Greetings from Chez Mogs

It's been a bit on the quiet side here, the only noteworthy events are two quite sad ones.

The first concerns the elegant Eric. Last week he was playing mind games with the dogs, stretched full length in the best space in the house, yawning menacingly at them. Oh yes, this cat could yawn with menace.

On Good Friday we noticed Eric was definitely keeping tight-lipped about something. A bit of skullduggery involving buttered toast and marmite persuaded him to open up. His bottom fangs were missing :( Seeing as he'd already lost the top-right one, cracked and removed long since, this was not a good look. I expect they are embedded in the neck of some wee beastie somewhere, but they looked better on Eric.

The second one concerns Gromit. He is definitely showing signs of severe aging, made even worse by comparing him with 2-year-old Bailey. He's back at the vets tonight, and I'm preparing for the worst. All his ailments are catching up with him, but at least we know Patrick will tell us straight what the outcome is.

The bottom line is that both pets are old, Gromit is 12 years old and Eric will be 12 soon. But I forgot to tell them I expected pet immortality from them, not just furballs and mucky pawprints everywhere.

Hellfire awaits...

the wonderful Child Dawkins.

She wanted to play the good old-fashioned Elastics game with her teddy bear. Don't say 'awww', she's seriously competitive and wanted to do some training at home, all the better to conquer the playground.

She couldn't find her Bratz elastics anywhere. So she improvised...with 4 sets of rosary beads, including a set from Rome.

We can only guess that the Vatican beads had not been blessed, as the house has not been struck by lightning.

Mousie, x2

So there we were, Saturday night, and an early night planned. No better offers, so catch up with MOTD, and some rolling news, bed by midnight.

Not for long.

2am, I was still in the hall, with cardboard boxes, tubes, sticky tape, 2 cats, 1 dog and a very small and determined mouse.

Challenge? To catch said Mousie, before cats and dog did. Mousie found the only spot in the hall where it couldn't be reached. I opened the front door to freedom for it, Mousie stayed curled up in corner, and I froze for a while. By 2am, I'd become 'Frustrated Blue Peter Presenter'-woman, trying to make some contraption to trap it and haul it's furry arse outside. At 2.20am I gave up.

Sunday, 7.45am and the critters dragged me downstairs. The mouse had been inside the contraption overnight, wandered round and back to the corner. So Plan B - empty and move bookcase (mercifully small but still heavy) and herd the little furry-arsed git through the front door. Preferably before the Middlesbrough-Cardiff match.

Success at last, but Tig was sulking BIG TIME. Or he was, until he brought a second mouse in...

I got to that one really quickly, and threw it out. Tig's sulking went off the scale at this point. One mouse I could have, but TWO??? Jasmine, Gromit and Bailey all joined in. I'm a disgrace.

I'm paying the price for being greedy, only Eric is still my pal. But he learned long ago to keep his killing sprees out of the house...

Not much justice there, then

So Carol Barnes dies at 63, and on the same day Thatcher gets to stagger on for a bit longer.

No justice, but at least it gives Elvis Costello a bit more time to shine up his dancing shoes.

The Great Escape update

Rachel, our ex-boss who made a bid for freedom and got a proper job in the real world, has just phoned.

So we've dished the dirt, and caught up with all her gossip. We are now toasting her good fortune with hot chocolate and diet Coke (as separate drinks, for those of you who might think we've lost the foodie plot).

It just seems strange here today, it is much too quiet. We've checked the phones are working, fine. Servers up and running? OK there. Head out of the window to check there are still humans walking round? Well, academics and students - the wage slaves are back at their desks. I'm typing this in my late lunchbreak. People - check.

Just feels like the start of a nasty horror film or the first 10 minutes of 'Casualty'...

Thought for the day

Other people's words can only hurt you if you let them or

if they write them onto a piece of paper and wrap 'em round a well-aimed baseball bat

or drop a volume of them on your head

or fill a 32-tonner with their words (in any chosen medium) and flatten you with said truck

or just continue to add any Road Runner scenario that you choose...

And life isn't so Wyle E Coyote, is it? And if the critics can't be bothered to be creative, why worry about them?

As the jibes have been based around weight (my doctor isn't worried about me, so nyar), age (better than being dead, pal!) and hair colour (auburn by birth, graying by age and bright red by choice) I've decided to ignore them.