Friday, 8 July 2011

no dog is an island

Just got in from mad driving day to and from Montauban, as the boy person wished to explore it (good choice - most elegant place) and then searching for a certain bath in the hideous planet of Castorama in Toulouse.
Returned without bath as it was worryingly long and I was to tired to go and find bungee ropes etc. At least I know where the bloody place is now. Was I just pooped or are French road signs really bad?
Inevitably, there is a sign, then it just melts away at the next junction and says Paris or something, and one has to go back to where one started and drive slowly avoiding collisions with peeved 31 plate drivers, and all the time looking for the elusive blue or green directive, until you see it half a kilometre away under a shadowy flyover.
Anyway I waffle.
The house seems to smell odd these days. I think it might be Una pictured above. She is about 130 in human years so entitled to be a little whiffy. They both wagged so fondly on our return I thought I would just put them on my blog instead of the impressive photo of the bridge in Montauban which I can't download as the USB cable seems to be tired too.
This is an example photo of the extent these dogs need to snuggle. Here they are in about 28 degrees on the sheepskin island instead of that awful hard concrete.
Small dog's leg has been passed by the vet as being fine. He is still hopping though with one dandy leg proffered as if waiting to be passed his fallen silk cravat.

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