthday interruption.

I've turned 33 today and with that comes the realisation that I have now spent more than half my adult life in the UK, AND nearly a quarter of my TOTAL life here. A phone call from my dad and from my brother made my day today but also made me incredibly sad (though I kept my composure til after the call). But it's not all gloom... The Dog has discovered a talent for baking...

Pretty good, no?

The One With the Small Town Girl and a City Boy (part 2)

OK, so day 2 breaks and we're up at the crack of 11. Raleigh and Boston may have been up since 6 (un-fucking-likely), but I wouldn't know. I've slept like a Frambozen-loaded fool and I'm feeling great.

Soon we decide it would be a great idea to stop watching MTV music videos and actually make something of the day. And it's decided that Ghent it shall be. Partly on account that no-one really knows what's there and partly because it's closer than Brugge, ergo, more drinking time.

After a quick planning session...

..we're off. But first, some posing out the front of Raleigh and Boston's pad. Sure, it looks modern from the inside, but it's really quite sympathetic to it's historical roots on the outside...

Oh, and on account of the freaky eye-less photo from the last Belgian post that scared some readers, I'm going with smileys. Anyways, Ghent we go. Assisted by Boston's knack for navigating his way around Europe and a foreign language lesson from The Husband on how to use a fuel card, we're there in under 2 hours. We leave the way-massive-saloon in a car park and Boston takes us on a small Google map-inspired deviation around the lesser known parts of Ghent that he insists really are the 'jewel of Belgium'. All good, but we're here to drink piss and eat Belgian food. The troops are restless. "Less culture, more beer!" we cry. He relents and takes us to a pub on the river to stuff ourselves with cheesy croquettes and beer. Peace is restored.

The Framboise above is pretty good - top 7, easy.

Next, we discover a cute shop where a woman ladels diarrhoea into small pots. She says it tastes vaguely like mustard, so we buy some to put her theory to the test.

Boston thinks better of it after leaving the shop and 'accidentally' drops his. He pretends to be upset.

The Husband decides not to let him get away with not eating the shit and sneaks off later in the day to get him another jar.

Yours truly thinks it will be a great idea to do a boat trip. Essentially boat trips are for people like me who can't be arsed reading a travel guide or walking very far. Annoyingly enough, we learned later that the guide spoke very little English, so we had to make up most of our own commentary and amusement, but Raleigh was on top form and kept us giggling like 7 year olds all the way. Also annoying, was that the boat leaves early. We had that Sliding Doors moment seeing our boat pull away without us on it. And much like Gwenyth in the film, we decided the next course of action would be to get drunk on gin. Our hosts don't miss a beat and lead us swiftly to a bar run by a man who looks similar to the husband... though he denies the resemblence.

The Husband makes some enquiries...

...but he is politely told they are in no way related and we down 3 (4?) shots of flavoured gin. (Except Raleigh who in her Southern ways couldn't possibly finish hers - don't panic, I finished it as she left the bar - just to tidy up, right? Raleigh: you're welcome.) And the boat trip was very relaxing and probably cultural if you spoke Flemish.

We saw lots of cool things...

And 50 minutes later it's time for more drinking! Boston has a favourite bar in mind where he can get a nice glass of.. erm.. well..

The Husband opts for a Monster sized Kwak. Sure, he has to leave a boot as a deposit, but it's worth it. Even the locals are impressed.

The day ends in Ghent and we mosey on back to Brussels to quaff some champagne and find somewhere nice for dinner close by. Fortunately, the options are many, even at 10 o'clock in the evening.

Stay tuned for part 3...

Interlude

More from Belgium soon... but first, The Dog in the office. He wants his toy bone filled with treats and will do 'cute stuff' to beg for them. This is him set to Maximum Cuteness.
Seriously people - it's looking down and seeing this that makes rescuing soooo worth it.

It's also this picture that has inspired me to give up my monthly magazine subsciption and donate the cash instead to Cheshire Dogs Home where we got The Dog from. More pooches should be given the chance to find loving homes and live safe in the knowledge that they will never worry about being put down.

