Whippet Eyes

I bought a new, quite zany necklace to wear with a new outfit, but it wasn't right so I planned to send it back. Internet shopping, the only way I can bear it. It was a long soft tube of bright red sparkly 'stuff', maybe plastic, maybe not, cleverly tied so there was a large, intricate knot that sat on the chest. I thought it look amusing. This morning I came down to find it on the sofa with Hugo, see-through wrapping torn to shreds, necklace chewed. He must have thought it was sweets. "Oh, you're a very bad boy," I said, and his tail stopped mid-wag as he slid to the floor and crept into his other bed. I ignored him for a bit while I made my tea, then spoke to him again as I sat on the sofa. "What a very bad boy to eat Mummy's necklace, and now I can't send it back. You might as well have eaten the contents of my wallet." He hung his head in shame, obviously horrified that the hideous, garish thing had monetary value. After a while I called him over in a quietly severe voice, and he came reluctantly and sat in front of me. "Why are you such a bad boy?" I asked him, and he looked at me with those gorgeous hangdog whippet eyes and my heart melted. As he gazed beseechingly at me his front paws slipped on the hard floor and he slowly sank to the ground, legs splayed out in front of him. Oh Hugo!

I now have some fine pink underwear, four knickers and two bras. They are not deliberately pink, but somehow got into the wash with a pair of red trousers, and that did for them. The machine was only on at 30 degrees too, practically cold, so that must have been a powerful red dye. I feel a bit uncomfortable wearing them, a tad frivolous. They are definitely not me. I'm hoping they'll return to pristine white after the next, hotter wash.

It's a gorgeous day and I'm looking longingly at all the delicious jobs that I want to do in the garden but cannot. Yesterday I did the Times crossword in well under an hour which would normally have been a matter of triumph but only left me feeling cheated of the wrestle and tussle I usually enjoy for longer on a Saturday, the hardest day of the week. Finishing it is great, but still having a few clues to wrack my brain over is even more fun. I've read books that would have kept me going for weeks, and revised Italian until my head aches even more. I've even dead-headed a few dahlias, but the job I really want to do - hoeing the big bed - must remain untouched until I'm better. Nothing for it then but to lie in the sun with the Sunday paper and nod off from time to time. "Wake up Denise it's time for your medicine." Thank you nurse.