tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22404265306993064072024-03-13T18:47:38.689+00:00Domestic Miss : A Sweet and Sour Slice of LifeUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger548125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-33723108840180118222020-08-09T17:32:00.005+01:002020-08-09T17:36:47.355+01:00To Be Is To Begin<p><span face="" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px;">They say one should always begin <i>in media res</i>, in the middle of things. I don’t really feel like I am in the middle of anything, if truth be told, nothing other than murky 2020, a year that started… oh, I don’t know, maybe twenty years ago.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" face="" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">To begin… begin from where? To begin where I left off, nine years ago? Possible and yet, difficult. I’ve just re-read that my last post from July 2011, and I struggle to think of what was actually making me sad at the time. It is quite possible that it was my financial situation at the time. I had been out of work for close to three years, it did take me a while in the end to get back on an even keel. Quite possibly, that’s what I was referring to. Maybe. I don’t know.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">What I do know is that every year since included some key events:</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2012 : my darling dog William died. He was just over 13. I was devastated. I am still traumatised.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2013 : we moved to London in our first rented place. I was still working in a large corpo place, safe I would make the jump to a job, or role, that would permit an excruciatingly high rent in a really central place on my own financial steam. This place was on expenses.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2014 : I left that job and took over my flat as my own. I had made it!</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2015 : a very difficult year, with no work and plenty of trouble. Luckily, I had saved enough the previous year to navigate myself to the next job the following year.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2016 : Victoria died. She was two days short of her 14th birthday. I was horrifically scarred. For the first time in seventeen years I had no animal in the house. in April, I adopted Saffy, a stray from Cyprus. I had a difficult time work-wise, and felt abandoned at home.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2017 : I sold the house in Cheshire. I landed a new job. Months later, I told Richie I wanted to divorce. He moved out in December.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2018 : I met Sam. My divorce came through in the spring. My new relationship was scary. Sam was a difficult person for reasons I couldn’t quite figure out.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2019 : I navigated the year as best as I could. Sam was still terribly difficult. I didn’t know what the problem was. I wanted to be with him but I also wanted to be alone. At the end of the year I had to look for a new job. I landed it in December.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2020 : I started my new job in January. Sam quit drinking then started looking particularly ill. Finally, and after some truly scary turns, he was diagnosed with diabetes type 1.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I type “to begin”, I keep mistyping it as “to being”. And perhaps it’s true that, for me, to <i>be</i> is <i>to begin</i>. This wasn’t my only writing space for many years. I had (and still have, really) another one running from 2010 to early 2019 but as Victoria died in 2016, I noted that my posts became very few and far between.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I never wrote about William’s passing. It was too excruciatingly painful. Even now, I cannot think about his last few moments, I cannot think about my searing grief without re-experiencing it again afresh.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I re-read some of these posts, and I have done it occasionally throughout all this time, I feel horrible pangs of longing. I know what it is, it is nostalgia, but as I always tell anyone who will listen, beware of nostalgia, it is a thief and a liar. It has this unique ability to epurate the past, to dim all difficult times, all pain, all grief, all arguments, all loneliness so that the good things come into focus. But they were not in focus then. They were mixed with the anger and the everyday, with the mundane and the annoying, so much so that life was not better then, it was worse. I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But somehow, I look back, and I pine for William and Victoria’s faces, even as their sticky white hairs were driving me nuts, I pine for the garden always cold and overgrown, because in Cheshire it rains all the time, even as I couldn’t keep it under control and it was an embarrassment, I pine for my car and for the Starbucks in Wilmslow, even as I was sitting there lonely, buffeted by my emotions, struggling to see a line in the water I could latch onto. I pine for the country lanes I used to drive through, even as I felt cut off from the world, in the clutches of a terribly provincial mentality I never quite swallowed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "pt serif"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It is a liar, nostalgia. It clouds the memory, obfuscates the truth, it turns every lie it tells into a regret that shouldn't exist. It is disappointing that life can only be understood retrospectively, but I am glad it must be lived forward. I am presently forcing myself to look ahead. Don’t look at the past, they say, you are not going there. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-10646697931718046172011-07-04T15:58:00.000+01:002011-07-04T15:58:12.757+01:00Sad and SAD<div style="text-align: justify;">Last week, as I was whiling away some time on Twitter, I came across a guy who, like me, does not enjoy this time of year. He told me that it has all improved for him as he got older, and I guess that, together with saggy knees, the menopause, liver spots and dentures, maybe there will be something to look forward to with Old Age. Imagine enjoying March to August instead of proceeding as if shackled into a mould of black treacle...! I cannot even process it, dear reader, as even on those days when I step outside in a silk dress and with my hair in a knot because it doesn't need drying and styling, I invariably catch myself thinking that... God, if only it were October already and I could wear my scarf...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I settled down in bed at 11.30 last night and then I tossed and turned. And then tossed and turned some more. 0.47 am. Then 1.47 am. Then 2 am. Then 3 am. Then... you get the picture. Of course Victoria now gets up at an ungodly hour, as she sees so much light so early and evidently thinks that 5 am doesn't really look like 5 but more like 9. Wrong Vic. William isn't much better, although he seems to have understood the significance of TO YOUR BED!!!!!! after twelve years of living together. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I finally caved in at 7.15 and got up, bending to their scandalous requests to be fed broadcast in my face at full volume, I felt teary. Here's another reason why I could never be a parent: I need to sleep. When I don't sleep, I feel tragic. When I don't sleep and it's summer, I feel even worse if humanely possible.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's now 3 pm, I've been sitting at the computer for what feels like a lifetime, and I am all but ready to drop face-first onto the keyboard. Except... I've got one bloody ghastly meeting to get through still and the air is tepid and the windows are open and I am in such a low-key mood that it's a lucky miracle I didn't have to see anyone today, because I think that visual stimulation other than the blinking cursor may as well caused an implosion of my mental faculties. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's not just the Seasonal Affective Disorder though; indeed I am not just afflicted by SAD, I <i>am</i> also sad. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As the whole job situation is as slick as oil and gives me the much treasured opportunity to think about all good things, something has been paining me for quite some time and I must confess that I am experiencing all of it as a death, no overstatement there. I think that it isn't just the SAD that didn't allow me to sleep last night but rather the enormous difficulties that I've been experiencing. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don't know how to cope. In fact, the other day I wrote a pointless email to my best friend, telling him that my problem is... <i>I don't know how to cope</i>. But I guess that nobody knows how to cope about anything anyway, and that we only travel through desolate lands because we have no choice. I keep telling myself that absolutely everything will be fine by my birthday and that I needn't think about anything at all right now. But that's still two months ago. I guess I would be just a little bit happy if I could remove Victoria's cone, thus preserving what remains of the house. Just another week to go and then I'll update you all.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-52984866504822919862011-06-13T18:30:00.009+01:002011-06-21T15:40:50.467+01:00Living The Dream<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've often thought of those people, mostly faceless, whom I have a tendency to admire for really odd reasons; people who can sing well without even trying, people who live or work in exciting places, people who produce really nice work, be this showcased through a blog or self-publishing, and more. Then I looked back and realised that, at some point in my life, I was living a dream, yet I did not realise it. I used to live in a flat right behind the London Eye, that tall, semi-circular building known as The White House (very imaginatively named, I must tell you). While my own windows faced the rather little thrilling Waterloo roundabout (or the IMAX cinema, if you're feeling a little more upbeat), the roof terrace overlooked the Thames and, with it, Big Ben, the London Eye itself and, a little more to the right, The National Theatre.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At that time, I was consumed by work. I am not saying this in the sense of 'rushing up the career ladder as quickly as I could'; no, I really do mean consumed in its worst sense. I mean consumed as burnt out by a working treadmill that saw me running and running, even at weekends, never stopping to notice anything. Only once did I go to the roof terrace and sat down, taking in the sounds and the beautiful view. Only once did I actually notice Big Ben chiming. I may have taken a couple of pictures of it, but I cannot be sure.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </span></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's exactly ten years later, and I am, once again, in this marvellous spot of London, watching the full trees swing in the wind, the tourists stopping by to take pics, the river curling up in thousands of creases. A lot has happened since the summer of 2001, and a lot has not happened, despite the plans (they really are for little schemers) and the striving (don't, ever).</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've recently started reading the blog of an American artist, </span><a href="http://summerpierre.wordpress.