The One With the Small Town Girl and a City Boy (part 1)

11 September. The date that terror struck the airlines. When airline staff showed bravery and courage in the face of delusional foreign extremists who would seemingly stop at nothing. However, I'm not talking about the men and women in the US - no. I'm talking about last Friday in Manchester airport and a tense stand off between myself and the gate attendants in Terminal 1.

Unbeknownst to me, Ryanair will insist you check in on-line, print your boarding card and carry it to the gate - in fact, if you fail to do this it will cost you an extra £40 - however, what they tell you on the boarding card small print, should you bother to read it, is that if you have a non-EU/non-UK passport, you must still check in. If you don't - you will be denied boarding.

Unbeknownst to the gate staff - this information doesn't sit well at 7am with Australian women functioning on very little sleep. Suffice to say, I lost my shit. I cried at the insanity of being allowed to check in online when I had to go to the check in desk anyway and pleaded with them to stamp the fucking boarding card and let me on. They were having none of it. Tantrum throttled to maximum, I threw my passport on the carpet and sat down, resigned to the fact that I was not getting on. The Husband picked up my passport and consoled me as best he could. He asked the staff to remove his bag from the flight and joined me for the escorted march back to land-side in what would turn out to be a 9 hour wait and a £250 purchase for 2 new one-way tickets.

Side note: Brussels Airlines would rather let a near-empty flight go without you than sell you two tickets for under £580. You're on my shit list too, for the record.

The Husband amused himself with puzzles/books/conversation over the course of the day while I moaned to anyone who would listen (and some people who really wouldn't) to pass the time. We sat in Costa so long that even people we knew started passing through the airport. It's nice to catch up with friends, so it wasn't a complete loss.

Finally 4pm comes and we're airborne. We don't celebrate until we're actually on the ground in Brussels. On landing, one of our American hosts (call him Boston) greets us with a pick-up service at the airport - and things seem on the improve immediately. His wife, (call her Raleigh), is unpacking at their new flat which he hasn't even seen yet as they were moving in that day. After a Google-Map assisted journey to the apartment in downtown Brussels, Boston ventures off to park the car and joins us shortly after. Nothing is quite as funny as someone offering you a beverage, then asking you where their kitchen is.

So, all drama done for the day, we work out just how close these guys live to the bright lights of Brussels centre - and it's mere steps. Literally. The smell of moules et frites wafts in down their street, making this one of the most fabulous places any of my friends have lived. Sure, there's no full length mirror, logical place to plug in a hair dryer and Raleigh will insist that there is a weird smell (there isn't) but it's right in the heart of absolutely everything. And we make immediate use of the proximity and find The Husband a new hat. (For new readers to this blog, The Husband loves new hats, or rather, I love taking pictures of things on his head that make great hats.)

Oh, and The Husband does have eyes, I just tend not put full face shots on here (you'll get used to it).

With a belly full of moules and beer (I have a penchant for framboise and on Friday evening consumed no less than 4 varieties) we take a suggestion from the hosts to check out some jazz... and it doesn't disappoint. Ignoring the constant fondling in front of us, the band were very talented.

With the clock striking something like 1am or beyond, we head back and let the jovial activity at the Classic Rock bar across the street drift us to a peaceful slumber... because tomorrow is a Big Day Out!

More tales from Belgium soon...

Surprise!

Thanks to one of these...

(that will probably dump me somewhere like this...)I will be enjoying a big plate of these...

with one of these...and one of these...

for plenty of these this weekend...!

Yep - THIS weekend. Owing to nightmarish schedules on both sides and the need to over indulge immediately on large quantities of waffles, we decided a mercy dash to Brussels was in order. Naturally, this is no longer a surprise for The Husband who was close to having me sectioned for suggesting we drop everything and get on a flight to who knows where for no apparent reason. Needless to say, he's dead pleased our friends are back on this side of the pond and looking forward to sharing some trappist brews.

Pictures and half truths to be posted after the weekend...

