The mothership has landed

Mother is in town until Tuesday.

Oh God.

Is that a clitoris at the back of your throat, or are you just happy to see me?

Deep Throat star dies. Apparently she never made a cent from the biggest selling porno of all time (sales reached the $1 billion mark this year) and was forced at gun point by her husband to make the movie. Who would've thunk it?

And the cycle begins again

The state of relief I felt when I walked into the office this morning knowing that the May editions have been Put To Bed was quickly replaced by my rapid decline into ennui. I get so bored around here, and am completely unmotivated to a) show some initiative and start changing things around here or b) start working on the June issues.

May is my first colour issue (THE PRESSURE, THE PRESSURE!!!!). Colour issues only come out once every three months because it costs so damn much to produce a four-spot colour publication of 28-odd pages. This fact is ignored by state branches (who must have a secret roster somewhere), from whom I am expecting to hear - any minute now - the standard range of whingeing, bitching and moaning about how they hate the layout/colour scheme/ content of their particular newsletter.

To which I respond thus:

A) The layout was decided upon at a senior management team meeting before I started working here, so if you have any ideas that I can take to the next meeting, send them in. Otherwise, shut up, sit down, and do your own work and leave me to do mine.

B) The newsletters are printed in the association's primary colour - blue. If you don't like it, then good luck petitioning the board of directors and the senior management team AND my boss to change the colour scheme. Be prepared to show a detailed cost-benefit analysis of how the association will be able to produce all the newsletters in four-spot gloss colour and still make a profit by producing the newsletters (ppffffft, yeah, right). Otherwise, you are better off just shutting up, sitting down, doing your own work and leaving me to get on with mine.

C) I send out an email once a fortnight calling for anyone with story ideas or leads to submit them to me ASAP so I can follow them up. This is part of my job. If you don't let me know that stuff is happening or has just happened or will be coming up in a couple of months, then don't presume that I have ESP and that the information will just magically appear in the newsletter. I don't, and it won't.

Admittedly, the content of the material is usually dull as batshit, but hey - I edit, I proof, I design, I layout, I yell, I scream, I write witty headlines, I get it done. Because I get paid to do so. Yes, I'm a whore for my pay packet and I don't like it, either. So don't send me emails about how I can change. I know that stuff already. Anyhoo!

All I get around this place is criticism. I only ever hear from people when they find something wrong with Their Newsletter, never when something looks good, a fact my boss yesterday wryly admitted not disclosing to me in my interview for this job.

I want more money. Make me a bigger whore.

Oh no!

R.I.P. to this fine blog writer - dooce dot com calls it a day. I hope she comes back under another name, because this person is a fantastic writer and a loss to my blogging day.

I'm over it.

I hate Mondays.

I hate being in this office and hearing (through others, of course, because no one other than my boss would say it to my face and she's got nothing mean to say to me or my lot) about mean things said and nasty rumours whispered up and down these corridors over the past two weeks.

Some people in this office - including the director of public relations, marketing and sponsorships - have demonstrated that while they may have officious and verbose titles, their attitudes and manner in the workplace fall far short of being described as professional or mature. An example - said director has been very busy spreading untrue and unfair rumours that a workmate of mine is having an affair with another (married) workmate in the office. Despite the fact that this is completely slanderous and absolute rubbish (hello? He's married), others in this office have declared their allegiances and refuse to speak to my workmate, because of her "sluttish" behaviour. And yet no one has been brave or intelligent enough to front up and ask if the rumours are true.

Said workmate was getting a bit stressed about the whole situation. My advice: stay cool. Don't jump this bandwagon. Running around trying to put out fires that don't exist in reality will only prove to their eyes that you are conducting an illicit affair with the other workmate. Which you are not. Say nothing, do nothing, but pay attention to what is said and done by others. If more slander spews forth, consider taking action against the perpetrator. Show them through your actions that theirs are completely unacceptable.

Where is the workplace where people are adults? Must I work with schoolchildren?

A poem. By ericmonkey.

There once was a big evil monkey
Whose girlfriend thought he was spunky
She bought him a dog
As big as a log
And now the trio are funky.

Friday five ... aaaah, THANK FUCK it's Friday

1. What's your favorite TV show and why? I really enjoy Survivor (not the Australian one), but overall it just has to be Buffy. Admittedly it's not as wry and trashy as it used to be, but as last week's episode proved, the show's still got what it takes. Besides, take a look at Zander. Hello?