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">this one</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, who lives in Brooklyn. She often talks of what she does downtown and I always smile as she mentions places that I know so well and that are so dear to me. If truth be told, I swoon a little. Then today, back from the copy room, I caught a glipse of the Thames and, for a change, I stopped. It's a fabulous day in London, with a pale blue sky and clouds scattered across it. As I take it all in, after a period that has been traumatic to say the least, I realised that I am living the dream. For a change, it ain't just somebody else's dream, the dream of someone who may be reading this, swooning like I do over Summer Pierre's site, but my own dream too. This time, I want to stay in the dream, I want to record it all, I want to enjoy it all. This time I am the one actually </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">living</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></div></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-44542961310511194762011-05-21T17:04:00.000+01:002011-05-23T14:08:05.706+01:00Dark And Stormy Days<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Georgia; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Since I last wrote, we’re expiating the splendid weather that graced my part of the country during April. Instead of April showers we are dealing with May showers and with the only exception of my working in London last week, up here it has been nothing but very dark clouds and rain. I find something immensely appealing though about this state of the sky because my garden is completely out of control in the green department, with tall, tall grasses and the trees resplendent with glossy new leaves against this backdrop of dark grey. You wouldn’t believe how that sets them off!</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Georgia; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Georgia; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But, of course, the first time it rains after a few weeks really is the very best time. I love the smell of the soil and the grass and there is little that I find more uplifting than writing early in the evening during the summer, when the rain is lashing down and birds are still singing on the branches. Have you ever noticed that? Birds sing in the rain, they are not at all like us, begrudging the weather and complaining about it. They have little parties out there, they tell one another stories and they don’t care at all that it’s raining. And they don’t even have brollies. We could learn a thing or two from observing birds in the rain. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Georgia; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Georgia; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And, ah yes, London. I’m currently scheming to return to work there and, all being well, that’s precisely what I will be able to do very shortly. While this is appealing in many ways, I am not that thrilled to leave Victoria during the week (or William, but she is the one needing some special care at present). Yesterday I saw <a href="http://domestic-miss.blogspot.com/2011/05/victoria-and-vet-francois-guillaume.html">François</a> again and I will most likely have to take her back to ensure that her ear is healing appropriately. The girl is fine but the new tissue within the opening is struggling to seal up properly. I’ve been kicking myself for the past day because I should have taken her back when I first found her with her paw in her ear two days after her operation. She ripped five stitches out then and it all went a bit awkward on the healing side of things, even though she is not bothered by anything. More on this as it evolves.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-86975293700456993142011-05-06T17:04:00.002+01:002011-05-17T14:34:10.454+01:00Victoria and Vet François Guillaume Saulnier-Troff<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I think that the web is a very practical, helpful tool. Within milliseconds, you can check out all sort of data and if you’ve had a bad customer service experience, you can go on a forum and warn everybody and his uncle about it. Herein, in a sense, lies my concern dear reader; while people have short memories, the web’s memory isn’t short at all. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When a few weeks ago I Googled the latest vet I was dealing with, a certain François Saulnier, I was flabbergasted that pages and pages of entries (and especially the most important few at the top) were all about ‘disciplinary hearings’, ‘unprofessional conduct’, ‘full charges’ and, the worst of all for me, ‘dishonest vet’. Dishonest vet? What? </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> François? Who</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> the hell</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> were these articles talking about? Why were they even there?</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am writing this enormous post for two reasons:</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"></div><ol><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">These details will benefit any dog owner who is seeking an in-depth account of a benign canine ear tumour from the owner’s perspective; AND</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If you’re in two minds about taking your pet to this vet having read certain information available online, you may welcome the view-point of a very happy owner. </span></span></li>
</ol><br />
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Victoria’s Ear Polyp – How It Started</span></span></b></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuenRbRNfxuJ_VRjpvSGoe6exg7NTJxxOw5spkbipr68ecE6DAAqPd9vRxIey65-GOaXtIoRcbq5_21rjUWDAsidrPJjO-4fTsn321q_lNtEA2JiLiMHIzp-A88_EjqsmZvzkd3TUmwI/s1600/Vic+and+Willo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuenRbRNfxuJ_VRjpvSGoe6exg7NTJxxOw5spkbipr68ecE6DAAqPd9vRxIey65-GOaXtIoRcbq5_21rjUWDAsidrPJjO-4fTsn321q_lNtEA2JiLiMHIzp-A88_EjqsmZvzkd3TUmwI/s320/Vic+and+Willo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Victoria (background) playing with William</span></i></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At the very end of March, I noted that Victoria’s left ear (Dalmatian, nine years old, spayed) was producing more and more wax despite my daily cleaning routine. She had always been a little precious about her ears and, up until Christmas 2010, I had never quite managed to clean hers as effectively and as often as William’s. When I noted that my efforts were paying off in the right ear but not the left, I began really to stick my hands and nose down there. I noted a smell that none of the other canine ears was producing and the wax that I was cleaning out of it did not look that waxy either, but rather resembled a discharge and was more liquid in consistency and far darker too. As I was massaging the cleaning fluid into the ear, I also noted an odd, squishy sound, as if a tiny sponge soaked with water were lodged in the ear canal. When I shone a light in it, I saw a white protuberance that completely occluded the canal and was, seemingly, growing out of it. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Regular readers of this place will know that I am well-versed with many canine illnesses, ailments, accidents and disasters, but I have to tell you that even </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">got alarmed when I saw this thing (being disastrously hypocondriacal doesn’t help either...). Even though the growth did not look like a carcinoma (or at least not a carcinoma in its advanced stage, when they can be red or black, yikes), but was white and squishy, I was really worried that it could be the beginning of a malignant ear cancer, when the patient may still not show any symptoms. The day after, Victoria saw one of my local vets who confirmed that there was a growth in the ear and who booked her in for a biopsy two days later. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The result of the biopsy indicated a ceruminous adenoma, which is a benign tumour that, although rare, tends to affect the skin inside feline, rather than canine, ears. Regardless of its rarity, Victoria appeared to have one and as sure as hell that thing had to come out, for it completely blocked off the ear canal and, consequently, its ventilation, potentially leading to infections with all sorts of dire consequences. Because the adenoma isn’t filled with liquid but is made of solid tissue, the biopsy could not reduce its size, neither could the vet move it in order to check the horizontal canal leading to the middle ear.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">While discussing surgery, however, it became apparent that my local vet hospital, although rather stellar in many ways, currently does not have a soft tissue specialist. I remember feeling my stomach back-flip when the vet said this, for she indicated that there was a vet who could do the surgery but wasn’t yet fully qualified to do so. And who wants to do ear surgery with someone who is not yet fully qualified to do so? </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It then immediately occurred to me that the </span></span><a href="http://www.chestergates.org.uk/homepage.aspx"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ChesterGates Referral Hospital</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, where I’ve been with William many times for his epilepsy when it was still the Cranmore MRI ten years previously, had expanded into a superb, snazzy hospital with all types of specialists. I suggested we asked them whether they had someone who could perform this type of surgery and later that day Victoria was booked to be seen by François Saulnier the following week.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Victoria and François </span></span></b></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I met him I was as tense as a guitar string and, most likely, I may have come across as a monosyllabic idiot who did not really understand what was being said. In reality, I had barely slept since I had seen the growth inside Victoria’s ear as I was gripped by an anxiety I had never known before. While William always had me sitting on pins thanks to his epilepsy, health-wise, Victoria’s nine years had been as uneventful as a weekend in the Welsh countryside. To be talking about a potential total ear canal ablation and of the post-operative pathological report that would follow in order to ascertain what exactly had been going on, brought home the truth that, however obvious, had never quite crossed my mind before: she will not be around for ever. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Even though I was invited to sit down, I stood like a fidgeting lamppost (if lampposts could fidget, that is) and remained pretty much silent throughout. François proceeded to draw a section of the canine ear and to illustrate the scenarios he could find once operating. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"></div><ol><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The growth could have been near the top of the vertical ear canal only, therefore requiring a partial ear canal ablation (the vertical one) and a clean up of what was left below.</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The growth could have been originating from the horizontal ear canal, therefore requiring a total ear canal ablation.</span></span></li>
</ol><br />