No-One Told You Life Was Gonna Be This Way...

Oooh - I love it when nice things happen for friends. My this case, it's my chums from North Carolina who have unexpectedly landed a short term post in Belgium to grace the land of moules and frites. And faced with the alternative option of flying to Frankfurt to hang out in a Museum of Dead Things with an old school friend and her impossibly dull husband, I'm going to use my funds to instead roll with the Great Southern Kids in Belgique!
Of course, The Husband does not know this yet, so let's see how long I can keep this a secret... (or, let's see whether he EVER reads his wife's blog).

Thanks for NOTHING, Summer

Dear Summer,
Thanks for your brief visit on 1 July. No, really. It was great to see you after an absence of, I dunno - what, years since you last came around? And a shame that I was in Bristol that day. But hey, nice of you to stop by. If I'd have known that would be your only venture into my life this year, I'd have made more of an effort to ensure I was not sat indoors for a very boring client meeting. I'd have greeted you with open arms, laid out my biggest beach towel on the back lawn, opened a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc and spent some quality time with you.
I don't know if I have said something to annoy you since that day, but please come back. We can sort this out. I'll consider being nicer to small children and donating to charity. Anything.
Pop by this Saturday (I'm free all day) and we can discuss this. Maybe even schedule something big for next year, yes?
Vegemite Wife xx

What to Expect When You're Not Expecting

As most readers will know, I've been married to The Husband for nearly a year. Closer friends will understand that outside of my love for the Vegemite Dog, I have no maternal instincts and futhermore I possess very little desire to produce anything that even looks half like me - let alone a walking photocopy of my own flaws (physical or otherwise) that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

And yet, given my open stance on not being ready to produce offspring yet, a year's worth of marriage appears to open the flood gates for people I barely know to assume that I will be sporning kids. At first, I was surprised and vaguely amused, but as day wore on at a recent family gathering and the jokes/comments/expectations increased, I grew weary. It seemed less and less funny each time it was mentioned. I don't blame them, though. Most of the offending people knew not that I'd heard the joke already that day. My point is that this post should serve as a warning for anyone marring into an Northern Irish family - the little band of metal on your left hand is a red flag to people you meet to enquire about your hoo-hoo and when stuff will start coming out of it.

That's all for now - carry on...

Before and After: The Garden Makeover Post

Here's the front garden before we attacked it with a shit load of grass feed, shifted some paving stones and ripped out anything we couldn't put a name to easily...
And now, to stun all of you who know me well enough to know how awful I am at gardening...
Just to prove we actually did this, I feel compelled to point out that in the picture above you will see that we have moved the 2 hedges slightly closer to the gates. In doing so, we have murdered them.

Further Lessons in Loving a Dog

Rule #43. Always supervise your dog.

Keep a close eye on your pooch at all times for his own safety and (frequently) for your own. Here's what happens when you leave your dog alone in the office for a few minutes.

He logs on and Skypes other dogs on the internet...

Perhaps he's lonely being the only dog at the Vegemite Ranch?

We Had a Dam Good Time

Lots of pictures, less annoying chat... Here goes.
We flew with these guys:
To this place:We stayed at Hotel Arena which, when they accidentally give you a room that's not been serviced and two room keycards that don't work, gets you upgraded to this:Nice huh? And the bathroom... oh the bathroom...The rest of the hotel was pretty nice - lots of old touches left from when it was a monastery/psych ward/hospital (depending what you read)...But mainly it was a great place to relaxEventually we did leave the hotel in search of entertainment.
We booked into Supper Club, but didn't realise that you had to re-confirm your reservation on the day. So instead of eating from a bed, we sat at a table like civilised people.

And besides, between courses when you want to dance, it's easier to get up and.. well.. get down.Also, if I am being completely honest, I didn't fancy leaving my Agent Provocateur patent black pumps with the pile of dirty stilettos at the end of the beds to be kicked out of the way by the wait staff as they served the food.

