Blob hasn't yet written her annual ode and although has a couple of ideas, is much preferring to bake and nick the chocolates out of the drawers of the advent calendar that she made for her niece.
This makes her short tempered, and this combined with the two days of not inconsequential stomach pain she incurred earlier in the week has made my life of comparative leisure somewhat fraught.
Firstly there is a huge dollop of nail varnish on my tail. I have no idea how it got there. Apparently I am not supposed to a) climb on to laps, or b) wag my tail whilst Blob is attempting to paint her nails, but I don't even pretend to know what that had to do with it. But now every time she tries to remove said dollop, we have a bit of a ruck because it will apparently involve removal of hair.
Secondly, she has brought me a toy that she thinks I'm going to play with. I ask you, I have no problems chasing about after a necklace, some dead leaves, shoe laces or even stockinged feet, but when she produces a purple mouse on a stick with nearly a metre of tail and a bell in it, I ran a mile. It was terrifying. She has since then, surgically removed the bell and the stick, but I'm still not playing.
Thirdly, its coming up FireWorks weekend. That means I get to cower (and I am by nature not a cowering beastie) beneath the duvet or the cushions or if I get really lucky Blob herself as she slobs out in front of the telly. It also means that I can't go outside during the hours of darkness. Grounded? Me? I ask you. Its just not dignified.
So here I am, hiding from the long purple toy and under house arrest because of the FireWorks, and daubed cruelly with Nail Varnish.
And what sympathy do I get?
"At least its not pink!" she says cheerily, then she waves that damn toy in my face.
Like I said, "Torture!"
Bob
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