2. Who is your favorite television star? This is a toughy. TV star. Movie star is easy - Johnny Depp, without a doubt. As for TV, hmmmmm ... well, let's just run with Zander from Buffy for now.

3. What was your favorite TV show as a child? A tacky Australian entertainment program called Young Talent Time. Go Johnny! This show spawned such satanic imps as Tina Arena and Daniiiiiiiiii Minogue. And the Wonderful World of Disney, which screened on Sundays at 6.30pm in Australia. It was the only night of the week I was allowed to eat dinner in front of the TV, on my very own picnic rug, and my mum used to cook a roast, which meant I got the chicken leg. And roast potatoes. Childhood bliss.

4. What show do you think should have been cancelled by now? The Nanny. Bleauuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhggggggggh. Shuddup already! And by next season - Sex in the City. It's getting too predictable and contrived. And South Park. Over it.

5. What new show do you hope escapes the axe this season? Six Feet Under, which screens far too late here in Australia. But hey - Our Very Own Rachel Griffiths is bloody well worth staying up for.

Meltdown 101: becoming one of those people

I'm so monumentally tired. I've never known exhaustion like this before. For some reason these May editions are really tiring me out. And, as much as I hate to say it, the stress is getting to me. Or I'm getting stressed because of what my work life is doing to the rest of my life.

I'm even too tired to be witty or funny.

Sex? Forget it. Too tired. Read a book? Tried that on the bus this morning. This was after I spent half an hour at home arguing with myself about whether to read a book or a trashy mag and thus made myself late for work for the fourth day in a row. It wouldn't have mattered what reading material I selected. I fell asleep on the bus.

I became One of Those People. You know the ones. You see them on public transport all the time. Nodding off, their heads slipping gradually off their hands or sliding further down the windowpane. Then they jolt upwards. But their eyelids are heavy. The drone of the bus, the sway of the tram, it's all too soothing, too hypnotic to resist.

I never wanted to become One of Those People. I really don't like falling asleep anywhere other than in my home or in ericmonkey's. I just don't enjoy feeling so vulnerable. Plus I snore and I drool, which is never an attractive look, so god forbid anyone on my bus should bare witness to my ear-jangling breathing patterns and saliva flow.

I can't even make it through an entire movie. Got through about 2/3 of Memento, which is such an excellent film, and then before I knew it, the credits were rolling. Unbelievable.

I, I, I. I've just started every paragraph in this post with I. How's that for form? See? I don't even care enough about politics, philosophy, issues of the day, whatever. Children overboard? Really? Where? Do you think I could catch a few zeds under my desk for about ten minutes without BossLady noticing?

All I need is a snooze shelf, ala George Castanza, and I'll be set.

No, what I really need is to get these damn newsletters out to the printers TODAY so I can actually chill out this weekend.

Nobody likes this person, and here's a previously held conversation twixt him and my sweet self to prove why

Scene: lazy Sunday arvo, perfect movie watching time.

Ericmonkey [to missjenjen, who is sitting in the computer room with bennyboy]: Okay jenjen, the food is ready, lets watch the movie now.

Ben: What? You can't watch a movie now, we've got work to do!

Ben [to me, once Eric is out of earshot]: This is all your fault Jen, it's supposed to be MY day with Eric today.

Me: Eric's a grown man, Ben, he makes his own decisions.

Ben: That's just bullshit. He follows you around like a little puppy dog. *pouts* [including sticking the bottom lip all the way out. No, really.].

Me: Got a problem, talk to Eric about it, don't come bitching to me.

Ben: He does whatever YOU want.

Me: He's an adult, Ben, so he does what HE wants. What's it to you if that involves me more than it involves you?

Ben: It's supposed to be MY day with him today. You can't have him.

Me: You're a complete cockhead.

Ben: Can you help me write this grant application? It's due tomorrow.

Me: After you've just finished insulting me and Eric?

Ben: I'll give you one of my paintings if you help me.

Me: I'd rather not thanks. That's no to helping you and no to one of your paintings as well.

Ben: Fine.

Me: Good.

Ben:

Me:

Ben: What's the movie?

Me: Meet the Parents.

Ben: What kind of food have you got?

Me: Oh, yunno, chocolate, chippies.

Ben: Good, well, I'll come and watch the movie and eat all your food and not contribute any money towards any of it, and then whinge and bitch through most of the movie about how there's no work getting done.

