Well it’s about time, Readers. Several weeks into the cricket season, I was finally taken to the cricket club last night as it wasn’t deemed to be too bldyhot or too bldycold. Though in fact it was too bldycold, and we had to walk round the pitch eleven times in an attempt to keep warm, which failed. Twice we had to shelter in the clubhouse for a few minutes to warm up, and listen to conversations about buying an upmarket hot drinks machine for the club. She says that less talk and more action is needed, as it was bldyfreezing last night. Young Lad didn’t seem to mind the cold wind, and had a marvellous time as wicket-keeper, which largely involved throwing himself to the floor dramatically and rolling around. This looked fun, but I wasn’t allowed to join in. I made my own entertainment, though, as there is always loads of bird poo around the boundary which I tidy up for the groundsman. As a bonus last night, there was a dying pigeon as well. She felt sad for the dying pigeon, as it was taking a very long time to die, and if only one had the courage, one would have put it out of its misery but a) this would have been distressing for the cricketing children to see and b) She has no clue how to wring a neck and the pigeon would have been worse off.
On our eleventh lap of the pitch, we had hoped to see some cloudiness in the pigeon’s eyes, which would have indicated it had moved on, but no. It was still hanging its head and bravely clinging on to life. Had I not been on the lead, I would have sped up its journey into the afterlife but I was yanked away every time I got near. Poor pigeon.
On one of our warm-up visits to the clubhouse, I decided to do some quality control of last Sunday’s Cricket Teas. I climbed under the seats to hoover up any crumbs and bits, which had the double effect of cleaning the clubhouse carpet, and examining the standard of sandwiches that were served up at the weekend. You’ll be pleased to know that they were fine. I expect the “no dogs in the clubhouse” sign will be back on the door next week. He was at the cricket ground as well last night, which was unusual. There was some sort of groundsman training going on, which required everyone to stand and look at the wicket, nodding a lot, for about an hour. Then they had fish and chips. I’m not sure what was learned from this training, but I would have liked the fish and chips.
Once we returned home, pity was taken on Young Lad for playing cricket in the cold for an hour and a half, and also on Lad for surviving another exam. A steamed syrup pudding had been knocked up at tea-time, and this was served with piping hot custard. Young Lad had two huge bowlfuls. I would have liked two huge bowlfuls, but wasn’t offered any. Nobody bothers to think that I may have been cold, too. In fact, I fell into a heavy sleep on the sofa, exhausted from the eleven laps of the pitch, and snored loudly all through the Tense Drama on telly at 9pm, which annoyed everyone and I was shouted at.
Talking of the steamed pudding, I had indulged in some dishwasher diving at tea-time, and grabbed the big mixing bowl which had pudding mix all round it. Cake/pudding mixture is one of my all time favourite things, and so I grabbed the large bowl and ran off down the garden with it. She had to chase me down the garden shouting, and I growled fiercely to protect my mixing bowl. Finally it was taken away from me, and put back in the dishwasher on an extra hot setting. This annoyed me, as there was plenty of mixture left round the edges, and I am NEVER offered the beaters, unlike Young Lad, who always gets to lick the beaters. This is favouritism, and I feel Lad and I are neglected in this respect.
By the way, Readers, whilst chatting to people at cricket last night, the point was made that I am a lovely dog, and do not deserve the reputation I’ve earned through my blog. In fact, one lovely person used quite gushing words to describe me, and said they refuse to believe that I am “bad” or “a complete bldy git.” It’s nice to be appreciated once in while, and it certainly won’t ever happen at home.
The baking theme has continued tonight, with mass production of chocolate brownies. I swear we keep Tate and Lyle and the free-range egg industry in business. The kitchen, Friends, was indescribable and I only wish someone had taken a photo before it was cleaned up. As well as the usual dripping down the washing machine, brownie mixture was on the taps, cupboard handles, kettle and in my water bowl. It beggars belief how anyone can make so much mess. Readers, it’s a good job we have a mirror in the hall near the front door, as somebody had a large blob of brownie mixture on their chin – now how did that get there? – as they were leaving the house to have a cuppa with the neighbours. How ridiculous they would have looked, if it hadn’t been cleaned off. And would the neighbours be too polite to say, “you have brownie mixture all over your chin,”? I imagine they would. So now the kitchen is full of chocolate brownies, and the smell is delightful. I have licked quite a bit off the cupboards, and can report that it’s a good recipe.
I had a very upsetting experience yesterday, Readers. Dear, dear Ebony’s Pack Leader took me for a walk in the morning, and on the way home I turned left, fully expecting to turn into Ebony’s house. But no! I was steered away and taken back to my own, empty home. What was this nonsense, I wondered. I ALWAYS go to Ebony’s house. I tried my best to physically pull Ebony’s Pack Leader back to her front door, feeling she had made a mistake, but she was determined, and put me back in my own home. This was a Snub of the highest order. I was really quite emotional about this, Friends. Imagine my relief at 7.30 this morning, when I was taken down the road to her house – I sprinted all the way, wagging my tail so hard I thought it would drop off. I hope they have thought carefully about their actions yesterday, and do not repeat this mistake. Hurtful.
Golly I’m ready for a kip – those eleven laps of the cricket pitch knocked the stuffing out of me.
See you soon,