We drank a bottle each of something nice and waited for the show.
I say 'show' and I mean watching a drag-like woman get her nails and hair done.Fortunately, she actually bothered to get up and sing, but weird nonetheless.We partied on into the night. With some drinks that looked quite normal.Even if people have to be told what to do with them...And the night ended late, but happy. We returned to our plush abode.

Sunday and we get up, get out and wake up with a fresh brew for The Husband and a juice for me. This place rocks.To justify the trip to ourselves as something other than a totally hedonistic weekend, we went here:

Which, if you don't recognise it, is:We also took a canal ride...But soon it was time to go home. Not everyone was pleased to go home or happy to still be photographed at that point. So I switched my attention to weird Dutch signs, like this one. On Dutch trains, you are encouraged to pick your nose, but smoking, vintage mobile phones and starjumps are forbidden.

Scupper-ware

noun. [skuhp-er-wair]
Meaning: Programme installed by upper management to disable RelaxingWeekend.exe files. Runs on all levels of Husband platform. Not compatible with Wife Application version 1.0. This programme is known to force the continuous running of Work application long after required.

Guess who's probably going to Amsterdam alone this weekend.
Yeah. Wife Application is sending an error report, for sure.

Out Of Office

I'm sorry, were you still reading this? Sorry. I've not updated in a while as I've been the length and breadth of the country lately trying to keep my job under control and spent most days and some evenings away from home. This, as some people who actually know me, sounds like something I would do to avoid the sewer issue on the homefront in Cheshire (see post below). It's not, honest. As a side note, the ever-wonderful Husband has fixed that matter using his bare hands so we are no longer under threat of drowning or purchasing a boat.

Anyone in the UK will tell you that we've also had a crappy summer, especially up north. The Met Office have a lot to answer for. I'm assuming they are stepping up security measures. If not, maybe they should. After a third summer let-down in as many years, I'm feeling a little twitchy when anyone asks me how I'm enjoying the summer over here.

To remedy my foul mood, and keeping in mind that neither of us will be able to take any time off this year for a vacation, I've booked a weekend in Amsterdam. On recommendation from a client, I have also booked us dinner at a place called The Supper Club. Sounds normal, right?

Until of course, you see their website which has this picture:

My client tells me that unusual art installations 'happen' there. A guy stood on her table and poured mud all over himself. OK. Right. I've booked us a bed (yes, a bed) that we will be lounging on and eating a five course extravaganza. I may not be able to get up. Naturally, a small spliff shall be consumed prior to dinner, which may be just enough to make us hungry enough to actually eat 5 courses and more importantly, make all this seem perfectly normal.

And yes, Heather, I know you recently went to the Supper Club in San Fran. You are always one ahead of me you wiley trend-setting fox! I shall compare notes with you on my return. Hopefully Amsterdam has a guy in sparkly blue full-body bunny suit and 8 inch clear platform shoes as well!

*Thanks to www.supperclub.nl for the picture. I say 'thanks' and I mean 'please don't prosecute me for using your picture'.

Up Shit Creek

Another pleasant weekend passes, however, as is par for the course in Northern England, it's raining. Again. Not as badly as the time we got flooded, but pretty bad. And constant. And for days on end. Our summer is rapidly being washed away and we're spending more and more time staring out the window in the vague hope it will clear up and get over 20 degrees celsius. It pains me to read that Sydney's winter is warmer than my summer. Yes, really. And MUCH less rain.

But I digress.

Whilst relaxing, sofa-style on this past weekend with The Husband, a waft of something most funky passes our nostrils, tickling them in a disturbing way. I absently sniff a little to put name to the smell, as does The Husband. In unison we turn to each other with accusatory looks. Then, in disbelief that neither of us will own the pungency that surrounds us (some of us are sometimes proud of the fact that we can create a smell that will outlast religion) we peel ourselves from the sofa to find the source. This smell is bad. Worse than feet. Worse than that bit of Brie my then-boyfriend left in the fridge in the share house in Putney. Worse than the time that my dad ran over something in our car, drove for 400km with it 'cooking' underneath, only to blame it on the shop we stopped at next until the lady who owned the shop rifled through the bins to find what the smell was outside her premises. (As a side note, we drove another 200km before working out we were carrying the offending item as an involuntary passenger in 40 degree celsius heat.)

