Bloggiana and I have drawn up in-depth plans for our blog. We are going to chart things just as they happen: when a gelding sneezes in the stable; when a swallow nests in the front porch; when the wrens come in through the gables in the winter and fill the house with the broken wings of the butterflies they have lived on to survive. When one of us looks out of the window and sees a young fox being beaten up by one of Our Cats; when darkness falls and all we can hear is the rape alarm of an angry vixen; when the power goes off because a swan did not duck in time to miss the electricity cables.
We plan to take the thing one day at a time, to ease ourselves into the process not with a splash but with a ripple, mimicking perhaps the moorhens on the canal as they ease themselves out of the privacy of the marsh marigolds; or mimicking instead the sound of the heron softly pulping the air as it gives us a fly-past on our morning trit-trot around the lanes. In our blog, Our Cat will get a mention, Our Garden might too. We will document the comings and goings at the livery yard where Horse is God and everything else can go to the muckheap. We will winkle humour and neat observation out of every small crannie of our existence – in short, Our Blog will demonstrate life in the rural raw.
And all our plans seem to be falling into place nicely. Bloggiana says she has just witnessed one particularly appealing episode between a sheep and a sparrow. I myself have had a run-in with a twig; and another with an angry farmer; and a third, grippingly, with a white crow. All this is grist to our blogging mill and we sit by the fire as it belches smuts into our glasses of PG feeling entirely satisfied, nay excited, about our prospects.
Then out of the blue, Bloggiana has a conniption, goes completely left-field on me. I know what, she says swilling out the brandy decanter with lead pellets and shooing a bantam off the kitchen table with her free hand, why not let’s do a dog blog? Our Dog can be the narrator. Life from the ground up, what? Sniffs and bushes to pee against and rabbits to ignore and rabbits to chase. People: the ones you bite; and the ones you trot nonchalantly past. Cats: the ones you chase; and the ones who chase you so you leave them well alone. Toilet areas: guest room or dining room, which is best? Left-overs: medium sized portion of carbonara; large chunk of stale stilton; small slivers of half-cooked haddock skin, which is best? Sleeping: all day? Or just most of the day and all night? Postmen: the ones you bite; the ones you nonchalantly ignore.
Bloggiana goes on in this vein for such a spell that I begin to think I have entered a parallel universe. Perhaps we shouldn’t have taken quite so much Pinot G on board when we watched Best in Show the other night. Or maybe it was that Fifty Years on Television Commemorative Peter Purves Poster I gave her as a present a few weeks back.
Bloggiana, I admonish, kicking the bantam which is now under the table and spitting a lead pellet out of my brandy glass, the only thing Our Dog is good for is catching balls.
Well quite, rejoins Bloggiana, my point exactly.
We plan to take the thing one day at a time, to ease ourselves into the process not with a splash but with a ripple, mimicking perhaps the moorhens on the canal as they ease themselves out of the privacy of the marsh marigolds; or mimicking instead the sound of the heron softly pulping the air as it gives us a fly-past on our morning trit-trot around the lanes. In our blog, Our Cat will get a mention, Our Garden might too. We will document the comings and goings at the livery yard where Horse is God and everything else can go to the muckheap. We will winkle humour and neat observation out of every small crannie of our existence – in short, Our Blog will demonstrate life in the rural raw.
And all our plans seem to be falling into place nicely. Bloggiana says she has just witnessed one particularly appealing episode between a sheep and a sparrow. I myself have had a run-in with a twig; and another with an angry farmer; and a third, grippingly, with a white crow. All this is grist to our blogging mill and we sit by the fire as it belches smuts into our glasses of PG feeling entirely satisfied, nay excited, about our prospects.
Then out of the blue, Bloggiana has a conniption, goes completely left-field on me. I know what, she says swilling out the brandy decanter with lead pellets and shooing a bantam off the kitchen table with her free hand, why not let’s do a dog blog? Our Dog can be the narrator. Life from the ground up, what? Sniffs and bushes to pee against and rabbits to ignore and rabbits to chase. People: the ones you bite; and the ones you trot nonchalantly past. Cats: the ones you chase; and the ones who chase you so you leave them well alone. Toilet areas: guest room or dining room, which is best? Left-overs: medium sized portion of carbonara; large chunk of stale stilton; small slivers of half-cooked haddock skin, which is best? Sleeping: all day? Or just most of the day and all night? Postmen: the ones you bite; the ones you nonchalantly ignore.
Bloggiana goes on in this vein for such a spell that I begin to think I have entered a parallel universe. Perhaps we shouldn’t have taken quite so much Pinot G on board when we watched Best in Show the other night. Or maybe it was that Fifty Years on Television Commemorative Peter Purves Poster I gave her as a present a few weeks back.
Bloggiana, I admonish, kicking the bantam which is now under the table and spitting a lead pellet out of my brandy glass, the only thing Our Dog is good for is catching balls.
Well quite, rejoins Bloggiana, my point exactly.
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