Me: My arse you will. Cockhead.

Make it stop, mister, I want to get off now

NO.

Doan wanna.

*pouts*

Doan wanna write ANY MORE crappy re-writes of crappy stories.

Doan wanna rearrange pages to make all the extra advertising fit.

DOAN WANNA be on deadline ANY MORE.

*pouts*

Doan wanna have hayfever. Doan wanna have hayfever when I have no cashola to buy sneeze-stopping medication because of course I didn't replenish my supply when I had the chance.

*pouts*

Tired.

Wanna go home.

Hmph.

Hahahahaha see ericmonkey's face drop!

MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA see him run, run, run when missjenjen tell him she's Up The Duff!

[Missjenjen Packin' It inside for fear of sprog emerging in nine months due to her body's ridiculous sense of hormonal timing, but she no tell ericmonkey for about five minutes about this].

Tee-hee-tee-hee-hee-hee SO HARD for Missjenjen not to LAUGHLAUGHLAUGH out loud when she ask ericmonkey to marry her and when can we go to visit his mummy to tell her she'll be a granny soon! His face! Ericmonkey rather GO TO PRISON.

POOR ericmonkey get BIG fright but this soon passes.

UH-OH. Missjenjen run-run-run as fast as her little legs can go to escape angry ericmonkey.

Now ericmonkey LAUGHLAUGHLAUGH to see missjenjen try and run HAHAHAHAHAHA silly girlie.

I know, I know! Let's reinvent the wheel!

And really give Jen the shits!!

I cannot believe the number of imbecilic, forgetful twits who done what work in this office. I have received seven - yes, seven - phone calls this morning about an issue that has dragged on. And on. And on, pretty much since I got here in January - and these people just will not let it go, no matter what I tell them.

No, we don't have any room in the newsletters for that information.

But we got to publish it twice last year.

I don't care if you got to publish it every fortnight and held a party for it with a cake, it's not going to happen, because it's a waste of space and what you want to put there is housekeeping information, not NEWS. This is a NEWSletter. You dumb fucks.

But Blah-Blah said ....

Listen to me when I say it to you again. NO. A thousand times, NO. [a girl could get used to saying no to people and them having to just bloody well cop it on the chin, I tells ya). It won't happen. It's messy, it's labour-intensive and there's no value in doing it. At all. If you want your readers to hear about this information, TELL THEM YOURSELVES.

Ack.

I'm such a bloody grumpy bitch on Mondays.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwn

Fuck I hate Mondays. Particularly after you've had a particularly lovely weekend with boy, dog, friend visiting from Perth and payday, all at once.

And yes, I did give Housemate enough money, which is a good thing, because now I'm back to being poor. It's not my fault, I swear. It's just that everything in the shops is just so damn funky and yummy, I have to have it all.

According to my webstats, you can come to this site if you need help and you are desperate. Yes. Indeed. Ahem.

Hello there, you

Hello Karen James.

Oh.

Just received a rather upsetting and disturbing phone call. A woman called my mobile to say that she thought she saw Louie, who went missing on February 25 and broke my heart, at a train station about three kilometres away from where I live. I asked if he was wearing a collar, and she said she couldn't be sure but she thought it may have been a silver link chain collar. He was wandering around the platform, and then meandered off down the street.

Now I just don't know what to do. I thought that I had made a good start on getting over Louie and putting it behind me, resigning myself to the idea that he may never return and I may never know what happened to him. But now .... my heart is aching thinking that he may still be out there, wandering the streets looking for me and looking to come home.

Maybe she got it wrong.

Maybe it wasn't Louie.

Maybe she made a mistake. The photo on the leaflet wasn't that good. And little black dogs ... well, hey - they're everywhere, right?

But maybe it's Louie. Maybe he is alive.

Tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap. Sigh. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap.

I never thought I'd say this, but I am sick to the back teeth of typing and editing and words in general today. I've been working like a bitch on heat works the streets at night when the sailors are in town. I'm just over it and I want to go home and play with Bertie and ericmonkey.

Plus I'm poor, so poor I'm poorer than I was as a student, and that was bad. I microwaved a potato for my lunch today because I have no cash at all until I get paid on Saturday morning (just as an aside, who is the BOZO in this company that thought up the idea of paying us on a godamn Saturday? What's wrong with Friday - afternoon, preferably? Getting paid on Saturday means I borrow fifty bucks off Someone Else on Friday night so I can go out and enjoy myself. Mental note 893.42: find bozo who enacted this bizarre and torturous practice. Kill them immediately.).