Anyway, worse than that.

I open a window and the smell gets worse. A lot worse. It's then that we work out the stench is external and living in a rural area, we relax for ooooh, about a nanosecond. Because that's when we see the backyard. There's a small waterfall down the path. It's rained, sure, but not this much.

Our drains are blocked. Fuck.

The washing machine completes it's cycle and we realise that the water in the backyard is the waste water from the machine. Which is not as bad as it could have been, but still, it left us scratching our heads and panicking because frankly neither of us know alot about plumbing and drainage. We check a few poorly thought out theories and realise that no, the toilet downstairs should definitely not be used. For the record, I covered my Mr Hanky and shut the lid.

Fortunately, we were able to obtain the services of a drainage expert who sorted it for us for a mere £80 and even educate The Husband on a DIY aspect of the house that he never thought or hoped he'd have to deal with.

We're not in the clear yet though.. we have two drains that needed clearing - one of which we'll have to do ourselves to avoid being charged £200 for what is, in essence, digging a hole. Fortunately this one will not involve any kind of shit.

And for that, I'm eternally thankful.

Still Haven't Found What You're Looking For?

That's because on my blog you won't find anything to do with your 'wife dressing as a tart' or 'making a vegemite costume'. And yet this is where you end up when you have such search queries. You actually click here in the hope that I will know such things. Frankly, if your wife is dressing like a tart, it's time to switch off the PC and find out where she's going. As for a decent Vegemite costume, I feel compelled to help the masses.

Fine: if you really want to dress up as Vegemite then get yourself a giant bit of foam, the kind they use in upholstery for seat padding. Cut it into 2 squares, about 3 foot high by 3 foot wide. Thickness of 2 inches is ideal. Fashion into the shape of 2 pieces of toast. Rub with brown shoe polish on the edges for that authentic crust look. Heck, get a blow torch and lightly toast if you're going the whole hog.

Next, depending on your penchant for the spread, use an appropriate amount of black shoe polish to apply to the 'toast'. I'm an all-the-way-to-the-edges kinda gal, but whatever keeps you off the ledge is fine.

Fix straps to the underside of the toast and wear as a sandwich board (how appropriate). What you wear underneath the foam depends completely on the weather and your confidence.

