Friends called round this evening and I’ve run out of steam. I’m Zedded out, having been hostessy and enthusiastic for the past couple of hours. Luckily, they’re dog lovers, because Ben had been left alone a fair bit of the day and wanted a lot of cuddles.
This week is going to be hard work for several reasons and I’m not looking forward to any of it. But it’ll all get dealt with, one way and another.
London was very good, though not without its mini-crisis at the start of the day. Jill, who has organised these visits for several years, is stepping down now and I hope the next person will be as good, it is certainly something I’d never offer to do. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, I’m going to take the dog for a walk and go to bed now.
Oh, I will tell you one thing, a bit of a faux pas I made this morning. A friend was telling me about a dreadful mishap. Her daughter’s dog was paralysed in the back legs, I suppose it was hip dysplasia, but the family loved him very much and couldn’t bear for him to be put down, so helped him about the place. But he fell in the swimming pool and died – they think he had a heart attack and are not sure if that or the water killed him. When she and her husband arrived to commiserate, the son-in-law had rather hit the bottle in his distress, but the dog was loaded into the car and taken to another family member, who has plenty of land where a grave was dug and a burial was performed. Then they went home, where s-i-l got out the brandy bottle. “He was drunk,’ she said, “I’ve never seen him like it. He really loved that dog and was terribly upset.” “Drowning his sor…. oh, sorry,” I said, foot-in-mouthedly.