This Lockdown has gone from tolerable to alarming: Trump refuses to give any more press briefings, Kim Jung-un is missing and son (20) wants a dog. Over the years, he has wistfully expressed this wish and yesterday we humoured him as he showed us photographs of the kind of dog we should get. Son has the tenacity of Jack Russell, once he has the bone of an idea between his teeth, he does not let go.
We had a dog back in 2009, a white West Highland Terrier. I was lonely. At the time, Hubbie was working in Dublin, the boys were in secondary school and I only worked half days. I longed for a friendly presence trotting through the house and then the universe answered. An email popped up at work advertising Westie pups for sale. I googled to see what they looked like and arranged to meet the seller in Blarney that evening. From the boot of her car I picked Simba from cardboard box of five delightful, wriggling balls of wool. Hubbie wasn’t happy about it but he indulged me.
Simba was a delight. I had him toilet trained in a week, he was everything you could want in a dog; loving, attentive and he didn’t bark. But then my work situation changed. My part-time six-month contract ended and I was offered a full-time 12-month contract. I was thrilled to be kept on but it meant working full days which not only presented me with childcare problems but also meant being out of the house from 8am to 6pm. When I got home at six, I would rush to open the back door to release Simba into the garden. The poor, loyal, obedient darling would rush out, cock his leg and stand rigid as a statue for several minutes until he emptied a day's worth of pee. It was cruel.
Simba took matters into his own hands. He ran away. He burrowed a hole under the fence and took off. My neighbour told me that the family living two doors down took him in. They stole our dog but I was ok with that.
And now Son (20) wants one again. We’ve said no. I put it to him, “What happens when you moves out, who will look after it then?” Son says he’ll take it with him. Again we told him that wasn't practical as he would be working full-time, and like all tenants his age, he’ll be sharing and there are very few landlords who allow pets. What’s worse is that he wants a 'manly' dog. No Jack Russell or Westie for him, he wants a Finland or a labradoodle. The pictures he has shown us are terrifying; this Finland thing looks like a cross between a bear and a cow.
When we lived in Singapore, we shared a garden with an English couple next door, Linda and Keith. We got on very well but Linda missed her grown up children back in England and since she didn’t work, she had a lot of free time. The end of our road, Tanjong Rhu, was still a wasteland and on it lived a pack of wild dogs. Linda and Keith took one in; a huge rust-coloured gangly mix of a dog - there was definitely a great Dane in there somewhere. This huge, untrained, unpredictable animal was now sharing the communal garden with our children who were still under the age of six . Concerned as we were, we said nothing. As it turned out we didn’t have to. The following Sunday we were out all day and so were Keith and Linda. When we got home Linda’s half of the garden was covered in wet rugs, they had pulled out their sofa and Linda herself was on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor on a Sunday evening. When I politely inquired what was going on, Linda told me that while they were out, the neighbours complained that the dog howled the entire time. In his anguish he went berserk knocking the chip pan full of cold fat off the stove and ran in several frantic circles leaving a trail of chip fat soaked paw prints on every possible surface. They got rid of the dog. Massively relieved the dog was gone, I felt sorry for the poor animal that was abandoned once before, then rescued on a whim only to be promptly dumped again. There won’t be a dog in this house again. None of us have the appetite for it.
I miss Trump. He was the only reason I turned on the news. He is pure entertainment and became the highlight of my day. What do I have to look forward to now?
I made the Happy Pear winter vegetable soup. Carrots potatoes garlic kale. I used celeriac for the first time. We didn’t know what it looked like and had to google it. It's one ugly vegetable. It reminds Son (22) of the screaming baby plants in Harry Potter. I had everything except parsnips. Lovely soup, I didn’t completely blend it, I left some parts chunky. Homemade soups are just instant goodness. You can almost feel the nutrients racing through your veins and your brain perking up.
I also made caramel squares. They were not as successful as the soup. I had the TV on and was watching John Creedon explain place names while doing the caramel phase and boiled the mixture too long. It should be caramelly, the coconut dominates. Still, the family like them and there a chunk of sweetness in these difficult times.
Sunday evening is Zoom night with my family. After last week’s jokes Louise ordered us to come up with clean ones. They were woeful. Louise suggested a quiz and had thoughtfully drawn up some questions. I’m not competitive but I love quizzes and I got all mine right. That seemed to bring out the mean streak in others: Catherine accused me of looking up google. Lucky for her, she’s in Dublin or I’d reached for her neck. The first round involved the wives of Henry the VIII and the children of Queen Victoria. I asked, “Why are they all British royalty.” Louise admitted she used an English website for her questions. The 2nd round were the capital cities. It became a free for all. I blame the drink. Stephen was asked the capital of Nigeria. As he scratched his head, Catherine and I moved in for the kill; we screamed, “I know.” Stephen finally conceded he didn’t know. It turned out Catherine and I didn’t know either. We both chorused ‘Lagos’ but we were wrong. Son (22) came into the room and asked us to keep it down. Louise moved onto round, ‘Who said this?’ The quotes were so obscure that none of us knew. That’s the trouble with quizzes; there’s fine line between too hard and people switch off and two easy it becomes a brawl. It didn’t end well. Son (22) does quizzes with his friends a few nights a week. They take turns at being the quiz master and all you can hear from his room are hoots of laughter.
I volunteered him for next Sunday. The family eagerly agreed but they’re in for a rude shock. He's a tough taskmaster; he won't put up with our petty rivalry and he makes up his own questions like, ‘What is the Irish for strawberry?’ and ‘What band contain the names of, ‘Sharon, Jim and……….. We won't have a clue. But then who does. Bring back Trump. He makes everyone else look sane.