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In scenario 2, there was also the possibility that the middle ear, which is the deepest part leading to the hearing apparatus, could be damaged to various degrees. Because the polyp lodged into the ear was blocking it completely, and the right ear was completely clear, it was hard to tell whether Victoria’s hearing had been affected in her left. As far as I could tell, she was behaving normally (and, crucially, she was not scratching her ear or shaking her head at all) and could hear me just fine (except for that ever-present ailment known as Selective Hearing, whereby ‘Come!’ in isolation does not work, but ‘Gravy bone!’ does). </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">François then also spoke of possible outcomes as well as complications. The facial nerve could be affected if the polyp was deep inside the canal and had started impinging on it. A partial facial paralysis (affecting the eyelid, for example) or a loopsided look are possible, depending on the extent of the damage. Ear canal surgery that is not performed by experts may also lead to a facial abscess which will then need to be drained. If at all possible, hearing should be preserved, but the priority was to open up, remove the blockage and take it from there. The upshot was that only 1 in 1,000 dogs die under general anaesthesia and that a very healthy and fit, if slightly senior, dog like Victoria should be able to go through with it. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I didn't really feel like I had a choice, dear reader. I wanted that polyp removed there and then, so I signed all the forms and left her at the hospital with François. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I left, although worried sick, I also had an underlying, if vague, good feeling about it all. Unlike William who has been prodded, pricked and poked by vets since he was a puppy, Vic has always lived the yearly shots as some dramatic absurdist </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">pièce de </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">théâtre</span></span></i><em style="font-style: normal; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">in which she played the tragic heroine. The day before I left her with François I had a little cry because I thought that she won’t understand what’s happening to her and she will be scared to death and I won’t be there for her. In reality, she immediately seemed at ease with the guy, and quite happily sauntered off with him as I left (this is unheard of). I think that she had caught a whiff of a good vibe much more strongly than I, even though she probably paid no attention to the raft of thank you cards in his office. I did though. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I sat on pins all day, knowing that the surgery itself would most likely happen in the early afternoon. In fact, François called as he started the procedure to say that the growth was quite big but seemed only lodged in the vertical ear canal. He would therefore most likely proceed to a vertical canal ablation. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For three hours I heard no updates and I must confess that at that point I thought she was dead. I was imagining François sitting in the office with the fabulous </span><a href="http://www.chestergates.org.uk/staff-profile.aspx?s=644&clientId=10101"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mr Skerritt</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, shaking his head and saying, ‘I did all I could’, with Geoff replying, ‘Yes, I know son. These things happen, I’ll call her’. I was </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">this</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> close to cracking when I called at something past 5 pm and spoke to reception. When the lady told me that Vic was fine and recovering well, but Francois could not yet call me because he had an emergency and was still in theatre, I almost put the phone down on her, so that I could have a good cry. Instead I blabbed something like ‘Oh she is alive then’ adding a little bit of hysterical laughter for good measure and rang off. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I cried. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlEWwItGsqQYVKSOl7-hQJjIdaHtMQEmp_Bd-PWniKv0El7CfCuultgsfZtz1AKz-eykWZ7LTcFZwOlYSmiiYzM3Qymmj27u-iCiHqdp1Q9WSHm4rbYiRibJcGZGLKC2d5mvFGDHyyqk/s1600/Vic+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlEWwItGsqQYVKSOl7-hQJjIdaHtMQEmp_Bd-PWniKv0El7CfCuultgsfZtz1AKz-eykWZ7LTcFZwOlYSmiiYzM3Qymmj27u-iCiHqdp1Q9WSHm4rbYiRibJcGZGLKC2d5mvFGDHyyqk/s320/Vic+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Vic back home straight after surgery</span></i></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I heard from him at 7.30 pm. He seemed slightly tired but upbeat, telling me that Vic was awake and fine, she was, in fact, looking at him with a bit of a wag going on. The polyp was indeed as extensive as we had expected it, but only just reached the curve where the vertical canal leads into the horizontal one. So he had removed the vertical canal and preserved the hearing function. Her bandages would be removed the morning after and she would likely be able to come home that evening. Again I hardly spoke (I was, in fact, struggling to breathe), threw in a couple of minor hysterical laughs, and that was that.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Post-Operative Developments</span></span></b></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The following morning François called at 9 sharp to let me know that the bandages were off, that it all presented itself as it should, with a bit of side swelling, but nothing too drastic. He would monitor Vic through the day to ensure that no complications arose but I could go and pick her up that evening. Dear reader, I was thrilled out of my wits and surprised myself thinking, what a nice guy! A vet who calls you back when he says he will is a rare thing, trust me on this.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I turned up in the evening, I was horrendously late (and I am a Virgo and I drive a Jag and I am </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">never</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> late) but François waited for an age so that he could give me more information about the operation. He did so by drawing once again the section of the ear canal and indicating exactly what he had done and where the new opening would be. He seemed really pleased to have been able to have preserved the hearing, as was I. But when Victoria arrived, and this will be of interest to those of you whose dogs may need the same procedure, she looked... well... </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">terrible</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. She seemed to have turned into skin and bones overnight, her head was obviously half-shaven (well, at least she is a Dal, imagine how weird a half-shaven Afghan Hound must look) and I could tell that she had barely slept. Her ear presented itself well-cleaned if only ‘a bit odd’, as I said at the time, for the section underneath the pinna (=the ear flap) looked a bit swollen and, for lack of a better word, weird. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Of course, I was the problem; I had never seen a post-operative ear canal ablation and could not compare it to anything I knew. François explained that the swelling was normal, and was already reducing itself. I could see the ends of the stitches which were in place in order to facilitate the inner healing but especially to ensure that the new tissue would not close the canal completely, as that’s the tendency of these wounds. I continued to ask moronic question after moronic question (‘Are you sure she is ok like this?’ being a prime example), but Francois didn’t seem to notice the idiocy and answered each and every one and then some. I left with the provision to return after ten days for the removal of the stitches but I was welcome to call if I was worried or had any questions. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Unsurprisingly, Vic slept like a stone that night and most of the following day. She was eating but wasn’t excessively interested in food. She wasn’t bothered by the satellite dish she was wearing around her head and pretty much kept herself to herself. William barely took notice she was back (for all intent and purposes they may be boyfriend and girlfriend but he rather cannot stand her). </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjTKhflzxjNcrJAgiqv8rPIkrpPukrcijqa7KcQ03QAYtAApqDazg_ipV-7BTqsZ6BaCCw7s6kdxPWyGXk2cHhfy1BvgN5HJkqGR4brX3lbiNDhyphenhyphen5MAgARw__MfndR3WOlzV6l4ggyBa8/s1600/Partial+Ear+Canal+Ablation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjTKhflzxjNcrJAgiqv8rPIkrpPukrcijqa7KcQ03QAYtAApqDazg_ipV-7BTqsZ6BaCCw7s6kdxPWyGXk2cHhfy1BvgN5HJkqGR4brX3lbiNDhyphenhyphen5MAgARw__MfndR3WOlzV6l4ggyBa8/s320/Partial+Ear+Canal+Ablation.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Vic's ear two days after surgery, starting to look not that great</span></i></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The (minor) problems started the following morning after the feeds, when she was obviously feeling more normal and bouncy and wanted to take good care of her wound. When I took a thirty-second detour in the porch to fill the water bowl, I returned to the cone burst open and her left hind paw stuck in her ear. I sorted her out but noted some liquid seeping out of the wound and down her neck. The stitches appeared in place but I was unsure and could not really see inside for fear of pulling something off, so I called François who told me to keep an eye on her without worrying too much. Of course I was welcome to take her back for a quick check, but in order to do so he would have to sedate her and he would prefer to do that only when the stitches were due to come out. So I cleaned the area as best as I could and tried to ensure as much as possible that she would not open the collar. But it wasn’t just about that: I caught her throwing her head around in her bed and crushing her ear to the side of the collar on a few occasions. In other words dear reader... if there’s a will to scratch, there’s a way too, whether your dog is wearing a satellite or not.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wue-r5hA8BsjwEBRXlyweWQsy92IwQNHmjheV-_7hlvJI6ez2HBXSmIn16tx5P5WIMSJhuihVgS7nwVBERAvpJC20fzvkwe8X17du701SMP6YMy0nyaXzQzWaIRC-o8z6c2BbxTqsGI/s1600/Vic+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wue-r5hA8BsjwEBRXlyweWQsy92IwQNHmjheV-_7hlvJI6ez2HBXSmIn16tx5P5WIMSJhuihVgS7nwVBERAvpJC20fzvkwe8X17du701SMP6YMy0nyaXzQzWaIRC-o8z6c2BbxTqsGI/s320/Vic+2.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Vic enjoying some time in the garden barely one week after surgery</span></i></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Days passed rather uneventfully on the way to Easter, with Vic behaving more and more as normal. I would occasionally remove the buster collar so that we could sit in the garden together and she never once tried to scratch her ear while the collar was off. In fact, I think she rather liked the return of her full field of vision and the breeze gently flapping her ears.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqi8-cLvJ4PRH1CEwnwDtwx5kmWd0vHfvtrdxoZpvr26VvCE5-rg_1KZBE6tXXFgtRnry08Z-DuUMfCsyen13qiqcW1hpI4Xo-c0lLQ4CCWtfDX9veaIOFsqFZBlERDzUErkep1Qg3Tts/s1600/Vic+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqi8-cLvJ4PRH1CEwnwDtwx5kmWd0vHfvtrdxoZpvr26VvCE5-rg_1KZBE6tXXFgtRnry08Z-DuUMfCsyen13qiqcW1hpI4Xo-c0lLQ4CCWtfDX9veaIOFsqFZBlERDzUErkep1Qg3Tts/s320/Vic+3.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Winking at me but not too pleased by her satallite dish</i></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Meanwhile, François had called me again to let me know that the pathology report had confirmed that the growth was a benign ceruminous adenoma, as indicated by the biopsy, and that there was no (cellular) indication that anything more sinister had been afoot. I was growing slightly concerned by the pus-like, sticky discharge that was oozing from her ear though, hence we decided to book Vic in for the removal of the stitches a couple of days later. All was well in Steph’s World until I decided to do some online snooping to see how good this fantastic vet was. