In Which: I meet a person off the internet and do not get killed (or even maimed); and also I poison my dog with ham.
OK see I didn’t MEAN to poison the dog with ham. It was Mr. T’s birthday on Sunday and so I made ham and cheese and tomato croissants for brunch. All good, except the sliced ham was a bit old. Two weeks, from memory. Maybe three. However it had been living in the Cold Bin part of the fridge, and actually had a huge chunk of ice on top of it. So I was pretty confident that the ham would be OK. Not confident enough to put it on my OWN croissants, though. I’m not stupid. Just mean. So Mr. T’s croissants were merrily ham-filled and I dumped a great handful of the packet of ham into the dog’s bowl. All was well. Mr. T has a stomach created of iron and antifreeze and an elaborate system of gears, so he suffered no ill effects at all. But the dog, my Brown Dog, who is always cheery and happy and interested, within a few hours was lying listlessly on the rug and wouldn’t even lift his head. I felt bad.
“I poisoned the dog. With ham,” I told Mr. T.
“You have not; you couldn’t have. He digs up bones which have been buried in the back garden for weeks, which are filthy and have gone all green and slimy, and he’s fine,” Mr. T pointed out reasonably.
“But he’s not fine now! He’s saaaaad!” I whined.
Mr. T dismissed my concerns, and thought something else was making the dog listless and unhappy. He remained uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of Sunday, all through Monday and Tuesday morning. When I got home from work on Tuesday night he bounded out the front door with his tail wagging and tongue lolling – he was BACK! I found no mysterious piles of vomit or other bodily functions, so I can only assume his immune system massed forces and overcame the ham by sheer force of will.
Or otherwise he ate the vomit.
Also, I met up with Kate for brunch. (Yes! MASTER of the segue!) Before you become worried for her, rest assured I did not PROVIDE the brunch. I would not poison Kate with ham. Well, I would, probably, but not on purpose. No, we ate at a neutral meeting place where neither of us could either poison the other or, I don’t know, steal each other’s identities or something. (Or DID WE? I must say I, I mean Kate, has great hair. Also everything Jac, I mean I, may have said about Adelaide in the past is completely untrue. No gypsies whatsoever. Or sinkholes. None.)
Anyway, Kate was in Melbourne for a few days at a travelling clown convention. (What? She hasn’t updated her blog yet, so it’s not like she can contradict me.) Between learning how to fit fifty people into a Fiat Bambina, and roping giraffes, we met up to eat brunch and, for someone, I’m not saying who, to spill their food down their top (DAMN YOU, SLIPPERY BUTTON MUSHROOM, YOU FUCKER). And who knew? People from the internet are interesting and fun to spend time with and have excellent conversational skills! Well, not me, obviously. I am awkward and you can’t take me anywhere. Unfortunately I just TURN UP.