Please take a seat!
Actually… please don’t… If you don’t mind, of course.
It kinda upsets the doggies…
The kids and I went for a walk up Dalkey and KIlliney hills for a bit of exercise.
It seems that 28,000 other people (and their 17,000 dogs) happened to have the same idea, at the same time.
The road to the car park was fun, with its dozens of illegally parked cars on a stretch of road than can only accommodate the width of two cars.
I am always surprised by the great number of walkers terrified at the idea of a bit of walking.
Mimi was practising her teenage behaviour.
She got it totally wrong… She did have her headphones on for the whole walk, but still talked to us rather than just sulk and look at the tip of her wellies. Also, Lloyd Cole’s Antidepressant (singing to the chorus of “with my medication I will be fine”) may not have been the ultimate soundtrack to premature teenage angst (it is however the perfect soundtrack to middle-age angst).
Luca was as usual lost in his own world. He does not need headphones, a twig and enthusiastic mouth-made sound effects do the trick.
It left Finnzy-Bob who asked me to check the type of airliners flying overhead (the nicest one was the BA 777 to San Diego, California) and asked about 327 questions about the Bugatti Veyron.
All in all a great afternoon.
Except when I cut my thumb deeply while trying to fix the dishwasher’s door.
(It’s not repairable. I might however get a bit more mileage out of the thumb).
Carling, named by his lager-loving master in a moment of inspiration, after a beverage reminiscent of chilled urine.
Carling, waiting for his big bozo of a master.
Ok, perhaps not since 1840, but since 11:30 at least.
And the bollix is not showing any sign of coming back.
Ho ho ho my canine goolies…
Sponsored by Drink Aware (if you’re going to drink, try and remain aware that your long-suffering pet is waiting for you outside).
Pleeeeeeeeease, pleeeeeeeease gentle passer-by, pleeeeeeeeease help us.
We’ve been abducted.
We are being taken away, against our will.
Taken away from our doggy baskets by the stove.
This man is nuts.
This man is dangerous,
This man is insane.
He is actually convinced that we love to go walkies.
This delusional, selfish, nasty individual believes that we like nothing better than tear ourselves away from our cocoons of warmth to go to Seapoint.
Seapoint?! Of all places… It’s a dump!
It’s cold. It’s wet. It’s windy.
And he finds nothing better to do than throw our stick in the water. In the water?! I ask you…
This is Ireland in December and he throws the shaggin stick in the icy cold water. Surely, there has to be laws against this kind of carry-on? What is the ISPCA doing?
And all the sand… It sticks into our coats and then it takes forever to get rid of all of it in the doggy baskets.
Oh, Rusty, I think I’ve managed to catch his eye!
Rex, quick, do the eyes. Quick!
Do the sad puppy eyes. Altogether. Pleeeeeeeeeeeease!
Rusty, start raising the ISPCA number, slowly, slowly, Pol Pot up there could be checking what we’re up to in his rear mirror.
Rex, remember the last scene of Lassie The Final Chapter, when he dies in the arms of the little boy. You are Lassie. You are the little boy. You are the Sadness of the World.
Look at him guys, look at him, I think he has noticed us.
He is our only chance.