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That’s when I landed on Google and found little other than upsetting reports. I just could not believe that what was deemed, in an attention-grabbing headline (it worked, for it surely grabbed </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">my</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> attention), a ‘dishonest vet’ was the lovely guy whom ‘everyone loves’, as one of his colleagues had said to me while I was in the waiting room the week before. There’s no need for me to resume past events; you can find out about it as easily as I did. Suffice to say, I was so flabbergasted, my heart plummeting to my ankles, that I decided there and then that, while it is human nature to report on dishonesty, betrayal, un-professionalism and more, I would make a point to counter-balance what I read about this vet with my own account of a very successful turn of events where he consistently acted not simply professionally, but humanely too. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ll never forget the vet who told me, ‘Come on, get hold of yourself’ many years ago when I was crying about William whose continuous epileptic seizures and lack of control and non-stop overnight pacing were running me into the ground. Now that’s not what I call a professional, let alone humane, conduct. François, by contrast, has never been even </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">remotely</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> short, or too hassled to deal, with me, even after a 13-hour day spent in the operating theatre. So much for dishonest and unprofessional, dear reader.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What would I have done had I actually come across those reports before taking Vic to him? I wouldn’t have taken her, plain and simple. Doubt is a powerful agent and one that can stealthily destroy the most unshakable convictions, let alone our expectations of someone we've yet to meet. If you’re reading this because you’ve Googled him and you’re not quite sure, please reconsider. The guy is kind, unassuming, helpful and has plentiful experience to do a good job on your pet too if you've been referred to him. By the way, you may not find this information readily among those headlines, as most of the articles required a login, but the charge was then dismissed.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When Vic went back to have the stitches removed, it emerged that five out of the eight had already been ripped out but that, despite this, the tissue was healing just fine, even though a stricture had created itself. This means that the little outer hole (the new way in to the ear canal), was smaller and tigheter than it should have been as the tissue grows and tries to constrict itself around the wound. François therefore removed what remained of the old stitches and put another four in, this time length-wise so that the canal would be kept as open as possible during the healing process. After this procedure, which required some sedation, the seeping out of the ear ceased within two days and the area remained slightly scabby, but otherwise clean, with the ear at large soft as normal. The week after, the stitches were removed (two left... there’s just not keeping a bad dog down, is there), and the ear cleaned again, but François suggested that the collar should stay on for another week in order to minimise rubbing and scratching. The outer corner of cartilage near the ear canal was red, although it did not seem particularly sore, and I was now to apply Vaseline to the area three times a day for the following week. Before the time elapsed though, the cone was off, the ear clean and Vic was not interested in scratching at all.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The last meeting took place in order to have a final once-over. François had suggested that I may want to go to my local vet for this, but I was not so inclined. I do not think that a vet who does not have an in-depth knowledge and experience of ear canal ablations, whether partial or total, is in the position best to spot something even remotely awry when the new opening wasn’t even visible underneath the short hairs. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYelUo9158UoFPnrlcydXT7gQt4pxmTzE52L51ZBgHZ7TJJkIA-TjuMC7DqjeY9LOGy9dD3HvJmikDu2Rw4yhqCv_g5YWEvUGTSfzy4J2I3q-JUylN34b34weCNsbe6pUyCcyMfZrcKVs/s1600/Partial+Ear+Canal+Ablation+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYelUo9158UoFPnrlcydXT7gQt4pxmTzE52L51ZBgHZ7TJJkIA-TjuMC7DqjeY9LOGy9dD3HvJmikDu2Rw4yhqCv_g5YWEvUGTSfzy4J2I3q-JUylN34b34weCNsbe6pUyCcyMfZrcKVs/s320/Partial+Ear+Canal+Ablation+2.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A nice neat new little hole just above my index finger is what remains</span></i></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So I went back, and I’m glad I did, because, not only did he clip the hairs around the opening so that I could see exactly where the new entrance to the ear is (believe me, not as obvious as it sounds!), but he also showed me how to clean the ear with a cotton bud. This had been a concern of mine since the beginning, as I had figured out that removing the vertical ear canal would have meant being much closer to the bulla when inserting, however carefully, the tip of the cleaning agent bottle or a q-tip. I needn’t have worried dear reader; cleaning is much easier this way and flushing is more simple now that I’m already half-way there. I should continue to clean the left ear daily for ten days and should also clip the hairs around the opening once a month to facilitate ventilation. Victoria is as good as new and is currently snoring softly in her bed.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If you stumbled on here because you were looking for further information about François Saulnier-Troff, I hope you found this account helpful and, hopefully, a little bit reassuring. The guy’s great, he has even given me his email address. What vet or, God forbid, GP does that? Lucky is that pet which is in his care.</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-89064801141609010362011-05-02T15:59:00.000+01:002011-05-06T17:04:02.574+01:00Betrayal At The Park<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I always go to great lengths in order to avoid paying a visit to Tatton Park without my dogs. It’s the highest level of doggie betrayal, isn’t it, as Tatton is their favourite place. In actual fact, it’s mine too, whether it is copper and crackl-y, blossoming and breezy or, my favourite, foggy and iced.</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWk1rTECDY9c7JgCuz6da756lWZYogwA6QzvcXls-RLqDzmsmgf0l8hHK1bTDIf__dmY-JrFrUZ34-6h7HFOLsOqTv2fdXvWNFaooX5kW-jZEHtwb3qZbFQzLYvayim-Xlexvh4S4ITuA/s1600/Trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWk1rTECDY9c7JgCuz6da756lWZYogwA6QzvcXls-RLqDzmsmgf0l8hHK1bTDIf__dmY-JrFrUZ34-6h7HFOLsOqTv2fdXvWNFaooX5kW-jZEHtwb3qZbFQzLYvayim-Xlexvh4S4ITuA/s320/Trees.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Today, though, the weather was yet again spectacular and I did take a very small detour into it from Knutsford, while the guys were at home. I am currently running a canine geriatrics hospital, with Victoria still perambulating with a satellite dish around her neck following her ear operation and William in high spirits but with very wobbly back legs awaiting his first physio session. I cannot wait to be back with them both. </span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiS_Y-3ronnfpU077a1opN9h1yXdOrNnD1K2-d4voRmOw_d7FHXu5HTpbKQSbXGvtak_gjlgLdJPwnsY6DrYuTGbauKWO62Ou7oBWc-cKVww8yk40iKAcTq-KPYzpeZrFm3lKonBoF9Rc/s1600/Pink+Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiS_Y-3ronnfpU077a1opN9h1yXdOrNnD1K2-d4voRmOw_d7FHXu5HTpbKQSbXGvtak_gjlgLdJPwnsY6DrYuTGbauKWO62Ou7oBWc-cKVww8yk40iKAcTq-KPYzpeZrFm3lKonBoF9Rc/s320/Pink+Tree.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-51761314367917386352011-05-01T20:58:00.000+01:002011-05-01T20:58:55.318+01:00Spring Tales<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreCwNLDTryHxzZL-DnxVeYU0hFrTgvAnFgKQz9OsTc8wrsyzbYEbbH8PcMHoPKl6M0ZM5bMTs5w8gq_sp3TYKFVn9IJVYjFIZ0gLildhKfPm44_wN0RqhQe-wh5Sxtz7ZD6MFyMAnigQ/s1600/Bally+Sandals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreCwNLDTryHxzZL-DnxVeYU0hFrTgvAnFgKQz9OsTc8wrsyzbYEbbH8PcMHoPKl6M0ZM5bMTs5w8gq_sp3TYKFVn9IJVYjFIZ0gLildhKfPm44_wN0RqhQe-wh5Sxtz7ZD6MFyMAnigQ/s320/Bally+Sandals.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I don’t remember a shower-less April, except for this April. With the only exception of Monday 4, a day which I remember clearly because Victoria was in hospital for a biopsy, I needed no heating on, no pashmina at all hours, no thick socks. If truth be told, it’s been a bit of a revelation. Spring around these parts is so ostentatiously wet and bad that anything other than comes as a bit of a shock. I just didn’t know what to wear, and I never <i>not</i> <i>know</i> what to wear.</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zr_X7_I_VNq0091L4jLimlzFE8J4EfktIYDFh22fw054Ygc62z0hGImRT7HRVNehPMhzn4M4EcK0wjyjos8f4zoBl1QC_zb_xsJdvMYFMCXA8ZBJ-9ywdRcj8ohWPlmz3I68Iw5aLfo/s1600/Knutsford+Cherry+Blossom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zr_X7_I_VNq0091L4jLimlzFE8J4EfktIYDFh22fw054Ygc62z0hGImRT7HRVNehPMhzn4M4EcK0wjyjos8f4zoBl1QC_zb_xsJdvMYFMCXA8ZBJ-9ywdRcj8ohWPlmz3I68Iw5aLfo/s320/Knutsford+Cherry+Blossom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 15px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I pointed my iPhone at everything that moved and didn’t move, taking pics of birds and trees, flowers, shoes, magazine covers, food, lattes and cappuccinos... the usual stuff really, but everything looked better in this light and especially with a backdrop of often very blue sky. From Easter to today, including the day of the rather stellar Royal Wedding (I love a good wedding me), everything was just perfectly full of colour and life. Good job I don’t have a job because that would have really thrown a spanner in the works, wouldn’t it? Imagine being locked away in a window-less office while it’s all crisp and green outside... Much easier to be at work in the depths of winter (provided there’s no snow, because if it’s snowy one must certainly wish to be playing outside in it). </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1XBliI55fK0URBotaZc-IOYc8UB2xdRva2qJrzffyrUmA0hLKQTNAjwTbIicxU_dW0ppkKAQ-sC5gSGIIc74CCY-lsnnyf2Rq6o97FqOCGdCgkux3tERS-zJoRRPXPFwDAZVes4Jf4ns/s1600/Pink+Blossom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1XBliI55fK0URBotaZc-IOYc8UB2xdRva2qJrzffyrUmA0hLKQTNAjwTbIicxU_dW0ppkKAQ-sC5gSGIIc74CCY-lsnnyf2Rq6o97FqOCGdCgkux3tERS-zJoRRPXPFwDAZVes4Jf4ns/s320/Pink+Blossom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhns_jBu3gSihdyDrE8fTMUc_57M_FO_9nv-efhlCdAMmP5Tm0jwPfMZcXqPkglDO2OE3mf9Abc4t7PibTbFjE4gdLgbqgxthyphenhyphenW2h57mNM8ZR6QRtkSgVITD7EhtVl2QPZ4maNvlqrgg7s/s1600/The+Moor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhns_jBu3gSihdyDrE8fTMUc_57M_FO_9nv-efhlCdAMmP5Tm0jwPfMZcXqPkglDO2OE3mf9Abc4t7PibTbFjE4gdLgbqgxthyphenhyphenW2h57mNM8ZR6QRtkSgVITD7EhtVl2QPZ4maNvlqrgg7s/s320/The+Moor.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPFQG6VK-BbAf-A5JlV3BALDU0fIjwhCLtHUy475PzliPbI2OYJmOdgc7NEJS_S3xzYKieB71Q6MqCO6SmBzHYWfdWOTPWnrLeYqzO-ln7Z-Q9v2eQ3-gX73EQiSDptCy4pVDxADvcoKg/s1600/Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPFQG6VK-BbAf-A5JlV3BALDU0fIjwhCLtHUy475PzliPbI2OYJmOdgc7NEJS_S3xzYKieB71Q6MqCO6SmBzHYWfdWOTPWnrLeYqzO-ln7Z-Q9v2eQ3-gX73EQiSDptCy4pVDxADvcoKg/s320/Park.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxfC-5Z_MUPIa8jvHkzsNKzCwk7JFb1Co0diN0cMzrYCjxP8ll_kvTxsULqemSClm83AN3soKMIV3nhLfJJU23tFGdcUT0BMi93BMUzwpO7B5-Ijf749S8OpsleqCbeOmsNCWaVr_KsSU/s1600/Blue+Sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxfC-5Z_MUPIa8jvHkzsNKzCwk7JFb1Co0diN0cMzrYCjxP8ll_kvTxsULqemSClm83AN3soKMIV3nhLfJJU23tFGdcUT0BMi93BMUzwpO7B5-Ijf749S8OpsleqCbeOmsNCWaVr_KsSU/s320/Blue+Sky.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI9c2ee4orGv16rHhWsd6PgWCmAJxLA8AgBAKq3UCqJ7DxWLQ931qHjhQSwM5Lc1WJzjUFDiD5T3VwIkbbzb2K7yYjKVTpGk40W-vkpwzfDqD_7a7PrDgpTdJ9qfomh8mq27G6LuV0unM/s1600/Picture+1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI9c2ee4orGv16rHhWsd6PgWCmAJxLA8AgBAKq3UCqJ7DxWLQ931qHjhQSwM5Lc1WJzjUFDiD5T3VwIkbbzb2K7yYjKVTpGk40W-vkpwzfDqD_7a7PrDgpTdJ9qfomh8mq27G6LuV0unM/s320/Picture+1.