Dog sub-blog, No 3

I asked if I could photograph this little fellow somewhere in Dorset - I think.
Somewhere at the back of my mind a similar image stirred, then I remembered this morning - a certain Star Trek episode called, Let that be your last battlefield, (thank you wiki) The below-pictured character was, I seem to recall, somewhat malevolent, unlike this Jack Russel, who appeared, on the surface at least, to be full of contentment and keen to greet strangers.

    

Building No 42

Not strictly a building as such, more a box within a building, but rather than start another sub-blog called Loo No 1-2-3-4, etc, I'll put it into the buildings one.
So . . . 42, other than Dear Douglas Adam's reference to the meaning of life the universe and everything, our loo.
When I was about seven, it occurred to me that keeping a record of every loo that you sat (or stood in) would be quite interesting: the ultimate life-time conceptual art piece. But the idea became overtaken with a diary of tea shops instead (now lost, sadly). I suppose it's the fact that you inhabit these small spaces alone (unless one of those bizarre bench-with-holes type ones which exist on medieval bridges) with just your own bodily sounds and thoughts for company - excepting all the noisy airport/ restaurant/bus station loos one might sit in; but you are still in a cubical, on your own for a few minutes or seconds depending on the type of ablution you are undertaking . . .

Anyway . . .
This is our loo, snapped by a lovely Danish B and B'er and his fish-eye lens who stayed with us a couple of weeks ago. The small rectangular space is a shrine to 1975, the year our house was constructed, featuring: Star Trek, Mud, David Bowie, strange puddings from a book of that year, interior decor of the moment, YFO spottings, and of course, wonderful-terrible fashion from that era of orange and purple.