It is dawn on Sunday morning, and I could have a lie in in my nice warm bed. So what do I do? I drag a reluctant Porridge away from her nice smelly mat on the living room floor.
Yes I am off to join the misogynists on a cliff top nearby, and put Porridge through her sporty paces ready for a competition looming at the end of November. Bad tempered Breton men in flat caps, fiendishly good with dogs, but less so with people will be shouting at me and other middle aged ladies and telling us what crap we are at it. Many have been called and few have been chosen (or at least been robust enough to deal with it). I think it must be the masochist in me....
This week I watched another new recruit suffer the horrors of trying to trace out a track in a field, full of right angles, acute angles, points chauds (hot points where the scent is strongest), to drop an object at the end of the track for the dog to go and find on its own. Her legs were bleeding from nettles and scratches, and she was a little upset by the time they had finished with her, but I hope she will be back. It is fun... no...really...
It is just hard to explain quite why!
I will not be going next week though.
It is my wedding anniversary.
19 years of blissful arguments.
Yep... we do argue. That is probably why we are still together. I call it a frank exchange of views...
Any suggestions as to what we should do to celebrate? That dont involve cliff tops.
I fancy a romantic meal myself, but I am open to all ideas.
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