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-62575367055977917772011-03-22T17:57:00.001+00:002011-03-22T17:58:07.485+00:00Still<div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Websites, mags, news outlets, books and even the rags often talk about our fast-paced lifestyle. Well, mine isn’t fast-paced and hasn’t been for a long time, but over the past few weeks (I’d say since mid-February), it has slowed down to unadulterated, calm stillness. Don’t get me wrong though; I still feel like days turn into weeks turn into months far too quickly for my liking. It wasn’t long ago that there was snow on the ground and already we’ve hit the end of March. But I’ve started living differently and that difference is stillness. </div></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOgddg_VInqGc0qJ3T3we7eNi1PbxnljQRUkOoQ37h-Or8KoZDkWLj8H9r-fTQyJZk2gbpAlD6LGSIAZrNqghuAPe-HLZk7nyS_XIhS3JrBYktqSFwVWhKDCFOKMDP2b4g7cFIL3w7AXg/s1600/Kaleidoscope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOgddg_VInqGc0qJ3T3we7eNi1PbxnljQRUkOoQ37h-Or8KoZDkWLj8H9r-fTQyJZk2gbpAlD6LGSIAZrNqghuAPe-HLZk7nyS_XIhS3JrBYktqSFwVWhKDCFOKMDP2b4g7cFIL3w7AXg/s1600/Kaleidoscope.jpg" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Georgia; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Gone is the pressure to do things as others expect me to do them and gone is also the burning need to hit imaginary deadlines. Yes, I did want to write a bit on here about pancake day and what I cooked for it and how good it was and also about Victoria’s ninth birthday but, you know what, it doesn’t really matter that I did not. I am creating in my lab these days. I’ve finally started the art journal that had been percolating in my mind for many months (if not... years). There is colour, lots of colour, and a lot of uncharted possibility in my going-ons lately and I love it. </div></div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 14.0px Georgia; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Meanwhile, my dogs are spending more time outside, the garden is waking up and today I got a fantastic pair of shoes. Oh, and my local Starbee is open again. What more do I want? </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-14433263336317656982011-02-23T16:14:00.001+00:002011-02-23T16:17:04.262+00:00You Haven't Seen The Last of Me-e-e<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Enjoy this dear friends. It turns out that there is</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>one</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">thing that this accomplished director/actor/writer/model/artist <i>can't</i> do. There's hope for the rest of us after all. [No image, just audio]</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.whosay.com/jamesfranco/videos"><img border="0" height="31" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPk43eh0O7qc3A77e88olgnUfSLrYzN3Fx0wggjY09kO6NBO3R49OeUiT85HM13qt8RXV5oxGNJcHeKPYFU2rUUS3yekx-z7QpAv4wzqeLcMfKIgkAaKfJzEIJfr7ou-xLE2KHcH1evvA/s320/Picture+1.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="270" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://media.whosay.com/public/video-player/20101221/player.swf?v_url=http%3A%2F%2Fmedia.whosay.com%2F13191%2F13191_480.flv&tracker=UA-12028902-1&videoId=13191&viewmore=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.whosay.com%2Fjamesfranco%2Fvideos&flipVideo=false&autoplay=false"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="never"></param><embed src="http://media.whosay.com/public/video-player/20101221/player.swf?v_url=http%3A%2F%2Fmedia.whosay.com%2F13191%2F13191_480.flv&tracker=UA-12028902-1&videoId=13191&viewmore=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.whosay.com%2Fjamesfranco%2Fvideos&flipVideo=false&autoplay=false" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="270"></embed></object></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-15594278986991766222011-02-22T16:42:00.000+00:002011-02-22T16:42:02.760+00:00Potato Patties<div style="text-align: justify;">In Nigella's <i><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kitchen-Recipes-Heart-Nigella-Lawson/dp/0701184604/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1298392730&sr=8-3">Kitchen</a></i> there's an entire section dedicated to leftovers. Naturally, it's a bit odd to be giving someone a recipe in order to have leftovers because that's anathema to the very reason for recycling food we've cooked the day before. So today I am going to share a super-quick recipe to use up leftover mashed potatoes but I will be breezy insofar as quantities and whatnot are concerned. After all, only you know how much mash you have left and how many people you think you can make patties for.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGTt9Bx4YP7X9kB-wwkskLcC3ncytU3CAwhNGuxkIq6CJpfsv27Nr62RiX-AjcJGGmSClqSuwYGC4stIt6rfrC3PtUWbJYY-nxRzP5SQvw5VAkBYUyKCc7BnkwiOiOwPFgRdoBL0cTK74/s1600/photo-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGTt9Bx4YP7X9kB-wwkskLcC3ncytU3CAwhNGuxkIq6CJpfsv27Nr62RiX-AjcJGGmSClqSuwYGC4stIt6rfrC3PtUWbJYY-nxRzP5SQvw5VAkBYUyKCc7BnkwiOiOwPFgRdoBL0cTK74/s320/photo-2.JPG" width="242" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I make my mash with a bit of sour cream and butter but, of course, if you really want to get a mash out of this world, you really ought to add lots of Parmesan and I really do mean go for it generously. Store in the fridge overnight and take it out about an hour before you're ready to make your patties.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Warm the oven to 180C and get going with eggs (two-to-three whole ones, depending on how much mash you're working with), peppers (one I'd say, make it red) and shallots (again, two-to-three). The aim here is to cut finely both pepper and shallots, then to add them to the mash and the eggs. Incorporate them well with a spoon and taste for salt, although you'll probably find that you won't need any if your mash was satisfactory to begin with. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Spoon the potato concoction (aim for four or five spoonfuls) on a non-stick baking sheet and lightly press each patty down so that it looks burger-size or so. Stick into the oven for 45 minutes and enjoy nice and hot. They don't look like much, but they taste really great. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-22366342732537555852011-02-21T16:12:00.003+00:002011-05-01T21:00:35.722+01:00February is Winter<div style="text-align: justify;">A couple of weeks ago, <a href="http://www.groundhog.org/">that Phil guy</a> decreed that spring was just around the corner. Well, I believed him. For a couple of days it even looked like he was right. But apart from an isolated and freakish occurrence of +12C one afternoon, Mr Winter has certainly come back here where I live. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Last Wednesday it was my wedding anniversary and I spent it in the city, where the sky was blue and everything looked beautiful, but it was also windy, and deadly so, and it felt more like a bright November day, not a February one. Then again, February is in winter, so I don’t really know why we insist on looking for signs of spring when it’s still so cold outside. It’s a bit like hankering after autumn in the middle of August (ahem… that’s something I do, I know!).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Parts of the East Coast of the USA woke up to a fresh snowfall today and I cannot imagine a better way to spend Presidents’ Day. In fact, I am hoping that next year I will be there around about this time and that instead of fending off cold drizzling rain, I may well be strolling up and down Madison Avenue under a crisp sky, preferably somewhere way below zero. Meanwhile, my friends from Australia speak of incredibly tropic temperatures and of air con whirring away all night. Gosh. It’s unthinkable for me to live in such a climate. After all, if you’re cold, you can always cover up, but where the hell do you go when it’s boiling hot?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ugh!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In other developments, things shall be spruced up soon enough around these parts and I shall eventually return to chronicling my daily endeavours more frequently than I have done for the past year. While my other site still takes up most of my time, I am inordinately attached to Domestic Miss and I have racked up lots of recipes I would like to share on here. And I’ve got to tell you about movies I’ve seen and books I’ve read and things I’m doing and… more.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-16198607677866392072011-01-18T15:30:00.001+00:002011-02-22T15:09:58.701+00:00Eighteen-One-Twenty-O-Eight<div style="text-align: justify;">Three years ago today, at this precise moment, I was almost in Chicago. I was there for work yet again, but I had taken some days off beforehand, so that I could have a gander and enjoy the magnificent city, its blue sky, the iced lake, the very brisk -20C or thereabouts and the generous sales. I had only just started this online diary and I certainly regret that in its first few weeks, I was not that forthcoming in updating it. I could have written so much <a href="http://domestic-miss.blogspot.com/2008/01/toddlin-town.html">during my days in Chicago</a>, but I was wrapped up in work and in the PhD and I had not yet discovered the immense value of recording one’s life, even the plain, the mundane, the painful.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUR9WC9en2bUIV_PuWE-agMDwYD5DAY2wm7puL7auhNzInlkFGy9VWK9ZCOTDvq8ELjn52bc2MD1Bp4twkij2p4ODDGrbzmFkNwtfHKFhhtK6NG-YBXrrGiiTy89gttIYSxP5TaS6qxtQ/s1600/Sears+Tower.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563584977682242402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUR9WC9en2bUIV_PuWE-agMDwYD5DAY2wm7puL7auhNzInlkFGy9VWK9ZCOTDvq8ELjn52bc2MD1Bp4twkij2p4ODDGrbzmFkNwtfHKFhhtK6NG-YBXrrGiiTy89gttIYSxP5TaS6qxtQ/s400/Sears+Tower.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 303px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">So much has happened over these past three years that I cannot quite believe I really am talking of <span style="font-style: italic;">three years</span>. On second thoughts, it’s not what has happened that strikes me as incredible but rather what has changed. I still live in the same house and wear the same clothes (more or less… but it so just happens that today I was out in exactly the same knitted dress and puffa coat and long boots I wore in Chicago on this day), but I am a different person. I don’t think anyone who knows me can quite tell the difference, but I can, in that subtle way in which we look the same in the mirror every morning but pictures from weeks before look immensely different to ourselves.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiY81UW8bgR5Px3GTZKfqdk5J7_54nHvfsV7zIkfh6_i4Mm7lXSToPzfVPO7Qb3QRzLzMYUZtjZocLp7Y0wJBHpkZD2eryfpI2D4Erb9-OXW7wLIpdO36y3uiMuA4IR8b2lXJPMLI3r6U/s1600/The+Drake.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563585164310711602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiY81UW8bgR5Px3GTZKfqdk5J7_54nHvfsV7zIkfh6_i4Mm7lXSToPzfVPO7Qb3QRzLzMYUZtjZocLp7Y0wJBHpkZD2eryfpI2D4Erb9-OXW7wLIpdO36y3uiMuA4IR8b2lXJPMLI3r6U/s400/The+Drake.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 303px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">The most remarkable change is one that has nothing to do with the way I look or feel though. I am different because I’ve learnt about the importance of keeping track of my everyday doings. I have a paper diary, as usual, this site and another site as well, and now that there are so many applications for the iPhone, it’s remarkably easy to keep track of every single little thing that catches my eye. So I am a little despondent about my last trip to Chicago, when I was so sparse in the cataloguing side of things, but as my key word for 2011 is FORWARD then that’s what I should focus on. And next time I am in Chicago, I won’t skimp on recording everything.