Letters to a Pooch

Looking at the picture in the post below, it got me to thinking how different it was when we first got The Dog. At the time, I wrote him letters to express how I felt. I just found them again.
So, for your reading pleasure, I give you 5 'Letters to a Pooch':
-------------
Letter 1
Dear [Dog].
You've arrived into our lives suddenly and with more enthusiasm than we ever thought possible. From the moment we saw you locked up with a Ridgeback, you captured our hearts, and much like the fluffy bedding we bought you, never let go.
Though I am not a natural dog person, I hope that I can be a good mum for you and that you enjoy living in Cheshire with us for many years to come. Who knows, we may all end up in Australia together where there is lots of space to run about. But right now, we both need a little time, lots of patience and training.
If I'm sad and upset, know that it's because I fear I am not doing a good job and not because I don't love you.
Your Mum xx
--------------
Letter 2
Dear [Dog],
It's the end of a very long week - your first with us - and it's been emotional to say the very least. I have at times felt like giving in to the fear that I am not the best co-owner for you, but when I think about taking you back, I can't bring myself to do it. It's not your fault that I don't have great dog handling skills and you are after all, just a young dog with a zest for life.
You've now had your tid bits removed and although you have a cone on your daft little head and your legs are a bit wibbly wobbly, you're still gorgeous. You make me want to try harder yet frustrate me to the point of surrender all at once. But I'm not taking you back to the Dogs Home. I think with more time we can make progress. I'm willing to give it a go. I hope you are.
Love, Mum xx
PS If I put you in the back porch or outside, it's not forever, okay?
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Letter 3
Dear [Dog],
We've now had you a just under 2 weeks and the jury is still out on whether you will stay long term with us. It's not your fault. You need lots of exercise to keep you stimulated and basically we are lazy, chaotic people with erratic schedules. We do love you more than ever though and are even letting you sleep in the kitchen, which, given the fact that the Bose soundsystem is in there, is a massive amount of trust that we are putting in your paws. Don't let me down. Your stitches are coming out on Saturday morning and it's not a moment too soon - you've been clever enough to near-destroy your cone. I know it irritates you but it's for your own good, I promise. Anyway, please be good for us (that means you need to stop with the biting!), as I'd really like you to stay.
Love, Mum xx
PS Nice work on learning the 'down' command. You need to stay down though, okay? That's the key to it.
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Letter 4
Dear [Dog],
3 weeks in and you're becoming part of the furniture. Your dad and I are very proud that you have learnt some basic commands, though we'd love it if you did them without a treat being on offer. The Dog School on the weekend was very successful and you're much more fun to walk with. You've made a few code brown mistakes in the kitchen so far, and I know it's a difficult concept to remember, but you really should contain them to the backyard. It's the best place for pooping, honest.
I hope you like your new bed in the kitchen - you seem to spend a lot of time on it, so I'll take that as a positive sign. We're happy to leave you in the kitchen overnight, especially with all this snow, but if you chew another Bose remote control, you'll definitely find yourself outdoors. I don't care how cold it is.
I'm pleased your cone is finally off and you've healed underneath - after chewing your way through 4 cones, we were beginning to wonder if they made them in metal. Still, we don't need to worry now, you are free to lick to your heart's content. (Just remember that you don't have to, especially in front of guests!)
Love, Mum xx
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Letter 5
[DOG]
WHERE'S MY FUCKING IPOD????
NOT FUNNY.
MUM

Poster Boy

From frantic mutt at Cheshire Dog's Home to this chilled out reality TV-loving furbaby in under 6 months...

Now tell me - who wouldn't want to rescue a dog?

He's listening to Vivaldi, by the way.

It almost makes you forget the 2 Bose Sounddock remotes, 3 sets of iPod earphones, Apple wireless router, 2 pairs of designer sunglasses and of course...this:

Good thing he's cute, right?

Up To My Neck In It

Work has been super busy lately and made worse by the unending amounts of stupidity that my colleagues are capable of. I could bore you for hours with tales of technical blunders, half-job programming, and accuracy-of-a-blind-man-doing-needlepoint-with-boxing-gloves type of work that has been done for me. Think I'm exaggerating? We made people who were calling for funeral services listen to holiday dance music and people booking vacations were put through to the aforementioned merchants of death. In short, I've tap danced my way through the week in front of my clients just to keep us in the job. Ironically, the engineer concerned may well have to report to me soon, and I will really be able to kick his arse.

Why is this ironic, I hear you say? Has she forgotten the meaning of the word?

No. The irony is that this very same engineer used to be the client of my husband and gave my beloved man an Exceedingly Hard Time.

Bricking it much, matey? You should be. Think you've seen abuse of power before, sunshine? Well think again. The Vegemite Wife knows how to paddle it's arse and have it call her mummy.

I was relieved that the week had concluded and settled in with a refreshing beverage yesterday (Jacques Cider if you're curious) and listened as the rain pitter-pattered on the sky lights. Draining my glass, the rain got heavier and heavier. Even The Dog thought it too much of a soaking in the kennel and opted for inside relaxation. We both furrowed our brows when The Husband came in and remarked how much rain this was. I mean, he's British - he's generally the last person concerned when the heavens open.

In total 4 inches fell in about 2 hours. That's a fuck-load of rain.

Despite the fact that our back yard was now a swimming pool, I figured since I couldn't see any coming in through the ceiling, that all was good. Until I walked to the front door and heard the odd squelching noise under my feet. We had water, and plenty of it. Every towel in the house was quickly deployed to Operation Mop This Shit Up and we managed pull a half bucket of water up, but alas, the floor boards are now stained.

