The Beauty Parlour

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.