That's where the bastards took me this week. Came out all shorn and smelling like a tarts window-box I did. Not to worry, I'll be rolling in shit the very first opportunity I get, you can rest assured about that. The woman in their commented to me Mum and Dad that I was getting a bit portly and that she had difficulty in lifting me up - the cheeky mare! She obviously hasn't glanced in the mirror herself lately. No stranger to the cake shop that one if you ask me. I think that we might have to take our business elsewhere next time. I mean, supposed you went for a haircut, and after the "have you got anything booked for your holidays this year" conversation things drifted down the "Christ, you've let yourself go a bit since you were last in, haven't you love" route? You're in there for a fucking haircut, not a life coach. And IF she's so fucking clever what's she doing running a fucking beauty parlour for dogs anyway? Maybe all the rocket scientist vacancies had been filled down the job centre, so she thought "fuck it, I might as well shave dog's arses for a few months just to tide me over until Richard Branson gets back in touch about that space mission thing?" I think I'll vote with my paws next time.
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.