There is no chocolate in the house. It’s like some sort of mini-calamity. Only not so much on the mini. Major calamity. The last chocolate in the house was a Crunchie and Mr. T has just eaten it. (I don’t like Crunchies, I just snap all the chocolate off and leave the sticky honeycomb behind. Is that Freudian? No doubt. Everything is Freudian.) The only thing close to chocolate is the couverture cocoa, which … no. Even I have my limits. They’re pretty hazy and I can’t see them most of the time, but they’re there.
The dogs are retreating into their normal winter behaviour. To wit: slothful lolling around the house. They won’t even get up for breakfast. May I remind you that I have large, healthy dogs with vibrant and lustrous fur coats. They stomp on snow like it’s not there. They wander through icy cold streams with the nonchalance of arctic voles. They come from the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun where the hot springs blow. But they won’t walk onto the tiles in the kitchen in the morning. I am filled with shame.
Everyone think it’s cute when I tell them the Brown Dog won’t stop licking the cat. Unfortunately, 80% of the time he’s licking the cat’s bum. I prefer to concentrate on the cuter 20% when he’s licking the cat’s ears. And try to forget where he was the minute before.