My money management is the kind of thing they show you at investment seminars as an example of how NOT to have enough money to live on and save moula as well. Which I personally see as an impossible thing, but I guess if I'm going to spend all my cashola on clothes and bags and shoes and makeup and going out all the time, then it's highly unlikely my (*ahem* *cough-splutter*) Bonus Saver Account will ever accumulate any funds.

So! Henceforth, I'm going to be strong. Dave-oh-housemate, aka BudgetMan, has agreed to take my rent money off me once a fortnight, because I know that if that money's in my account I'll spend it (rent's due monthly, I get paid fortnightly). If he's got it, I won't, and the rent will get paid on time. So will the bills. And the shopping, too, because I'm going to give him money for that stuff too. And if I get my work to take money out of my pay once a fortnight and secret it away to a hidden location for me, then I may actually save enough money to go away at the end of the year.

Ahem.

We'll see.

I'm innocent, I swear

A visit to this blog from the US military last night, according to my stats (which I'm rapidly coming to see as the proverbial Double-Edged Sword). All I can say in my defence (defence! Wokka, wokka, wokka) is that I know nothing, nobody saw me do it, and I don't know what you're talking about. So there.

Fancy a chop, anyone?

Here's the goss, straight from the horse's mouth (and unfortunately I don't mean you, Tony, although I have added you as a link over on the left there) - wanna go see someone famous? A well-known certain earless person is working at the Leinster Arms Hotel in Collingwood. If you fancy a gander ...

Crayolas, Crayolas, Crayolas fucken everywhere

I don't think I've ever known a dog to shit as much as Bertie does. I keep finding these Crayolas of dog poo in the oddest of places. I found a greying crayon of it up the back of the wardrobe yesterday. I stepped on a particularly crunchy one this morning (thankfully I had already showered and was wearing shoes, unlike yesterday's unfortunate little barefooted and squishy exchange).

But, a small victory: I took him out of the bedroom this morning for a wee and he went straight for the newspaper at the back door and let that tiny, overactive bladder loose. Much, much praise for beast. There is hope for us yet.

And he is so fucking adorably cute, the little bastard.

In other news, I caught some of the Melbourne Comedy Festival last night. Specifically, I caught Fiona O'Laughlin and I can assure you that she was quite hysterical. And in fact, I'm inspired to go and see more. I may even treat ericmonkey to something. Cheap, of course, but he doesn't need to know that. What about Sucker? Looks good, yes?

Papa's got a brand new site

Get down! Get funky! Follow thy rules of funk :::>right here, momma. Shake your groove thang.<:::

Chocolate salty balls ... indeed

HOLY Jesus and Mary sweet mother of Christ. I can hardly hold down my lunch.

Mental note 687.36

Read this before hatching crazy plan to fuck reindeer willynilly all over the countryside. Think about what it will do to your mother!

From Ben, who has a relaxed attitude towards spelling. And that's okay.

"JEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!

Your dog has shat in my room!!!!"

Unfortunately, this phrase was heard far too often over the weekend. Thankfully I live with the nicest people in Melbourne, SuperAnge and Dave-oh-housemate, plus that little four-legged bastard is so damn cute it's hard to get angry with him, so said shit has been cleaned up with a minimum of fuss. Now, if I could just get him to stop eating the cat food ….

The initial shmoooooogly-honeymoon period with Bertie-Boop has well and truly come to a close. He's a right little shit, there's no two ways about it, and if that little bastard wasn't so damn cute …. ack.

I never thought it would happen, but I've started to get annoyed. Irritated, even. Particularly at the people who get all shmooooooogly with my dog when we're out in public. He's so adorable, they say. So tiny, and so gorgeous, they coo. Well, YOU come and clean the shit off the bottom of your bare foot at 6am (having just stepped into it as you arise to shower for work), I say. But that's all part of the joy of dog ownership, right? RIGHT??

Ericmonkey has been rather good with Bertie, thus earning more brownie points with me by the day. He and Bertie-Boop hang out together. They go out for long rambles around Melbourne's inner north. And east. And west. Usually because ericmonkey has lost his sense of direction and doesn't know where he is. But that's okay. Take dog out. See the world. Get him used to it. GET HIM TO SHIT ANYWHERE OUTSIDE, AT ANY TIME. My carpet can only take SO much.