We had a dog back in 2009, a white West Highland Terrier. I was lonely. At the time, Hubbie was working in Dublin, the boys were in secondary school and I only worked half days. I longed for a friendly presence trotting through the house and then the universe answered. An email popped up at work advertising Westie pups for sale. I googled to see what they looked like and arranged to meet the seller in Blarney that evening. From the boot of her car I picked Simba from cardboard box of five delightful, wriggling balls of wool. Hubbie wasn’t happy about it but he indulged me.
Simba was a delight. I had him toilet trained in a week, he was everything you could want in a dog; loving, attentive and he didn’t bark. But then my work situation changed. My part-time six-month contract ended and I was offered a full-time 12-month contract. I was thrilled to be kept on but it meant working full days which not only presented me with childcare problems but also meant being out of the house from 8am to 6pm. When I got home at six, I would rush to open the back door to release Simba into the garden. The poor, loyal, obedient darling would rush out, cock his leg and stand rigid as a statue for several minutes until he emptied a day's worth of pee. It was cruel.
Simba took matters into his own hands. He ran away. He burrowed a hole under the fence and took off. My neighbour told me that the family living two doors down took him in. They stole our dog but I was ok with that.
And now Son (20) wants one again. We’ve said no. I put it to him, “What happens when you moves out, who will look after it then?” Son says he’ll take it with him. Again we told him that wasn't practical as he would be working full-time, and like all tenants his age, he’ll be sharing and there are very few landlords who allow pets. What’s worse is that he wants a 'manly' dog. No Jack Russell or Westie for him, he wants a Finland or a labradoodle. The pictures he has shown us are terrifying; this Finland thing looks like a cross between a bear and a cow.
When we lived in Singapore, we shared a garden with an English couple next door, Linda and Keith. We got on very well but Linda missed her grown up children back in England and since she didn’t work, she had a lot of free time. The end of our road, Tanjong Rhu, was still a wasteland and on it lived a pack of wild dogs. Linda and Keith took one in; a huge rust-coloured gangly mix of a dog - there was definitely a great Dane in there somewhere. This huge, untrained, unpredictable animal was now sharing the communal garden with our children who were still under the age of six . Concerned as we were, we said nothing. As it turned out we didn’t have to. The following Sunday we were out all day and so were Keith and Linda. When we got home Linda’s half of the garden was covered in wet rugs, they had pulled out their sofa and Linda herself was on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor on a Sunday evening. When I politely inquired what was going on, Linda told me that while they were out, the neighbours complained that the dog howled the entire time. In his anguish he went berserk knocking the chip pan full of cold fat off the stove and ran in several frantic circles leaving a trail of chip fat soaked paw prints on every possible surface. They got rid of the dog. Massively relieved the dog was gone, I felt sorry for the poor animal that was abandoned once before, then rescued on a whim only to be promptly dumped again. There won’t be a dog in this house again. None of us have the appetite for it.
I miss Trump. He was the only reason I turned on the news. He is pure entertainment and became the highlight of my day. What do I have to look forward to now?
I made the Happy Pear winter vegetable soup. Carrots potatoes garlic kale. I used celeriac for the first time. We didn’t know what it looked like and had to google it. It's one ugly vegetable. It reminds Son (22) of the screaming baby plants in Harry Potter. I had everything except parsnips. Lovely soup, I didn’t completely blend it, I left some parts chunky. Homemade soups are just instant goodness. You can almost feel the nutrients racing through your veins and your brain perking up.
I also made caramel squares. They were not as successful as the soup. I had the TV on and was watching John Creedon explain place names while doing the caramel phase and boiled the mixture too long. It should be caramelly, the coconut dominates. Still, the family like them and there a chunk of sweetness in these difficult times.
Sunday evening is Zoom night with my family. After last week’s jokes Louise ordered us to come up with clean ones. They were woeful. Louise suggested a quiz and had thoughtfully drawn up some questions. I’m not competitive but I love quizzes and I got all mine right. That seemed to bring out the mean streak in others: Catherine accused me of looking up google. Lucky for her, she’s in Dublin or I’d reached for her neck. The first round involved the wives of Henry the VIII and the children of Queen Victoria. I asked, “Why are they all British royalty.” Louise admitted she used an English website for her questions. The 2nd round were the capital cities. It became a free for all. I blame the drink. Stephen was asked the capital of Nigeria. As he scratched his head, Catherine and I moved in for the kill; we screamed, “I know.” Stephen finally conceded he didn’t know. It turned out Catherine and I didn’t know either. We both chorused ‘Lagos’ but we were wrong. Son (22) came into the room and asked us to keep it down. Louise moved onto round, ‘Who said this?’ The quotes were so obscure that none of us knew. That’s the trouble with quizzes; there’s fine line between too hard and people switch off and two easy it becomes a brawl. It didn’t end well. Son (22) does quizzes with his friends a few nights a week. They take turns at being the quiz master and all you can hear from his room are hoots of laughter.
I volunteered him for next Sunday. The family eagerly agreed but they’re in for a rude shock. He's a tough taskmaster; he won't put up with our petty rivalry and he makes up his own questions like, ‘What is the Irish for strawberry?’ and ‘What band contain the names of, ‘Sharon, Jim and……….. We won't have a clue. But then who does. Bring back Trump. He makes everyone else look sane.
No comments:
Post a Comment