(This, in the light of the 2012 Pony Club Christmas party, which Bloggiana took very seriously indeed; and which occasionally we like to remember when we are feeling ghastly and don't have an idea in our heads.)
The following day, Bloggiana appeared in the parlour wearing a
tangerine-coloured exmoor pony society sari and a large Connemara-themed
headscarf that covered most, though not all, of her dark mane and her fur-topped
Star Trek fluorescent boots and while it was not exactly written on her face,
there was no mistaking the fact that her forehead was tattooed with a large
warning sign that said Do Not Speak to Me; addressing me in any shape or form
will not end happily.
Bloggiana moved towards the breadbin adopting a kind of miasmic grope
mode, something we occasionally refer to as breadbin braille. Our Dog, who had become gripped by Grassic
Gibbons’ unique transcription of Aberdonian dialect – particularly what he
liked to refer to as the ‘Stonehaven nuance’ - was practising it out loud to
himself in sizeable chunks. Distracted
as he was, the dog inadvertently wandered into the Blog-woman’s path and found
himself fairly sharpish arcing in a shaggy sheepdoggish trajectory over the
kitchen table and head first into Adolesco who up until that time had been fast
asleep in the corner, cunningly disguised as a bag of washing. This collision – between arcing bearded
collie and slumbering youth laundry - lead to a kind of hump noise, Humph,
which Bloggiana, her mouth by now rammed full of crumpets, must have interpreted as
the sound of 100,000 chain saws going off inside her head because her first
reaction was to lock both her hands around her ears and her second was to spray
the chickens roosting on the back of the Very Expensive Cooker in a rainbow of
crumpet phlegm.
“Cunting christ” she spluttered.
And then gingerly she removed one hand from one ear in order to pick
up her corkscrew which she threw really quite forcefully at a nearby scented
candle.
