Saga of a woman old enough to know better who lets her life be governed by the ridiculous hobby of breeding and showing dogs, musing on life, the twenty first century, Cameron and his mini-me, and the occasional sheep.

Saturday, July 10, 2004


Just back from a bum-breaking bus journey to Wales, where my three hopefuls did well in the ring, and we all managed to soak up some Welsh sun, in between sharp short downpours. One of these hit while I had Demented in a class, trying to force her by sheer willpower alone down from hyper and bouncing to just alert and happy. Normally during the examination on the table I employ a secret death-grip on the inner thigh, but on this occasion even that didn`t work.

"Perhaps she doesn`t care for men?" enquired the judge as we both wrestled with a nine inch tall tasmanian devil.

"Perhaps she`s a brat," I replied, between clenched teeth.

And then the rain hit. Torrential. The other well-behaved little girls cringed and sagged under the weight of water, while Demented grinned and wagged her soaked tail, water cascading down her nose. And she won.

During the sunny intervals I marvelled as usual at what men think is the height of elegance in summer. This year it`s the trousers that get me. Vsst baggy efforts, cut off at mid-calf - the most unflattering length possible, as any woman could tell them. And so low in the crutch that some of them look as if they were wearing nappies.

They used to have a word for pants so saggy in the crutch in Glasgow. They called them "Locarno trousers"........

The Locarno was at that time the biggest ballroom in Scotland.
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