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-87828155123461002952011-01-17T15:00:00.000+00:002011-01-18T17:50:12.217+00:00Depths of WinterThe day started late, as it’s been customary since Christmas. I go to bed early enough in the evenings, but I can happily snooze until 9 am. The hot duvet is such a comfort when it’s cold and dark outside that I’ve got no reason, nor need, to throw my legs out of the bed any earlier. William and Victoria too enjoy these sleep-ins. When I first checked the time today, I heard William’s soft snoring from his corner of the room. That’s a sound that always makes me happy. <br /><br />I find January 17 a peculiar date. It’s usually the day when I feel like the new year isn’t new any longer. I feel like I am hurtling towards month number two, and that in the depths of winter (we’re barely four weeks in), things spring eternal. I was scouring the soil at the graveyard in Knutsford on Saturday, but saw no snowdrops yet, nor the promise of them. On my window sill, on the other hand, cyclamens are pushing through valiantly, even though the new guinea is as low-key as it has been since I bought it many months ago and the azalea looks pretty much dead. I think they’re just… sleeping. Just like me. <br /><br />Yesterday I had a gander at my local M&S and my heart skipped with joy as I saw the first of the Valentine’s tack that will take over our shops for the next few weeks. Oh, how do I love this non-holiday! My wedding anniversary is only two days later and there is nothing I prefer than to celebrate how lucky I’ve been in love for so many years already. And before then I’ll watch Groundhog Day again (disclosure: actually… I’ve already done…) and will hole up in the house and enjoy winter. God I wish I could stop time. Or maybe I wish I could slow it down. Yes, slowing it down would do just fine.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-14302446400748472792011-01-10T16:50:00.002+00:002011-01-10T16:53:56.070+00:00Au Revoir Mes Amis – Part IVJanuary doesn’t really start for me until I put away the Crimbo decorations. It’s a process that I’ve always found bitter-sweet (or... sweat-and-sour, I should say). Part of me is usually thrilled at the prospect of novelty that January has always brought into my life, and this is especially true this year. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIkry-ACkN9f_2tEbjs23Y5-qOC1fvDdkG6z_8hrUJ7J0XQ2TG-x4YHxKH6IRe1jbaVuG5H9lu7ZvCWxkrR49gc_NIPI9RHAms2-jiD0ldAUQEdNEuMu0bR0vSHmCI7r6QeHFzFjTC8Ps/s1600/Mes+Amis.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIkry-ACkN9f_2tEbjs23Y5-qOC1fvDdkG6z_8hrUJ7J0XQ2TG-x4YHxKH6IRe1jbaVuG5H9lu7ZvCWxkrR49gc_NIPI9RHAms2-jiD0ldAUQEdNEuMu0bR0vSHmCI7r6QeHFzFjTC8Ps/s400/Mes+Amis.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560600939385745954" /></a><br /><br />Yet, another part of me, the larger one, I should add, is not at all thrilled and treats the unhooking of glass baubles and detaching of twinkly things and lights as a little death. If I am spending the first day (or most of it), after such process at home, as was the case today, I end up walking around in a daze, my eyes searching the comforting glow of the lights on the tree, and finding only a dark, empty corner. <br /><br />I think it’s symptomatic that I’ve wanted to write of these things each year since I started my online diary. In fact, I think that my first post ever was the very first Au Revoir Mes Amis in 2008. Let me check. No, it was <a href="http://domestic-miss.blogspot.com/2008/01/au-revoir-mes-amis.html">my second post ever</a>. Then I repeated it in <a href="http://domestic-miss.blogspot.com/2009/01/au-revoir-mes-amis-part-ii.html">2009</a> and in <a href="http://domestic-miss.blogspot.com/2010/01/next-tree-or-au-revoir-mes-amis-part.html">2010</a> and then today. <br /><br />Today was a dark day. It rained for a while, although I am not sure those spits actually qualify as rain. I had a couple of errands to run, stuff I had forgotten twice over last week. After those, I sat in Starbucks, determined to crack open my new diary (the paper one). And I did so, except... I didn’t know what to write, which is a bit unlike me. I think I was suffering from New Diary Syndrome, that odd affliction that catches most writers out when something new and papery falls open on the table. <br /><br />A new diary or journal is full of promises, of unwritten adventures, of new hopes and starts. I felt extremely hopeful a year ago, but the result was disappointing. Now I’ve got novelty served on a platter, and I am fearful of it; I am fearful to go after what is righteously mine. Hence I soiled the new diary with an extremely self-conscious page of tentative prose which was neither here nor there, really. But I ended that page by talking about my journal, the one I’ve wanted to start since October 2008 (I kid you not) and the one that I am starting tonight. By the time I will put the decorations away again next January, I will have a journal full of drawings to leaf through and that, in itself, is already uplifting. I don’t know why we treat our journals and diaries as if they were repositories of our pains when, really, they should exist to blunt them, not reflect them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-19714296626825501432011-01-01T18:44:00.002+00:002011-02-22T14:58:29.414+00:00Hello 2011<div style="text-align: center;"><object height="240" width="460"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Xy_9bx6U8_0?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Xy_9bx6U8_0?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-46540150336662879952010-12-31T16:24:00.004+00:002010-12-31T16:33:41.039+00:00Christmas CookingWhen I was in London earlier this month, a friend of mine proffered a cake after our dinner at her digs. But this was no ordinary cake; it was a deliciously zesty, damp clementine cake. I came to know that it was one of Nigella’s recipes, precisely <a href="http://www.nigella.com/recipes/view/clementine-cake-2559"> this one</a>. So the other day I set to boil my clementines for two hours solid and ended up with my very own cake, one that I dusted with icing sugar and which I am currently enjoying one slice at a time. The good thing about this, and uncharacteristically for Nigella, is that there is no flour and, horror of all horrors, no butter in it. It’s the almonds that make it so moreish and damn tasty and if that makes you feel a tad more virtuous as you tuck in it, all the better. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Wgawhuh6ykvhmwSIzrFrrnA6gi1xdvRRq8bEsZm1iA1BlTn9sONSOEScqPlUOtX_SOG0h0iu3H2T3BojRkDHYRXhLdstTe6KgqHj4S94ZMfKQQo0Qs-C9cCbD4TNRcQB2zzzA3Qgr4U/s1600/Clementine.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Wgawhuh6ykvhmwSIzrFrrnA6gi1xdvRRq8bEsZm1iA1BlTn9sONSOEScqPlUOtX_SOG0h0iu3H2T3BojRkDHYRXhLdstTe6KgqHj4S94ZMfKQQo0Qs-C9cCbD4TNRcQB2zzzA3Qgr4U/s400/Clementine.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556884005405424290" /></a><br /><br />Next, and seeing that Rick is extremely fond of Costa’s own caramel shortbread, which, quite frankly, I find about as appealing as a slab of polystyrene with a whack of melted sugar on top, I digged out Nigella’s own version from <span style="font-style:italic;">How To Be A Domestic Goddess</span> (which appears <a href="http://www.netmums.com/food/Millionaire_s_chocolate_caramel_shortbread.1787/">right here</a>), and ended up with absolutely delightful shortcakes with perfect caramel and nice, thick dark choco set on top. The recipe is microwave-centric, which means that, not only are you supposed to melt the chocolate in it (still, my double-boiler is no great hardship), but you’re also expected to make the caramel in seven minutes flat. <br /><br />Well, I live in the middle ages dear friends. I own no microwave. So I proceeded to melt the butter in a saucepan on low heat, then added the can of condensed milk and the four tablespoons of Golden Syrup. Then I tended to the pan which started simmering, barely, half an hour or so later. I then continued to stir very gently and on the lowest heat possible, for another hour and a half. Yes, that’s right, if you haven’t got a microwave oven, it will take two hours to caramelise this concoction of butter, condensed milk and Golden Syrup, but it’s so worth it in the end. Proceed unafraid but know that, although it does start browning after an hour, it won’t be ready until it has thickened considerably, reduced in volume and has cooked for a long time. <br /><br />As I await to uncork the Cliquot, I’ve been sustaining myself with lots of sugary goodness, from pandoro to chocolate panettone, from caramel shortbreads to clementine cake, from brownies to chocolate biscuits and then some. I fear that, come tomorrow, not even my hairband will fit me any longer. But what the hell, happy 2011 anyway!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbCQ0fxhXBbWL-oINMuL2DfMFcWwXToW6_KTLUYKV_wteBf4S1mEfRrKqww_eXyLh8PeZgYUYM0MOMhJVrw1e4X0AAveyKQPl0jKTxFuVkBG8Ruwzv84w_3LzCmBO5Bow7PZPBv-BR4gk/s1600/Veuve.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbCQ0fxhXBbWL-oINMuL2DfMFcWwXToW6_KTLUYKV_wteBf4S1mEfRrKqww_eXyLh8PeZgYUYM0MOMhJVrw1e4X0AAveyKQPl0jKTxFuVkBG8Ruwzv84w_3LzCmBO5Bow7PZPBv-BR4gk/s400/Veuve.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556884005853311442" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-48017508420753215502010-12-30T20:39:00.004+00:002010-12-30T20:54:26.847+00:00Turning The Leaf<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCZ5gRLy4WSYO7knm0ymVP2aJua4LmwHyxiJ6DkaE1HbyB1pYpkDfBFwDqXD9bv8CkjK20R1xWvj6UO1qiq4hkdZ2oBzjx-_y8wir4rgR8tZ2xplQ_dEBQSkw8YZNvwjZY4jneYS3wE0/s1600/Frosty+Morning.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCZ5gRLy4WSYO7knm0ymVP2aJua4LmwHyxiJ6DkaE1HbyB1pYpkDfBFwDqXD9bv8CkjK20R1xWvj6UO1qiq4hkdZ2oBzjx-_y8wir4rgR8tZ2xplQ_dEBQSkw8YZNvwjZY4jneYS3wE0/s400/Frosty+Morning.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556578183774520242" /></a><br /><center><span style="font-style:italic;">Frosty morning</span></center><br /><br />I’ve never been more skimpy in keeping track of everyday ongoings than this year. Then again, I also run another site about writing where I posted almost two hundred times since February, so I guess that I’ve been writing as normal, really. But, deep down, I do know that I refrained from updating my online diary too often because I didn’t want a permanent memory of what happened in 2010. It was my <span style="font-style:italic;">annus horribilis</span>, no contest, so much so that I threw away the calendars over a week ago and I shall also consign my diary to the recycling bin, something I’ve never done in my entire life. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhItEioXPMt8-ofZIKkVFVaiAMpPyiM3JyX7FxRjy7HjMXS8yzTXDtVMl_UjRYITWrQlTUxgTpk12WWzil4mKPfluJrI_LEJLi1pROy-DH4ONJXj1RUdvpLBSWReUp9-UiHjcz6ia04FE/s1600/Cappuccino.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhItEioXPMt8-ofZIKkVFVaiAMpPyiM3JyX7FxRjy7HjMXS8yzTXDtVMl_UjRYITWrQlTUxgTpk12WWzil4mKPfluJrI_LEJLi1pROy-DH4ONJXj1RUdvpLBSWReUp9-UiHjcz6ia04FE/s400/Cappuccino.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556578162925671618" /></a><br /><center><span style="font-style:italic;">Fortnum cappuccino with tiny ice-cream</span></center><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9l0RGvEkdZUzAE6K_oddcF_QF3hCkf5-u1MPBM_CMvIZbdsz0rgUFdPjy9bcfGVjYYaooVjamTsHp5vNgVmTR5oWSD-4RWDXkNdorWrrMPG-BUhdoQlw-ir0B0daZhvB975lVOHVjc0/s1600/Fortnum.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9l0RGvEkdZUzAE6K_oddcF_QF3hCkf5-u1MPBM_CMvIZbdsz0rgUFdPjy9bcfGVjYYaooVjamTsHp5vNgVmTR5oWSD-4RWDXkNdorWrrMPG-BUhdoQlw-ir0B0daZhvB975lVOHVjc0/s400/Fortnum.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556578180325719874" /></a><br /><center><span style="font-style:italic;">Fortnum Christmas window 2010</span></center><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKIhDYuXs8TAqFtGoFjJt37-kc7vTX3O6FzxDX4E0w4_KUS6jP5s3E7GxHXg7AzpaU4RFs6niQ1dq-bZ0pmWHdWlhtztc3tk4PMzgAnso0aAVFWXSmvOcyd493Rp1mP-0akUt9SYRU3MA/s1600/Feeding+Seagulls.