I know it is sinful, but I am still covetous of Ewan's status as a leaflet star. However, my partner says that I am starting to whinge too much and I should be less negative or people won't read my blog anymore. But I really am very, very cross. Why can't I be on a leaflet too? I want to be on a leaflet.
My partner has been attempting to cheer me throughout the week with, variously, a supper of fish, some trips to the woods to chase squirrels, a fight, and a rawhide chew. But I remain defiantly uncheered. I did not even have the scant comfort of tackling the perpetrator of my misery - Ewan himself - when I accompanied my partner to work twice this week, for his partner was working from home on those days, so ANOTHER fight scuppered. Happily, Bradley took me into the workshop on one occasion to try to teach me how to box. I did quite well, but I have to admit I prefer the fanged approach in battle, so was happy when the boxing lesson turned into a proper fight. Bradley says that he won, but he did not. I won.
I tried to utilise a moment when my partner and I were alone to attempt to persuade her to take the box of offending leaflets and bury it in the woods somewhere, beyond the wit of any detective, but she refused. So I went out into the yard and widdled on Ewan's favourite stick instead. Hehe... That'll teach him to be on a leaflet.
My partner did remind me that, in recent years, I have appeared in three separate editions of Oliver! theatre programmes - complete with headshot, biographical notes and a couple of 'action' and posed stills - and will, in all probability, feature in a fourth this year. This remembrance cheered me somewhat. But I still want to be on a leaflet.
You would have thought that, in my current state of crossness, nothing could take place to make me even more cross. Think again.
While sitting peacefully with my partner last evening, at around 8.00pm, her mobile telephone began to ring. After a lengthy conversation, my partner bustled about, washing hair, changing clothes, and disappeared out, only to return in the wee small hours this morning looking somewhat dishevelled. I was immediately suspicious. And, lo, it came to pass that, when I stepped into my little green Corsa to be driven to the woods to take my afternoon exercise, an oddly familiar scent filled my nasal chambers. SOMEONE has been sitting in MY seat. I recognise the scent as one I have not picked up for some while, and I am disgusted. Surely my partner has more sense than that, doesn't she?