TOTTING UP

But what with Nag looking increasingly rickety on his pins; and the hamster meeting an untimely end; and the Unpaid Solicitor becoming somewhat querulous; and the Winston Churchill Tribute Northwest Regional Championships looming; and Tiggy Pott-Hunter refusing to leave us alone, (dialling Bloggiana's mobile one morning 187 times until finally the Blog woman answered and told her to fuck off, I mean really Piccalilli what does the woman think she is playing at, snot as if I promised to marry the old bag or anything);

What with all the above, and what with the nice man from the electricity board telling Bloggiana that her water heater is broken and her fuseboard is broken and her neutral cable is on the way out and if she doesn't spend £10,ooo pounds on upgrading her electrics, she may well find herself following the cremation route only recently taken by said dead hamster;

And what with Our Dog having only gone and got all his toes on his left foot broken by Dobbin when a casual harmless game of let's play Taunt the 17 hand Hunter went tragically wrong; and then the vet telling Bloggiana that the entire bill for the entire mending of the entire foot would come to something jolly close to the amount she should be spending on repairing her faulty and some would venture highly volatile and jolly dangerous buzzbar;

And what with Bloggiana having only this morning given herself a rude black eye by causing her head to ricochet off the door she was opening onto the wall she was next to, then ricochet back onto the door, this small but undeniably painful incident no doubt occurring owing to Bloggiana having downed just one or two too many Rusty Nails last night when her old friend Borederella blew into town with a bottle of Arak under one arm and a bottle of highly suspect foreign import brandy under the other;

And what with winter coming and the tide of mud rising and the holes in Bloggiana's wellington boots not seeming to self-repair in any shape or form;

And what with the credit card company that has been extending credit blindly to Bloggiana for the last few years suddenly opening its eyes and becoming unblind and now refusing credit to Bloggiana so that when she goes to the shop to buy a bottle of PG (I mean, Piccalilli, it's not much to ask is it, one weeny little bottle of the old white stuff? Is it?), she has to endure the humiliation of receiving a pitying tilt of the head by of all checkout personnel, Learoyd, who of all checkout personnel is the very last one Bloggiana would like to receive a pitying tilt of the head from;

And what with Bloggiana's Erstwhile Life Partner still being not only alive but apparently kicking;

What with all the above, the old Pony Club Commissioner begins increasingly to get hold of the idea that the sooner we can leave our parlour behind, our smallholding, our expensive cooker, our garden full of molehills, our unused garden bench, our gate that is leaning more and more towards starboard and our rich clusterfuck of broken fuseboards and pending debts, the sooner, Piccalilli, we can all sleep easy in our beds.

And we can all move to Marshy Codsdale and run a shop.