Oh dear. I am deeply ashamed of the neglect I have shown this blog over the past week or so. It is principally my partner's fault. She has been very busy and tired and I rely on her to lift me into the computer chair so I can type this. I trust I will not have to abandon the blog for so long in future. However, I must now pay for her and my tardiness. I have two articles to write for the parish magazine as well as the blog to maintain, all before the end of next week. Poo. It is seriously cutting into my sleep time. How a man suffers for his craft.
The New Cat has caused me more suffering since I last wrote. I was crossing the road between my and Maisie's house when I espied the wretched creature at the top of my cul-de-sac. I gave frenzied chase until the coward cleared a high wall into a garden. It was raining heavily and when I returned to Maisie I was soaking wet. I was lucky not to contract hypothermia. I spent the afternoon being dried and soothed on Maisie's sofa. Damned cat. What other conclusion can I draw than that it is trying to have me killed? There is no other explanation for these repeated attacks on my person. This is truly life on the edge.
I had a most interesting day today. I rode on a steam train with my parter and a friend. It was very enjoyable and, of course, I was the darling of the carriage, adored by all. That was a much better way of travel than modern trains and cars (excepting my little green Corsa); if only I could have one to go door to door. I was even given a special ticket bearing my name. It made up for being abandoned yesterday evening when my partner went to the cinema. She goes there too often in my opinion. Her particular current favourite is Owen Wilson. I have never seen his work but I know he isn't me and I suspect he isn't even a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. I shall not ask; I'm better off not knowing what she gets up to without my supervision.
No word still from BC. There have been tears. I suspect a serious breach may have taken place. I should rejoice over this development, but I cannot. My partner is grief-stricken. I know I wanted rid of the ghastly scrote, but not like this. I am too concerned over my partner's misery. I am very angry with the ungrateful boy. He won't find anything better than my partner (I haven't and I'm VERY discerning in my tastes). She loves him and he has broken her heart. Even if he returns to the scene I cannot forgive him. I will have his innards in a pie, topped with a gonad coulis, if I should ever get my paws on the wretch.
Bank Holiday tomorrow, which means another whole day with my partner (hurrah). I may spend some time in my garden, or use up the day in watching cooking programmes on the television. I love cooking programmes; they are my absolute favourite. Any will do, but I especially like Delia Smith, Jamie Oliver and Anthony W-T. My partner watches them with me - she calls them 'pornography for dieters'. I don't know what that means, but sometimes I dribble when there is a nice roast on the programme. I think I need a lie down now.