In the workshop the ankle deep water level marks the walls, but fortunately not more than superficial damage done.

Sunday now and I await the busy-as-hell week ahead of me.

I'll be back when the tide recedes a little.

Search Me

And apparently you do. Well, not specifically me; Google, mostly. But some of you end up here in the hope that I know the answer to some of life's smaller questions. Like how to make a Vegemite costume, is there a recipe for Vegemite (seriously, noone really knows what's in it) or for pictures of 'compare the meerkat'. (Yes, I have one, it's much further down).

If you really want to go dress as a jar of Vegemite, I suggest you reconsider the type of party you are attending that would necessitate that. If it's fancy dress and you're coming as something Australian, go with the ol' hat-with-the-corks-around-the-brim. True, no Australian in the history of mankind has ever actually worn one, but people will not confuse you for a red and yellow jar of shit.

If it's recipes for what to DO with Vegemite, then know this: there is nothing else you can do with Vegemite other than put it on bread or toast. It's overpowering flavour prevents any more sophisticated pairing than with a nice loaf. At least in my experience. But experiment away and let me know if there's a result that doesn't frighten the palate.

Rolling With It

Last night we braved the 70,000-strong Mancunian crowd to catch the second date of the Oasis tour. With our beloved pooch in the kennels for the evening (we found one that we are satisfied will treat him almost as nicely as we do) I drove to Heaton Park and braced myself for the sobering experience of attending a gig without alcohol. The location of the aforementioned park made it unviable to travel by public transport and as The Husband drove the last time we boozed it up, it was my turn. Fortunately I was not sobbing with separation anxiety as I was last time we kennelled The Dog (I know, scary) and we entered the wide expanse of Heaton Park all smiles. The ground is well drained from the recent rain and there is a wide variety of food vans on site offering awesome smelling overpriced lard-soaked options for dinner.

For the record, the line up acts were Twisted Wheel, Free Peace and Kasabian (in that order) but it was the frequent scent of wacky-backy that entertained us whilst waiting for the main event. That, and a game of 'spot-the-most-inappropriate-footwear'. I spied some poorly thought out gladiator sandals, white canvas trainers and some snowboard boots. The Husband scores well with some sodden Ugg Boots, but I take the competition fair and square with a pair of mary-jane pumps. I shit you not. At a gig. In a field. With about 90% chance of rain. Genius.

With day shifting into evening, the temperature drops further (it's been chilly at best all day) and there is no amount of hot chocolate and sugared donuts that will keep me warm, though I ate 4 of them just to be sure. Other music fans also felt the chill and decided to do something about it. Discarded cup trays? Discarded cups? Heck, that's just fuel for an impromptu fire, surely! And so they lit a modest bonfire in the middle of the field and gathered round. Sadly, boozed up minds don't always make the best choices and the next things to be chosen for keeping it alight were a rain poncho and a waterproof jacket. The toxic fumes inspired us to move away and enjoy the concert from a safer vantage point.

As for the music itself, the set list was solid, judging by the crowd's reaction (I'm not really an Oasis fan) though the windy evening played havoc with the sound. Fortunately it didn't affect enjoyment of the show. The Gallagher brothers charmed the crowd from their helicopter arrival to their Northern banter. I was glad to leave by the end though as I was very cold and had a sore back from standing for such a long time.

Overall: go if you know the songs and don't mind standing in the cold for hours on end; don't go if you hate the occasional spray of urine from the 'mad for it' fans.

