Sunday 10 February 2013

Thinking of rescuing a dog?

If you are thinking of rescuing a dog, here's our story. We found our little pet back in October. Six months later and the love affair continues. We searched high and low to find the perfect dog and eventually found our chihuahua 'Penny' at an animal rescue centre in Wicklow. As the photo below shows, she was in a bad, bad way on the day that we met her. She had been found wandering the mountains, terrified and starving. She came to our home and changed our lives. 




As the weeks went by she became stronger and much happier. She has a great appetite, is full of love and fun and has never looked stronger or happier than she is today. Here's a video of her now, playing her best game of all. Jumping over the broom handle. 








If you live in Ireland and are considering animal adoption, I highly recommend that you look no further than Ash Animal Rescue in Wicklow. Good luck!

http://www.ashanimalrescue.com/ash/








Friday 1 February 2013

IT WASN'T ME!


Saturday afternoon was a very windy day. I decided to nip into the local German supermarket with my daughter to buy ingredients for a big comforting pot of stew. I went at the busiest time which was a bit silly. It was three in the afternoon and, because of the crowds, it took much longer then normal to push the trolly through the aisles.




Shopping at German supermarkets suits me because, like Ryanair, they are basic with no frills. Being a simple kind of gal, I don't like fuss in any way, shape or form. I like the way that boxes of fruit are always stacked up high on 'Super Saturday'. People were buying lemons and grapefruit like there was going to be a world shortage, all because they were 39c for three, for one day only. The problem is that, even if you go into Aldi or Lidl for something simple like a bag of spuds, you end up being drawn to a central aisle selling foot spas, disco balls and laminated maps of the world. "Can I buy this?" my daughter asked, holding up a paper shredder. "No" I fired back, putting down the digital bathroom scales that I had mindlessly picked up in my shopping trance.





In half an hour the trolley was full and we went to our final destination, the tinned tomato and pasta section. A tall and healthy looking forty-something man with architect glasses and a hefty woollen raincoat was holding a can of pesto sauce very close to his face. He was reading the back of the jar intensely. Unfortunately for me, he was blocking the tinned tomatoes shelf. I waited patiently, hoping the power of positive thought would be enough to make him move. It didn't and my daughter and I stood watching him as he examined the pesto closely. I was about to ask him to move when suddenly and unexpectedly he let out the most enormous fart. Gas out, he didn't take his eyes off the jar in his hand or look around to see if anyone was close by. I quickly pushed my trolley around the corner; I had no choice because my daughter was laughing. "Mum! I can't believe you did that" "It was NOT me!" I was appalled. His fart was so loud, almost volcanic. Not something I, or anyone I know, would ever part with in a German supermarket on Super Saturday (of all days).




A few minutes later, I poked my head around the corner. The man had moved on from the aisle. I grabbed the tin of tomatoes that I had been looking for and our shopping was complete. We unloaded our trolley onto the conveyor belt as quickly as we could in preparation for loading our bags as fast as humanly possible. This race is another quirky German supermarket feature that I treat like an Olympic sport. I managed to unload a trolley onto the conveyor belt in under thirty seconds. Surely a record? As I wiped the sweat from my face, my daughter poked me "LOOK. It's HIM". I looked round and saw that Mr Farty had pulled up directly behind us with his trolley. "Don't stare!" I poked her back.






"Good afternoon" the cashier greeted me. That's another thing about the German supermarkets, all of the cashiers are trained to say hello and smile broadly when you buy your groceries. They will continue to smile and be polite unless you make the fatal mistake of packing your shopping straight into carrier bags. You are not allowed to do this and you will be told off. Being a natural born rule breaker I do it anyway and, whenever I am challenged, I argue that I can pack my groceries so quickly that it won't slow down the scanning process one bit. I rolled up my sleeves, ready to pack my bags in lightning speed. It was all going so well. That was until he did it again. My nemesis. Without a care in the world, Mr Farty, in his woollen coat and architect glasses, broke wind. This time, we were not alone. Everyone heard it. Even the cashier who raised an eyebrow at me as she scanned my lemons. My daughter got a fit of the giggles.






"Mum. That one really WAS you". "Shhh! No it wasn't!" I hissed, throwing tinned tomatoes, onions and grapefruits into my carrier bags. The cashier was frowning at me. She was about to tell me off when, right on cue, he did it again. Loudly. "That WAS you Mum!". "IT WAS NOT ME". By now we had an audience. This was becoming a bit of a scene. This was not the attention that I was looking for. I had only come in to get my stew ingredients. The man stood motionless staring straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with anyone. He was an expert. He probably does this all the time. I was angry. Angry at this man who was happily farting the time away without a hint of remorse and letting me take the blame. To make it worse, now the cashier and everyone standing in the packed till queues was listening to my daughter and smiling politely.



"That really stinks!" My daughter was hysterical now, wafting the air in front of her with one hand and dramatically holding her nose with the other. Around me, it smelt of blocked drains. This was all turning into a nightmare situation and all the while, Mr Farty remained stony faced, not an ounce of guilt showing on his face. I was now faced with the prospect of publicly taking the blame and apologising for something I did not do, or pointing at the real culprit and shaming him publicly. It was a lose/lose situation. Either way, I looked bad. I paid and ran out.


If you were there last week on Super Saturday, hand on heart, I promise that it wasn't me. It was him.