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKIhDYuXs8TAqFtGoFjJt37-kc7vTX3O6FzxDX4E0w4_KUS6jP5s3E7GxHXg7AzpaU4RFs6niQ1dq-bZ0pmWHdWlhtztc3tk4PMzgAnso0aAVFWXSmvOcyd493Rp1mP-0akUt9SYRU3MA/s400/Feeding+Seagulls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556578177366350978" /></a><br /><center><span style="font-style:italic;">Feeding seagulls in Knutsford on Boxing Day</span></center><br /><br />December itself, however, was a pretty good month, as it brought about the changes I had been chasing for a long time and because I was in London for a while, made some new friends, and cooked quite a bit also. In fact, this afternoon I was in the kitchen for four hours solid, during which I produced carrots <span style="font-style:italic;">trifolate</span>, white cabbage in tomato sauce and a rather mouth-watering caramel shortbread that is currently setting in the fridge. Oh and the other day I made a clementine cake that is to die for, as most of Nigella’s recipes are. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFOnx8xNUOB0y58ZliCx-burV0bbTZifViKwWNeSUDVcog_rUabS1QIS4H5D40cFVkkUrPJ2j-WuZjVBDnlL81t7tSd6lQKhhrA9gtAWfDsW6pvzlGoba2xGnGZG0RoJiZI4gX-hcpsIw/s1600/Merry.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 349px; height: 349px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFOnx8xNUOB0y58ZliCx-burV0bbTZifViKwWNeSUDVcog_rUabS1QIS4H5D40cFVkkUrPJ2j-WuZjVBDnlL81t7tSd6lQKhhrA9gtAWfDsW6pvzlGoba2xGnGZG0RoJiZI4gX-hcpsIw/s400/Merry.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556578429129340642" /></a><br /><center><span style="font-style:italic;">At the Natural History Museum, London</span></center><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisIFYK7lZimbstBzIlpPQw_5IS9i33RY3RPAes0ybepcQYrQDHbtuwk4MZaFrEJ15t9J-Vm_8nUfDREen-fGd5WQm-I0DDaxRl2Xvc4GS2vNpk6-UfDjh6gEnOGrNPAwND_zfyINRk_88/s1600/Nativity.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisIFYK7lZimbstBzIlpPQw_5IS9i33RY3RPAes0ybepcQYrQDHbtuwk4MZaFrEJ15t9J-Vm_8nUfDREen-fGd5WQm-I0DDaxRl2Xvc4GS2vNpk6-UfDjh6gEnOGrNPAwND_zfyINRk_88/s400/Nativity.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556578426087398818" /></a><br /><center><span style="font-style:italic;">Nativity in Beauchamp Place</span></center><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqIgWRawUifdKsc6sCyYZQWqMXiGVAklvvJSMyUylGMC2YjHtNBP2TPDwCT02nI_poVciH8XKOv-uOvJICqmzKr6nGdqnCPuj0_JwlHU7eGY-3vaG62OHEo1MTPU7rshOsQ684hWVgiRA/s1600/Harrods.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 349px; height: 347px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqIgWRawUifdKsc6sCyYZQWqMXiGVAklvvJSMyUylGMC2YjHtNBP2TPDwCT02nI_poVciH8XKOv-uOvJICqmzKr6nGdqnCPuj0_JwlHU7eGY-3vaG62OHEo1MTPU7rshOsQ684hWVgiRA/s400/Harrods.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556578183847021810" /></a><br /><center><span style="font-style:italic;">Harrods Christmas window 2010<br /></span></center><br />Christmas was subdued but on Boxing Day, which also happens to be my nameday, as it is St Stephen’s Day, I went to Knutsford and fed the birds at the moor. How fantastic to see them swarm above my head (and at my feet), hankering after some bread! It was all frozen and they needed food desperately. Talking of frozen, the weather was completely fabulous up until a few days ago when the air turned, the temperature soared way above zero and now it is all foggy and damp and nothing special. I miss the sharp, blue mornings immensely, but I can live in hope that winter will bring more arctic days in the very near future. And I guess that tomorrow I shall post some of the recipes I’ve been doing... <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjba45V2EVFYVVlWJE4dIU6GkrSb1m-lrX_Ot9lNenofUzEb2DfmDLEU5KevUUXbihMz4M6r8tYNE-nUnl7C8DEQvMFofKz4_nX1_fG9DxHU16uY3YWxfL-e-D01rL7f_YzAHD1yMkL7tM/s1600/Tree+Cappuccino.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjba45V2EVFYVVlWJE4dIU6GkrSb1m-lrX_Ot9lNenofUzEb2DfmDLEU5KevUUXbihMz4M6r8tYNE-nUnl7C8DEQvMFofKz4_nX1_fG9DxHU16uY3YWxfL-e-D01rL7f_YzAHD1yMkL7tM/s400/Tree+Cappuccino.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556578421641520482" /></a><br /><center><span style="font-style:italic;">A Crimbo cappuccino<br /></span></center><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP1TOgeFLpESeBcRsTJbFwL_lv_xoCFS86E3K5RGSUn4NGwQi96GELlM0AEBUSeeFUOIGs-3e98d6-kfy-43bEYyn92QNeH4qRTM6P321X_zWitJLuP6H40DgW3wUgPJ-J4mPS1Btc3Ls/s1600/Tree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP1TOgeFLpESeBcRsTJbFwL_lv_xoCFS86E3K5RGSUn4NGwQi96GELlM0AEBUSeeFUOIGs-3e98d6-kfy-43bEYyn92QNeH4qRTM6P321X_zWitJLuP6H40DgW3wUgPJ-J4mPS1Btc3Ls/s400/Tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556578418893797346" /></a><br /><center><span style="font-style:italic;">My upside-down Christmas tree</span></center>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-64878786900093635872010-11-30T20:30:00.005+00:002010-12-03T08:56:41.498+00:00Nigella Signing in KnutsfordLast Thursday <a href="http://www.knutsfordtimes.com/knutsford-news/5192/nigella-turns-up-the-heat-in-knutsford/">I went to meet Nigella</a>. At least, that's what the in-store poster said, 'Meet Nigella Lawson', except it wasn't so much of a meeting but more of a 'jump on this treadmill and wave at Nigella as you speed by really fast'. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8NFkuiOxEdSueuED1pig31l7J0TOks8CdOOy_bUxhequyHRMd9ByzgnmI_ZLCOTSBtf14udkptaPzisGWgIYh_mRx1akH6ZnHGtqrvFeRstqf8k-aV5ClYMsetUXQ9xYIWg2UqmW56U/s1600/Nigella.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 396px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8NFkuiOxEdSueuED1pig31l7J0TOks8CdOOy_bUxhequyHRMd9ByzgnmI_ZLCOTSBtf14udkptaPzisGWgIYh_mRx1akH6ZnHGtqrvFeRstqf8k-aV5ClYMsetUXQ9xYIWg2UqmW56U/s400/Nigella.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546374249933668818" /></a><br /><br />I wasn't born yesterday and I do know that high-profile authors attract a greater following and that each person cannot possibly spend ten minutes chatting away as if they were alone in the room. Yet, having been to such events before, this signing was disappointing. Many people ahead of me merely put their book on the table to have it signed and left with a meek smile, Nigella herself hardly making an effort to engage. <br /><br />This is what surprised me the most; had I wanted laughter, fun, games and a pat on the back I would have attended a Jamie Oliver signing, I agree, but this isn't just about the character of the person. It is as much about the involvement and the effort that an extremely well-known, busy author <span style="font-style:italic;">should make</span> in order to engage with readers, even if, bah humbug, there are five hundred of them. What a chore! <br /><br />Who knows, the management at Waterstone's may like to organise things differently at some other time, so that we don't end up feeling like filing morons and more like readers invited to an actual <span style="font-style:italic;">event</span>. How about a quick greeting from the author to those already queuing in store? A few words delivered to the masses would do better than this. Personally, I did engage with Nigella and she was as graceful as I expected. However, I'll remember the day as a huge anti-climax.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-20558453579131500272010-10-31T18:51:00.005+00:002010-10-31T19:19:04.845+00:00Of Golden AutumnSince the inception of my online diary I've been really, really disciplined with my updates. When 2010 came, I thought that things would be no different, except I could not know that it was going to be one of the greatest tests of my life. And perhaps it hasn't been the most horrible year since records began (it surely is competing with 1995), but there is something about it that makes me wonder whether it will take the prize in the end.<br /><br />But as I said many times in recent weeks, and certainly since summer, I knew that things were afoot, I knew that things were changing. What I really meant was not merely 'morphing into more of the same' but changing <span style="font-style:italic;">for the better</span>. And now they have. For real. And hopefully, from now on, it won't be just onwards but upwards too. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK0W4FY2DGJ06P1xG7p78zxj8OJd4HrRcXVSX9cORQyV69tzZbzExxZRrZRDH9T0nDENKFQ6xAhDD1lQDvTr_Yp8FmXK2htwGHIEJN-6B7e7we9CkCNiJoRIke_g5kwzBe15JH3hsW2rw/s1600/Yellow.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 396px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK0W4FY2DGJ06P1xG7p78zxj8OJd4HrRcXVSX9cORQyV69tzZbzExxZRrZRDH9T0nDENKFQ6xAhDD1lQDvTr_Yp8FmXK2htwGHIEJN-6B7e7we9CkCNiJoRIke_g5kwzBe15JH3hsW2rw/s400/Yellow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534291224070471298" /></a><br /><br />October has been predominantly golden, which doesn't happen often here. Many days were mild and sunny and last Monday I was up very early, enjoying the frosty garden and half an inch of ice to scrape off my windscreen. Then something happened mid-week; autumn turned from mellow to deep. When I returned home on Friday evening, my garden had turned into something else. The last few pears had fallen to the ground and the oak at the bottom fence had turned yellow. I'm always a bit surprised when this happens, much as I am taken aback by the morning, usually in late April, when I suddenly find leaves everywhere. I swear there were none only the day before. <br /><br />I surveyed the remains this afternoon and even found the carcass of a bird at the very back (poor thing, I couldn't quite tell what it was, nor how its life ended). Meanwhile, the plants I had cut off in the spring have now composted, the roses are bent over themselves, the cherry tree is canary yellow and the high winds are battering whatever is left. Yellow, yellow, yellow, it's everywhere. Gosh my friends, I love it. <span style="font-style:italic;">I love it all</span>.<br /><br />Tomorrow I shall wear a thick black skirt with sewn jewels and a soft cashmere cardie. I am sooooo in my element my heart is skipping in my chest. On Saturday I am going to the fireworks and then, very soon, the Christmas Markets will arrive as well. For the first time in a very, very long time, I am going to enjoy myself. I am so happy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-79664261791669801652010-09-30T18:34:00.001+01:002010-09-30T18:35:32.202+01:00Off The RecordToday the sky was blue and it was cold. It was the first crisp autumn day we’ve had this year and the first time I’ve actually noticed the leaves changing. I’ve resisted the impulse to write in my online diary this month because I do not wish to leave a permanent record of latest happenings. Not that I worry about re-reading any of these entries, for I never do, but there is something quite off-putting about writing about feeling down when we are in the middle of it. It somehow makes it more real and, consequently, more painful still. Last time I wrote about flux. It’s still all in flux, not just for me but for Rick as well. I hope that my next entry on here will bring conclusion to a period that, quite frankly, I cannot wait to draw a thick, fat line over.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-78571667473367467982010-09-20T19:57:00.002+01:002010-09-20T20:01:43.892+01:00FluxA couple of weeks ago one of my clients wrote to me with a quick update regarding everything being in flux. Yes, in <span style="font-style:italic;">flux</span>. This word, flux, really stuck to my mind as I considered my year up until that point. Then someone else wrote and told me that, hey, the planets are shifting, everything’s changing! And do you know something? Yes, it’s true. I think that much is afoot and that would be great because I have to tell you that I need some novelty in order to stop and think. <br /><br />The year has swooshed by me. I just cannot believe that I last updated this place almost three weeks ago. In fact, I cannot quite believe how slack I’ve been over the summer, when I concentrated on other things and decided, quite, quite consciously I should tell you, not to keep a record of non-happenings. But now... everything’s different. I’m on the cusp of something, even though the everyday is still the same: squinting dogs, sleeping dogs and cakes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC1PQYNArbyPWuwZAwfVFYEU7HSnmbm9PHGVqc2cdr3fek-7ImQ3zDuH7ZmdD5qeB08lg2RVRJhveJXuzR8MymwyVEhDfwkulogs6O-CMs-xYAoCMjqIQCviKmqiDnIKlCLjVBtS28QJg/s1600/Cake+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 344px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC1PQYNArbyPWuwZAwfVFYEU7HSnmbm9PHGVqc2cdr3fek-7ImQ3zDuH7ZmdD5qeB08lg2RVRJhveJXuzR8MymwyVEhDfwkulogs6O-CMs-xYAoCMjqIQCviKmqiDnIKlCLjVBtS28QJg/s400/Cake+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519072530435552434" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0xoiVOiZ6pu3gf0lT1Dco49s45PcYyP3gK3TbsR9yDQLz3IJU4Go4H3qNOneOtj2Z9AeTC7ghyn0sBsCC8Ljby3u5CsLzdmWwAyPqCFDWqRI7Ra4IKwPZBqU8IX8kq96ykfy4gM3M5I/s1600/Cake.