SHIT. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Layouts are with the DTP (for those not "in" with publishing lingo, that stands for desktop publisher). This means that I must justify my existence here by coming up with stories to fill the pages our DTP has so beautifully laid out. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Problem: I've been far too busy surfing to do any writing. At best, the newsletters are half-full. Thankfully I have a back up plan: return to the advertising department and say, SELL MORE ADS.

On a lighter note, I've added another couple of links over there on the left. Superblonde, my cohort in Perth. Blonde yet wise, indeed. And snarkywench. Don't go there looking for porn.

FRIDAY FIVE IT IS, FOLKS

1. What are the first things that you do in the morning to start your day? Yawn. Smoogle with ericmonkey. Sit up and check BeautifulBertie is still sleeping in his basket (how heartening is it to wake up and see your cute little seven-week-old puppy asleep in his basket with his head inside your boot? ... it's there because he fell asleep mid-chew, dopey). Reset alarm for another ten minutes resting time.

2. What are the last things that you do at night before going to bed? Insist to BeautifulBertie several times that no, he can't sleep in the bed with mummy and daddy, he has his own bed and that's where he sleeps. Choose an outfit for work the next day. Set the alarm. Fall asleep either a) smoogling with ericmonkey [preferable] or b) reading a book [not as preferable].

3. What daily routine have you recently added to your day? Feeding and toilet training BeautifulBertie. It's a chore, and if he wasn't so damn cute, that little bastard, it would be even more of a chore.

4. What routine do you wish you get rid of? Definitely the toilet training. I really fucking hope that's over soon, because I don't want to get up out of bed and step immediately into dog pee ANY MORE.

5. What's the one thing that makes you feel like something is missing if you don't do it some point within your day? Check my mobile phone. Not that it ever rings, but hey - you just never know your luck in a big city ...

What kind of Jesus would you like?

Terrible, in the worst possible way, and yet strangely appealing: A photo archive of nuclear tests throughout history. Via this intrepid surfer.

Lilac Wine
Written by James Shelton
First performed by Nina Simone

I lost myself on a cool damp night
Gave myself in that misty light
Was hypnotized by a strange delight
Under a lilac tree

I made wine from the lilac tree
Put my heart in its recipe
It makes me see what I want to see...
And be what I want to be

When I think more than I want to think
Do things I never should do
I drink much more that I ought to drink
Because I brings me back you...

Lilac wine is sweet and heady, like my love
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, like my love
Listen to me... I cannot see clearly
Isn't that she coming to me nearly here?

Lilac wine is sweet and heady where's my love?
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, where's my love?

Listen to me, why is everything so hazy?
Isn't that she, or am I just going crazy, dear?

Lilac wine, I feel unready for my love...

Hello, Canberra visitors

I checked my sneaky site metre-ing thingie last night. Whoever it is that's visiting me from the Department of Primary Industries and Energy, welcome, and I hope you're enjoying wasting tax payers' money surfing the web and blogging as I am enjoying wasting my employer's money doing the same!

Dog update: he's cute, but he keeps weeing everywhere, and is proving to be rather demanding. He wants to be where-ever ericmonkey and I happen to be, so at night time that means he always wants to be let up on to the bed. Which is not allowed. So he whines. Then he whimpers. Then he refuses to go back to his basket. Then he yaps. Then he whines some more. Then ericmonkey and I mumble to each other in half-sleep-language about who is going to get up and take the dog outside for a wee (which we both know he will do in my room once he gets back inside). Stumble outside with dog. Dog sits at whoever drew the ShortStraw's feet, looking up at said human plaintively. And not weeing. Take dog inside. Scoop out smelly food for dog. Dog sniffs at food. Returns to sitting position in front of mummy or daddy. Scoop up dog. Return dog to basket, return weary human body to bed.

Repeat process 'til dawn.

Arr, arr, arr me hearties

Rural romeos. Only if one was wearing a blindfold and earmuffs. Check out the guy who wants a Protestant childless single woman to marry who cares about her appearance. Good luck, buddy.

Thank God for city boys, she opined.

If I ever turn out like this please put me out of my misery with a bullet to the back of my head, immediately

Imagine, if you will, the following scene: Ground floor of my building. Waiting for the lift to the third floor. PatronisingNewMother, Lisa, joins me in the wait. She works in advertising.

