A brisk walk in the park on Sunday morning spoilt by your typical Harrogate type jogger. She's got all the gear on, trainers straight out of the box, not a bead of sweat on her still in full make up face, fuckin immaculate she is. Carrying one of those stupid little water bottles in case she's in danger of dying of exhaustion halfway round. Frankly that is unlikely at the speed she's going, Stephen Hawking could have given her a ten minute start and still lapped her comfortably. So she creeps silently up on us, well she would wouldn't she with the latest Nike Air Max on travelling at barely above a stroll and immediately becomes entangled in me lead. She stops briefly and looks at me Dad with that Harrogate type look, as if he's stood outside the bookies with a whippet, a rolled up copy of the Sun in his back pocket and a can of Special Brew in his hand and says "Christ, can't you keep it on a shorter lead?" It. Me, an it, FFS! To which half a dozen retorts flash through me Dad's head such as "ah, that time of the month is it darlin" to the less subtle "why don't you just fuck off you snotty nosed tart" before he finally decides on "It's a fuckin Border Terrier not a fuckin Mountain Lion, flabby arse." I particularly liked the last bit, as that's bound to have spoilt the rest of her day, if not several months to come. I do hope we bump into her again, "Here she comes, Kelly Fuckin Holmes, more like Barratt Homes with the size of the arse on her..."
You couldn't make it up could you. I spent much of the weekend dozing on the sofa watching telly. Glastonbury was on, although sad to say there was no Snoop Dog, Bone Jovi or any other canine related artists. The big news seemed to be the lack of female headliners and now we know why as one scored a spectacular own goal. She missed her slot cos she was doing her hair. It takes ages she said. Why NOT start doing your hair well before your show time. Aaagh no where's my handbag I've left it in the car, I've got to back to fetch it.