I O U

I'm catching up on my posting today, can you tell?
It feels remiss of me to neglect about one of the best bank holiday weekends I've had in a long time. Though I tend not to name people on this blog, I feel compelled to show some pictures to illustrate how fabulous the weekend was. Without boring you all with a million snaps, here's a summary:

Friday, we drive through rain to arrive at the campsite. There are grey skies, but the forecast is good and this far north, it's actually dry. Time for a BBQ. We pull out the brand new Go Anywhere Weber beauty, and some mega efficient apparatus that The Husband purchased for getting the coals super hot. It works:

Soon we are cooking and decide to start the weekend on a healthy note by roasting some vegetables. We needn't have bothered, it turned into a meat feast of a weekend soon after, but for eveidence of our good intentions, here's the proof:

The following day, we get up and decide to climb the biggest hill we can. The weather is still a bit grey, but we figure that with 4 hours of climbing to do, it's not a bad thing. (For clarity, I didn't know we'd be climbing for FOUR HOURS or I'd have never agreed to it.) Our camping companions are super fit - she is a black belt kung fu (or whatever they call it) and he does extreme sports for a living. Our sorry asses do our best to keep up, The Husband resorts to tieing The Dog to his trousers in order to drag him up some of the steep bits, claiming he had to tether The Dog as he thought he saw sheep in the next field. Mythical sheep aside, we made it. The Dog not even showing signs of slowing as we hit the top. Fabulous Lake District views surround us.

The Dog stops to reflect on the way up (or down, I can't remember, he's often caught in his musings)..

We return to camp, ignite more coals, burn some meat and faster than you can finish chewing, most of us are asleep, including The Dog who passed out first.

The next day, we woke to this:
But having climbed the hill the day before, noone was in much state to walk. (Except The Dog who is seemingly like a rechargeable battery and was dead keen to go again.) We ignore his stupid enthusiasm and hire a canoe for an hour, almost regretting it when said pooch threatened to put us in the lake. With nothing better to do for the rest of the afternoon, we opened up the cool boxes and plundered their contents. Our companions were just as well stocked and soon it turns into a drinking marathon. We chat, we laugh, we watch the clouds go by..
And we even take a group nap before dinner...
In the evening, we scorch a further assortment of dead animals and drink some more. Some of us pee in the bushes and discover there is a fucking great patch of nettles. Some of us think it's funny to decorate the car with prints.

All in all, it was a wonderful weekend. I wish the lakes was as generous with the good weather every time we go up there. Most of all, I'm ever-grateful of the friends that we have who like to share this kind of weekend. It really means a lot that we can enjoy each others company in any weather, looking dishevelled (at best) and have a cracking good time.

Say When

I'm still here. Well, not on this blog obviously for a while, but here in the general sense. Things have been very hectic at work and I'm putting in long hours to keep my head above water. The Husband is as well - the early hours of the morning are no stranger to him. Sadly, in the current economic climate we have to do this. We're lucky to have jobs at all and aim to do everything we can to keep them. I don't mean to sound dramatic about it, but it's amusing to think back to days when you could book holidays in advance, knowing you would even be requesting the time off from. This summer we'll not be afforded the luxury of even booking one. I feel rather depressed at being in the UK at the moment, though I hope the feeling will pass - I'm about to reach my 8th anniversary of being here and will become eligible for British citizenship next month. The irony of it slays me. I've worked 8 years to get to a point where the 'prize' is the last thing I want.
Most days it feels like I have had enough of being here, which is a poor attitude to take - there is no reason (other than a more reliable climate) that being back home in Oz would be any better.
I guess it's normal though - everyone gets fed up, right? Even The Dog, with his effervescent attitude can get annoyed with life. No finer example of the limit of his patience was the Episode Of The Cone. Poor sod had his knackers cut off (it's sensible people, really) and he was forced to wear the equivalent of a satellite dish round his head for over a week. He got through 4 of them before the ordeal was over for everyone. But he tried valiantly to get out of wearing it.
He wriggled..

He scratched..He chewed.. He pleaded..He even staged a protest. But we couldn't take it off.

In the end, he's a happier dog for enduring the process. We can now take him anywhere and know that he's not going to impregnate some poor bitch whose puppies will invariably see the same Dogs Home fate (or worse) that he did. And with his new freedom, he's discovered camping and hiking in the hills is his Most Favourite Thing. And suddenly it all feels worth it.