Her: Hey, kiddo. Oooooh! A lemon tart! AND a fresh coffee! And you've done some shopping at David Jones. Gee, I wish I could afford to do that everyday.

Me: I've said it to you before, Lisa, this is why I don't have any dependents. I like being able to afford whatever I feel like for lunch every day. And then go clothes shopping and out for dinner every night too.

Her [gives me a gloating, smug smile]: Yes, but I bet you didn't have a four-year-old wake you up this morning and hug you and say, 'I love you, mummy'.

Me: No, but I did have some pretty damn amazing sex this morning. That suits me just fine.

Her: Oh.

[Fellow workmate bursts into laughter 'pon hearing this exchange]

Me: And don't call me kiddo. It's patronising and I don't like it.

Her: Why not? You ARE just a kid.

Me: You're only five years older than me. I'm 30. Definitely not in the child category. Neither are you. That's why I don't call YOU kiddo.

Her: Oh.

Me: How's the backyard renovation going?

Her: Not bad. The rollout lawn's costing us a fortune.

Me: What do you call a fortune?

Her: It's $1100 to do about 160 square metres.

Me: And that's supposed to be expensive? Sounds pretty cheap to me.

Her: Well, when you start things like having kids and buying baby things and beds and the like, $1100 is a lot of money.

Me: Dare I say it to you again that this is why I don't have any dependents?

Her: I'd rather have my children tell me they love me everyday.

Me [look around frantically for bucket in which to vomit]: $1100 doesn't seem like much to me. I spent that much on my wardrobe last season.

Her: Trust me, it's a lot of money for grass.

Me: Well, you could always dump your family and go live in an apartment like me. Much cheaper and far easier to maintain, I expect.

Her: Yes, but then I wouldn't get the joy of seeing my children run around playing in a big backyard, would I?

Me: Okay, I'm getting out of the lift now before I do the world a big favour and firebomb you.

I didn't actually say that last bit. But I felt like it. If I had a dollar for every time this woman calls me kiddo ....

I swear, I must be the most sickening Dog Parent ever. Even ericmonkey pales next to me, and he and Bertie can't be separated with a large metallic wedge at this point in time. Just to give you an idea of how close they've become, last night we had some friends come over to mooosh over the dog, and the dog, being so young and all, decided it was a perfect time to show off how well he could hump his daddy's arm. AT SEVEN WEEKS. Kids .... they're not like they used to be, I tells ya.

I rang everybody yesterday and emailed everybody else to gloat and moooooosh about how I owned a new beast. Even my boss was excited: "I'm wondering what kind of excuse we can come up with so you can bring him into work with you".

I insisted that my lift home come into my house to check out Bertie. She was suitably impressed and duly moooooshy at the sight of him. I emailed friends earlier in the day and told them I had a surprise to show them at home and they should come over. They did. They caught sight of Bertie and immediately fell over on to the floor. No, really. They did. They are the proudest Auntie and Uncle ever. I have people falling over themselves to babysit our dog.

He ate his first meal completely from his new, little bowl last night. Didn't take any encouraging from eating food from my finger, like I've done in past nights. Ate the whole thing, all two tablespoons of it. That might give you an idea of just how tiny he is - I'm not deliberately starving him. It's just that his tummy is so damn little it don't take too much.

Now, if only I could get that little bastard toilet trained. I'm following all the tricks: taking him outside after meals, after naps, after play, letting him walk around on wet grass. Etc. We came inside after a marathon walk about the front garden last night (at least 20 minutes or so) and Bertie galloped straight into my bedroom and peed in front of my wardrobe. KIDS.

There's a new kid in town

He's got the biggest brown eyes you've ever seen.

He's black.

He has four white socks, delicately colouring four weeny, perfectly formed little paws.

He's the tiniest seven-week old Chihuahua-Jack Russell cross I've ever seen, and he's at home, asleep, curled around my boot as we speak (my housemate just rang me up to tell me this vital piece of information).

His name is Bertie.

Ericmonkey and I are co-parenting.

This is the first time I've ever gone away on holidays and come home with more beasts than when I left.

In the space of 24 hours this little wriggly bundle of fresh puppy has shown me that life goes on, especially when there is a hungry wee tummy that wants food put in it and then a good scratch.