Daffodils in January

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A fun blog of 'soft' philosophy about the life and times of a Westiepoo called Chester. Written as a prelude to a more serious novel raising the question: Who is the most bankrupt: the banker who won't whistle-blow or the chef who loses her livelihood?

Worming tablets, annual inoculations, a groom, a big lipstick kiss and now daffodils in January. Life isn't dull, and the sojourn of my tail toward the lighter, warmer days of spring has begun in earnest. Although the daffodil is usually thought of as the archetypal spring bloom, my experience in Welland Park over recent days suggests that climate change is genuine. The grey cloud, brown river, and very green grass suggest a regular epoch, but the language of creation has progressed, and according to scientists, the Earth’s atmosphere, oceans, and wildlife have pushed the world into a new era. Not that I am wildlife, rather domesticated really!

Yes, while the daffodils are budding, and Easter still many weeks away it is always with sadness when Miss A goes back to university. Although I might growl at her for poking and prodding me when I am tired and irritable, she is always so excited to see (more so than some others in the household who, for the most part, just ignore me). When I was little, a mere puppy, all the WS' said how much they wanted to look after me and take me for my walks. It was a pre-condition of Mr. A that they took responsibility for their daily chores, including walking me. However, as time has passed, their motivation and inclination have waned, and it is left to Mr. A to do virtually all my walking, except when Miss A is home (she takes me out from time to time with her friend Chloe and her dog George.) Although to be fair to Miss T., she will if there is an ulterior motive. Miss A misses me most of all and that's why, when she left on Sunday, she planted a huge smacker of a kiss on my forehead, leaving a crimson red lipstick mark that engaged a few conversations for Mr. A in the park yesterday.

For the past few days, Master R. has been at home in bed with sinusitis. His glands become very swollen last week, and his eyes still look incredibly puffy. I, occasionally, like sleeping in his room, which is downstairs (so I am permitted), but often I get trapped in when his door has shut. He likes me but prefers it when I am quiet. He is still sleeping his illness off, despite the noise from the vacuum cleaner which I detest (howl). Hopefully, his medication will soon kick in, and he'll be back to school to leave the house to Mr. A and myself (ah ... when will such peace exist?)

Talking of the vacuum cleaner have you heard Tim Vine's best one-liner at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2014? "I've decided to sell my Hoover... well, it was just collecting dust." I wish ours would collect dust and be sold off. I hate, hate it, hate it. That nozzle thingy, such a menace winding around the floors. And talk about the decibels of my barking noise, it pales into insignificance compared to the horror of that suction device. C’est la Vie! Hurry up spring!

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