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh0xoiVOiZ6pu3gf0lT1Dco49s45PcYyP3gK3TbsR9yDQLz3IJU4Go4H3qNOneOtj2Z9AeTC7ghyn0sBsCC8Ljby3u5CsLzdmWwAyPqCFDWqRI7Ra4IKwPZBqU8IX8kq96ykfy4gM3M5I/s400/Cake.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519072519445965394" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nI4_PyHRDbpy2qJUPTYVIctI5rYtCREzMdkdDT8RvrOOdnAavSwyTjlwo97PZsycW-REDONtwCEMNP7OJNRd0Rj_tMpLrV4ueMnCx4T_xHeDKAjahgH7ZnVvD_7AYOOMzL8q4hAynG8/s1600/Guarding.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 399px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nI4_PyHRDbpy2qJUPTYVIctI5rYtCREzMdkdDT8RvrOOdnAavSwyTjlwo97PZsycW-REDONtwCEMNP7OJNRd0Rj_tMpLrV4ueMnCx4T_xHeDKAjahgH7ZnVvD_7AYOOMzL8q4hAynG8/s400/Guarding.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519072511210838674" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dNVw1iwfNY21ephAnPMcoB-IIYY08QUHFFD8eCHevue2ADeTzO7G1VYd7o172wjVofHhYjzv9cdi4lo4Uxp69RP7FSos245UOvcbuPP4n2RXAjhYlMG7rdKvTDgIrb72bK2S98MFv2M/s1600/Sleeping.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 399px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dNVw1iwfNY21ephAnPMcoB-IIYY08QUHFFD8eCHevue2ADeTzO7G1VYd7o172wjVofHhYjzv9cdi4lo4Uxp69RP7FSos245UOvcbuPP4n2RXAjhYlMG7rdKvTDgIrb72bK2S98MFv2M/s400/Sleeping.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519072501984324962" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmj09Uw4OIphqAcj1viYxiOODX_qFHZ7-5DAvafUzYvNrYaU5LRPqdnB4NJSqVevH0tmKNnRfui82Xs_u1xF0pfJUJt2Th4Cvb0OkY2JCficWEAdvLzX22HWpgnY31xrxHPoqWa4HtLYk/s1600/Squint.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmj09Uw4OIphqAcj1viYxiOODX_qFHZ7-5DAvafUzYvNrYaU5LRPqdnB4NJSqVevH0tmKNnRfui82Xs_u1xF0pfJUJt2Th4Cvb0OkY2JCficWEAdvLzX22HWpgnY31xrxHPoqWa4HtLYk/s400/Squint.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519072500288101538" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-40453819327727603292010-09-02T21:03:00.001+01:002010-09-06T18:12:43.748+01:00DeliciousThere is something really, really weird about reading other sites and blogs and looking at pics of people on beaches, in gardens in swimming costumes, walking around in plastic flip-flops. Of course I am not referring to the people of Oz or thereabouts, they are always wearing flip-flops down there, aren't they, but in North America and in many other parts of Europe it is still decidedly summer. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tmzeQ388hItZkf96Cp_CAkKq0Z5b8deWZm_eJEuWGbs6OnmyNBZYPFw1_D2mEXqmQ-yPFmbNpyv4p99AF-DIhvEcfs18rGBpX7AoKX8mYHpGqKj5fbSBss-2jhajfPQgqSf1dwkECyo/s1600/TF.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 357px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tmzeQ388hItZkf96Cp_CAkKq0Z5b8deWZm_eJEuWGbs6OnmyNBZYPFw1_D2mEXqmQ-yPFmbNpyv4p99AF-DIhvEcfs18rGBpX7AoKX8mYHpGqKj5fbSBss-2jhajfPQgqSf1dwkECyo/s400/TF.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513848536787330930" /></a><br />Here meanwhile, despite the pleasant weather, mornings are nippy to say the least, and when I was out with my dogs earlier I could just smell autumn. Hence I felt slightly odd that my most unexpected birthday gifts are so summer-like that I don't know what to do with them. A pair of glorious satin Prada wedges and a Tom Ford nude lipstick. I may just soldier on at 13C and pretend I'm in California anyway.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_Ux1NpCRZHyq5TBVE7zYlAemHPJBwLPvcekis07xThQtotj7Ry3arHt4jawwpdXLqd7S7S9En45Z1sPYqqZVo5GtnAyz78TrtQfvX6KuXnuAwPjm2-oW-BS4kMKXweTxrXfUTVbad_0/s1600/Wedges.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 349px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_Ux1NpCRZHyq5TBVE7zYlAemHPJBwLPvcekis07xThQtotj7Ry3arHt4jawwpdXLqd7S7S9En45Z1sPYqqZVo5GtnAyz78TrtQfvX6KuXnuAwPjm2-oW-BS4kMKXweTxrXfUTVbad_0/s400/Wedges.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513848532504891666" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-44570045048592688412010-09-01T22:52:00.004+01:002010-09-06T18:13:06.403+01:00Tepid BirthdayConsidering how low-key, weather-wise, July and August have been (<span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> that I am complaining), today was a pleasant surprise or, as I often like to say, everything looked weird under the sunshine. It is the first birthday in many years that I've spent at home, by which I mean, in the house. Yes, that's right, I didn't go anywhere. I didn't do anything. Well, nothing other than beginning the day with a breakkie of chocolates and tea and spent the rest of it munching on my Irish coffee chocolate truffle cake. In fact, shouldn't I be posting that recipe around about now?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-8SYcQ1WbRynyjZpm14ay5nr3C1lJ4NS9IcSQM_vC5M-1iWnF259i1oKpl9Y34ZNdRHwhb8LvQ8Iszc-WdksXQiyhtmdUDKH7KlzTZCxhBHDyLMzPThrFcw1KPFt8fdwG7g7mw2IHy8o/s1600/Slice.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 358px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-8SYcQ1WbRynyjZpm14ay5nr3C1lJ4NS9IcSQM_vC5M-1iWnF259i1oKpl9Y34ZNdRHwhb8LvQ8Iszc-WdksXQiyhtmdUDKH7KlzTZCxhBHDyLMzPThrFcw1KPFt8fdwG7g7mw2IHy8o/s400/Slice.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513846686705040130" /></a><br /><br />I'll tell you what, I'll do that another day. So while I lounged in the garden surrounded by dogs, I thought of how odd this year has been. I just cannot believe it is already September. Sorry, I just can't. I am deliriously happy that it is, mind you, but the year has morphed into one day that started sometime back, with the snow on the ground and now the leaves are about to turn again. One day. One... Groundhog Day actually. And that isn't necessarily a very good thing, is it?Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-9592350481715636592010-08-15T19:14:00.004+01:002010-08-15T19:32:00.485+01:00The Unexpected Guest – Part IISometimes last year I told you about <a href="http://domestic-miss.blogspot.com/2009/12/unexpected-guest-with-spoilers.html">this</a> unexpected guest. Yesterday, another one showed up. As I was watering my plants, I noticed a bird I never see in my garden, a duck. So I rushed outside to investigate, as I was pretty sure she had flown in but I couldn't quite figure out why she wouldn't return to where she came from, although it ain't unusual for young ones to lag behind and need some assistance later.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyD25gTE-m16Oohc_yTcaO9KYc5ZH1ABbxzLB_khn-bQgxfPfLwECd6dH_1y_iRYsZEdi2dNOyL7yYqErWDR3JrMusigVDCv9P9mqYluMfKT3lDgnjrSYdVBPgXqpkWlc4giXUlQWaaNA/s1600/IMG_0046.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyD25gTE-m16Oohc_yTcaO9KYc5ZH1ABbxzLB_khn-bQgxfPfLwECd6dH_1y_iRYsZEdi2dNOyL7yYqErWDR3JrMusigVDCv9P9mqYluMfKT3lDgnjrSYdVBPgXqpkWlc4giXUlQWaaNA/s400/IMG_0046.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505704964069169954" /></a><br /><br />After some running around, she did end up in my porch, and that's where I succeeded in getting hold of her and inspecting feet and wings. She was absolutely fine, apart from a bit of a heart attack, as I could feel her little heart pounding in my hands as I opened the door back to the garden and threw her in the air to check on flight abilities. <br /><br />She was in good spirits after that, as she wasn't injured, and continued to plod around the garden, drinking from the pond, unearthing worms and picking crickets and spiders in the high grass. So I left her to it, ensuring that both William and Victoria stayed inside. I could see them with their mouths wide open, spit smeared all over the treble-glazing, and figured that Duckie may not have been able to fly after all if I let them out too. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFwXtZvA37w_2QrkcxJtjJ8sIrzpZRKNHmwgQrnKH4vi5ZgF3MHHcEQ83zhX7IyyVncbzzgKDWVoO3f78sbyqs0vC9bfW_03_RZ2mQC5kPOVs2H1ntWl5lAij_E6y_FXMrepFt9xu2zM/s1600/IMG_0045.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFwXtZvA37w_2QrkcxJtjJ8sIrzpZRKNHmwgQrnKH4vi5ZgF3MHHcEQ83zhX7IyyVncbzzgKDWVoO3f78sbyqs0vC9bfW_03_RZ2mQC5kPOVs2H1ntWl5lAij_E6y_FXMrepFt9xu2zM/s400/IMG_0045.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505704954671384386" /></a><br /><br />She was still around when I took them for a spin of the garden after dinner, both on lead obviously, but she was clearly setting up for the night as she was calm and cozy in the grass. I checked on her again at nine and I saw that she was surveying the scene from the high-rise of the steps outside the patio doors, probably wondering where on earth the rest of the posse was and whether it would be safe to stop here overnight.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEis9pSzakSST8qAEiv82foNWP6PR4ZizwnQeU45h3x_owHCY6QxugYUa5NSJiuLj23MTgLeUm0PJaF09HTaKplUXgyAQLZIiLouS7gxGToEaRhPhctSWTOULB7v9JoE8ZVe3j90jPyE/s1600/IMG_0044.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEis9pSzakSST8qAEiv82foNWP6PR4ZizwnQeU45h3x_owHCY6QxugYUa5NSJiuLj23MTgLeUm0PJaF09HTaKplUXgyAQLZIiLouS7gxGToEaRhPhctSWTOULB7v9JoE8ZVe3j90jPyE/s400/IMG_0044.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505704952606092034" /></a><br /><br />That's what she must have done as I didn't hear a thing since and this morning she was gone. Good luck Duckie, it was good to have you!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2240426530699306407.post-4094066018010346582010-08-09T12:17:00.006+01:002010-08-09T12:51:01.597+01:00ChangesLast Thursday I was in London for a meeting. The day before I went, I wrote in my paper diary: 'Tomorrow's meeting is going to Change Everything'. And as it turns out, I may have to say that, yes, it did change things in unexpected ways. I have another meeting tonight and it all looks set to solve one rack of important issues insofar as what I do is concerned. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2q4aDsfo5JrHahmL2RsWegf9XupAaYLE4Y-Fssd6c2gvOjCmW03tSxXyw2L4yaiKjG5r02nDHKX1rcoqxgRXodu_g5pTA2xQkbJq-s9ghyuB4P02xVXN5g-Ra4SghfmWI4MnlnJFwYyw/s1600/Ladur%C3%A9e.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2q4aDsfo5JrHahmL2RsWegf9XupAaYLE4Y-Fssd6c2gvOjCmW03tSxXyw2L4yaiKjG5r02nDHKX1rcoqxgRXodu_g5pTA2xQkbJq-s9ghyuB4P02xVXN5g-Ra4SghfmWI4MnlnJFwYyw/s400/Ladur%C3%A9e.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503374232498805122" /></a><br /><br />I took the opportunity to have a spin around my favourite places and had lunch at Ladurée at Harrods, coming away with a large box of macaroons (because it would be criminal to visit without bringing some home) and three boxes of their fantastic tea. Such a difference from the supermarket rusk, I am telling you (that includes you, Twinings). <br /><br />Rick and I have been talking about moving to London for a while. In fact, we've been talking and thinking about moving for ages and ages, we've just never done anything specific to make this happen. Now we are. The thing is, I miss London terribly. I love where I am now, but it cannot be compared to London. In fact, few places can, and they usually are other vessels of creativity (New York is one). I'll tell you more; I've bought a little pretty notebook which I am calling My London Move Notebook. In it, I am listing all interesting things I see around, houses for sale, new shops that crop up and so on and so forth. Actually, I highly recommend this sort of activity for anything you may wish to achieve. Show intention and things will begin to happen, you'll see.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com