Rosy futures full of...
Doctor Maroon is alive and well and Saturday looks very cheery indeed. It is another strangely warm and sunny day in Dublin and I slept velly velly gud last night, thank you. I admit there was some gin drunk, but not much and no sleeping tablets.
Apropos of nothing, 'cept Docky's comment in the comments, I am going to pontificate for a mo. Mostly because I am delighted with myself this morning and mostly because...well, I don't need much of a reason really.
Doclington suggests I should get a puppy and freeze my eggs (just to be on the safe side). I laughed- but I do want a pup. The paramour should be aware at this stage that what baby wants baby sodding well gets one way or another.
Anyhoo, the paramour would like to have children and I'm a great believer that dogs and semi-feral kids should be mixed. It makes perfect sense to me, that way you can train them/walk/wear out playing endless games of football and hide and go seek at the same time.
I shall get my imaginary children a black labrador who they will call Blacky or something equally original, although I will secretly call him Winston when their backs are turned or they are distracted by SpongeBob Squarepants.
Batman and Winston will be great chums, but Batman will be top dog and Winston/Blacky won't mind a bit.
Puddy will be delighted and can wash faces-children and dogs -as much as she pleases. The bigger of the cats and the one-eyed one will adapt and claw their way back to the top of the food chain eventually by dispensing vicious but accurately aimed swipes at delicate puppy noses and the bare arms.
My imaginary children will be robust little chaps and outside a lot. They will fight, climb trees, build hideouts, be able to ride a horse, be able to stand up for themselves without resorting to bullying or tell-tale tattling, (which will be much frowned upon) they will most likely be semi-filthy a good deal of the time, have knacker-tans all summer ( brown arm neck and feet, white everywhere else), they will use their shoes for brakes on their bikes and I won't cut their hair until I witness one run into a tree.
They will know that a doc-leaf helps with nettle stings, that foxglove is poisonous and that rosehip makes excellent itching powder.
I will insist my future imaginary children read and eat all sorts of 'weird' food that their friends don't. They will not be afraid to pull the head off a prawn and suck the gooey contents out. They will not know what a Turkey Twizzler is.
They will have a bed time which will be adhered to rigidly except for Friday and Saturday night. They will be polite to older folk, including their grandmother. They will adore their father and climb all over him the minute the poor Paramour sits down to read the paper, the Paramour will be dragged out to 'see' stuff every other second. He will not object to all this hauling around. Batman and I will exchange looks and retire to the kitchen that still hasn't been painted to eat strong cheese and Carr's water biscuits. My imaginary Children won't have a play station or a TV in their bedroom and will probably never have an allergy in their life.
I'm heading into town now to buy flowers and then I'm going to start preparing dinner.
I'm thinking yellow roses, I'm in a yellow roses sort of mood.