I’m getting older, I’m nine (and a half) although obviously I’m fit as a flea and carry no surplus kilograms (I also believe in hiding from the truth, like the Master). I look good! Everybody tells me so. Handsome. Always, handsome. Occasionally, cute. But beautiful. Serene. Delightful. Never (or rarely) a mention of portly, round, shapeless, looking his age, going grey! Never, never, never.
I write this because he who must (theoretically) be obeyed was kindly sent some photos via the dreaded Facebook –please somebody, close it down – of his birthday bash (it was his “official” party, like royalty, not his real birthday; if I ever have time I‘ll try and explain but honestly….).
Since when I can tell he’s been fretting. One photo was side-on! I was convinced a heart attack was on the way when he looked at it. I tried to drag my water bowl over so he had a non-alcoholic drink to hand! A comment about “I hardly look like a rock star” was I thought particularly pertinent bearing in mind one particular guest.
Then some of his super-dooper local friends took him out for a “birthday” lunch in Ludlow. He loved it, came back (how he couldn’t take me was beyond me) raving about the lovely people and the lunch (apparently he had Herefordshire snails) and other nice things. Then the photos came.
Now they are lovely photos with him “pretty in pink” with his friends (new shirt, probably one size below the truth). But, suddenly, he’s become self-critical. I suppose it’s an age thing as fairly obviously he is way beyond redemption on this. I’ve known him a few years and, let me tell you, “over-weight” is a gentle description. But, mind you, he has never seemed to care, but with his “birthday” has the advent of “concern” arrived in his mind?
My worry is fairly selfish but I think I’ve seen a glimpse. Will the undoubted “diet” lead to my tuck being rudely reduced? No more roast beef? No more the occasional bit of sausage? What about cheese? Oh god, I can’t live without cheese!!!
The glimpse was at his cousins last evening, where he had a glorious meal and I got absolutely bugger all although, in fairness, David (cousin Dianne’s husband) took pity on me and fed me some morsels of cheese. But not a glimpse of the rather fine salmon did I see. This is a worry. If he turns down cheese, thirds on desserts and gives no fish off his plate I shall just waste away.
I shall keep you all updated but if he gets serious about this I may well have to advertise for new living premises. Any offers of a good home to a starving springer?
And in other news, I saw that our leader is on holiday somewhere instead of dealing with Brexit and all our futures, and also wearing pink like the leading Bewdley glitterati in Ludlow. Meanwhile, I read Ruth Davidson has put more sensible strategy in one article than Pink Theresa managed in 90 pages of a manifesto.
The modern-day Jesus- Jeremy- suddenly finds he can’t afford to keep students in the manner to which they have become accustomed and equally has returned to his lifetime work of hating the EU, but no doubt his ability to walk on water at irrelevant pop festivals will help him to still “be honest”? (I will take answers on what else he can’t afford to do).
Finally, Mr Trump has confirmed he actually is more barmy that any of the Presidents depicted in TV drama and our UK currency is utterly f***ed if you travel abroad.
Me? I’m simply concerned about a potential diet happening here in Pump Court. Send cheese urgently!!!!!
Good luck to us all
Woof! Woof! Woof!
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