Sleepless night

As I write, Paddy is snoozing peacefully on the sofa beside me. I think he is probably still worn out after last night, starting at 8.30pm when certain idiots in the area decided to recreate Beireut with their thousands of fireworks. As Paddy is a rescue dog, we don't know his history but I am willing to bet that it involves some traumatic experiences with fireworks because, as soon as he hears them, he goes berserk. So, we calm him down and all is well until the next volley, when it all starts again, with the result that he and I were still to be found on the sofa downstairs until well into the early hours.
As  I have said before, how it is still legal for members of the public to buy what are, in effect, explosives in these days of the Nanny State, is unbelievable and  at the risk of being a party-pooper, there are other ways of ushering in the new year.
Mind you, worse was to come when I did finally get to bed.
Yes, the Phantom Snorer was in residence again.....
Happy New Year! :)

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.