It’s a dirty job.
Said the Vet.
It’s a dirty job.
Possibly said the doctor.
The cat is having her teeth out today. A dirty job because bits of stray tooth/gum take to the air and grip to the wall. Begging for a sticker and a lolly the rotten scoundrels will never return to the red, ROAR gums. A pleasant image. Next stop was the doctors, 11am. The same fiancée I told you of yesterday in a lowering of my shield had to lower her pants to share, bare-faced, her cheeks to the doctor. She had been bitten on her bum, alas not by me (nor the cat though that would have been a tidy plot line) but a mysterious yet daring creature. A dirty job indeed. Leaving not only with smug memories the bug has left a reminder
in on her rear, a honking great whoopee-cushion sized infection…how immusing it would be if it parfffed when sat upon, but it doesn’t – the infection doesn’t, her bottom may, but this is my fiancée, it doesn’t so stop suggesting!
She’s not back yet, apparently she’s acting insensible, still anesthetized and drugged up to the eyeballs. The cat not my fiancée, my fiancée is back. When cat does return the house will be two-thirds invalid, one-third detached yet still terraced.
The gym did happen as muttered yesterday. You never forget how to ride a bike…you do forget what cartilage in your knees tastes like. Are you proud? I thought so. I never broke sweat to tell the truth. To tell a lie I cried pain like the suffocated scrotum in the spandex shorts, leaving a puddle of DNA on every clanking machine in the windowless pit. As if I would wear spandex, absurd!
A dirty job.
I am 30. The Olympics have been and gone (hardly sneaked by did they?) but I am confident the treadmill of time has not caught me yet. To prove it I shall book an event to aim for…to give me another signficant event to focus on this year. I will tell you of planned others in due course.
Must dash I have cat food to blend and a bottom to laugh at.