New Year's Honours

Well, waddya know! I have, once again, had bestowed upon me the prodigious award to bloggers by the well-known, famous (or possibly infamous) blogger of international notoriety - yes, you've guessed it -YORKSHIRE PUDDING

AND.... AND.... it's for being 'the nicest and most polite blogger'
So there!
I'm off to crack open the champagne.

Silent protest

Paddy is a very good dog in the house, especially around food. We could leave anything within his reach and be sure that he wouldn't touch it unless given permission and he is certainly not one to beg when we are eating. In the evening, Keith invariably decides he would like a 'little snack', no matter how substantial his dinner has been and it has become a routine for Paddy to be given three small dog biscuits when Keith has finished eating.

This is how he looks when we forget.

This is a dog who has no need of words to communicate!

THE DIGITAL STORY OF THE NATIVITY

Born in a field

All boy babies are born in a field.
I am drawn to this conclusion from a lifetime of observation which leads me to the inescapable conclusion that men are congenitally incapable of closing doors after them.
This conclusion has been further emphasised by the fact that I have had to close the back door after Keith at least five times this morning, as he was completely unaware of the fact that leaving it open in sub-zero temperatures has an adverse effect on the ambient temperature of the house.
And don't get me started on cupboard doors!

Which seat?

Keith was hunting for an adaptor lead that he had last used with the caravan but, having searched throughout, it could not be found.
"I suppose it's just possible that it is in that bag of stuff behind your seat in the car," he said, before disappearing out through the front door.
I watched his retreating back thoughtfully.
That would be the passenger seat in my car, then.
Well, we have no other car...
I think I may need to have a word!

Getting it right

Having been brought up in Bristol from the age of six, I was quite used to the sight of the Clifton Suspension bridge elegantly spanning the Avon, so I was interested in  this article in the online Telegraph this morning.
It seems that Brunel's father, Sir Marc Brunel was also an engineer and was keen to give his son the benefit of his years of experience.

Sir Marc's design incorporating a pagoda is certainly eye-catching but I think in this case, Isambard got it right. For me, nothing can beat that seemingly effortless and graceful span across the river.
Just goes to show, Dad's not always right.

What a pain

Don't you just hate it when someone sends you a text suggesting a way of dealing with a situation which is less than helpful and insinuates that you haven't really thought it through and perhaps are not capable of coming to the best solution anyway. Then, although you reply, politely reaffirming your original plan of action which is still perfectly adequate, no reply is forthcoming. The text has been lobbed at you out of the blue like a hand grenade, while the 'lobber' has retreated silently back into the ether.