Plague Pit (a Hot Drop)

A "hot drop" for what ails you. Very
welcome when out exercising the dogs.

This is not a happy home the last few days. Both of us have been struck down by the 'lurgy'. It's just the common cold so don't go believing any bunkum you hear from me about man-flu, but it's very disabling and misery inducing. Colds are now, also nicely rare round here. When I was working in the UK my work involved moving between air-con offices and huge cold stores in a space shared by 600+ other fellow sufferers so I "always" seemed to be catching colds. It seemed like 3-4 a year and I can remember the 'weakling' shame of always being asked by our lovely neighbour (The Angel B), "have you got a cold AGAIN?"

No better lip-tingling marinade for the chicken stir fry when
the taste buds are a bit dull, than home made chilli oil.

Even then we would always generously stick the wedding vows... "all I have I share with you" .... and who ever caught the cold first would always try to share it with the other spouse.

When the jar of Hellman's "REAL" Mayonnaise runs out and
Liz is reduced to knocking up a quick bowl full of mayo from our
Free Range eggs. Hellman's is creamy white so our yellow mix
surely can't also be 'real'?

Now enjoying our outdoor lifestyle with no crowd of 600 warehousemen following me about and no air-con or cold stores, I have had a remarkable reduction in the colds per annum scores. We only ever get the one per year and sometimes, if memory serves, none at all. All the more annoying when you do pick one up, maybe.

By rigging some temporary fencing, I let the sheep get at the
grass on the walk BETWEEN their fields. They were more
interested in the ivy on the wall. 

Every cloud, they say, has a silver lining. Yes we have spent a few days dragging boxes of tissues round and dosing ourselves up on "Max Strength" Lemsip or taking ourselves off for extended naps (I took a "sickie" from Archery and Liz has, tonight, from Drama Group). But on the calendar was a note to strain the plum-vodka to separate the fruit from the booze after 3 months steeping. We kept the fruit, obviously, but the hooch proved to be delicious AND to be just too much to all fit in the posh bottle we had saved, so a small overflow ended up in a tiny tonic bottle. The cold sufferers found the idea of a 'hot drop' made with plum vodka instead of whiskey, very welcome when out exercising dogs on the breezy, drizzly front lawn. It was also a chance to break in my new(ish) thermos mug. Thank you Dan and Dan.

Not a brilliant pic but can you just see that the shell of this duck
egg is faintly ridged in a spiral pattern (in direction of the arrow).
The duck's vent must be grooved in spiral ridges like a gun barrel!

What else is new? Off on one of my missions into town, in this case for emergency supplies of (you guessed it) Lemsip and tissues, I spotted in a roadside paddock, 5 new outdoor piglets and immediately worked out that these must belong to some friends of ours, the man of which is a former pork butcher and ace maker of proper pork pies. I fired off a quick text to see if I could blag a cup of tea and an admire of the new piggies. Long story short, they are 13 week old weaners who are thriving and fast learning about electric fences. They are Gloucester Old Spots (crosses), 4 for the freezer and 1 as a keeper who will be joined by another breeding-quality gilt. The 2 ladies will be put to a Berkshire boar if our friends can find one.

The young turkey looking huge against the new chickens.

We also had a nice treat, a visit by the gardening journalist for the local paper who asked to look round the place and interview us about how we garden. Local readers may know this guy as Paul Kirwan, gardening writer for the Roscommon Herald but I must admit I only knew him as "the guy who runs the garden centre attached to the farmers' co-op in Balla-D, "Aurivo". Well, Paul came round yesterday just before it got dark and walked round the garden while we chatted and then enjoyed a cup of tea and a slice of chocolate cake when we adjourned indoors. Lovely bloke - fascinating story. 'We' should appear in the Herald which comes out next Tuesday (28th Nov) if you're interested and we will definitely be grabbing a couple of copies for our own interest and friends and family. Assuming he says nice things about our messy weed patch, of course!

Rain Dance

Neither of us ever anticipated in all this 'move-to-the-West-of-Ireland' project that we would ever be standing in County Roscommon disappointed at the lack of rain. We are not the kind of people who moan about the wet weather and then straight way transfer all that grumble to the heat after just a single hot day. We have been enjoying the blue skies and taking the close sweatiness and midges that sometimes come with it, on the chin. Stoic to the end, us. But my diary records that this run of 'scorchio' started on 11th May, all be it with a couple of showery days around the 20th, so have a heart, Met Éireann; we are sated. You even sneaked the perfect Bank Holiday weekend in there.

Some nice artichokes for a tapas style meal

We are happy, content, have had all we could ask and more. When the run of hot days appeared to be breaking with an 'orange' warning for thunderstorms and heavy rain on (Bank Holiday) Monday, we got stuck into some good weeding, mowed all the grass and raced several lines of washing through the laundry system. We watched with happy anticipation as the promised massive black cloud banks rolled in mid-afternoon. Back in Kent Liz would have been telling our lovely neighbour, 'Angel' Betty and myself off suspecting that we were doing rain dances because we were fed up with all the watering. Here we listened out for the distant rumbles of thunder on the N, S, E and W horizons, commenting cheerfully... "Yes! It's a-coming!"

Alliums

No such drama for us here, though. Friends in all directions were reporting rain. Sue and Rob talked of "monsoon" conditions. Carolyn in Sligo reported lashing rain and cousin Keith in Dublin spoke of massive downpours, impressively heavy although short lived. We stayed dry as the 'dusht' and missed it all. Our clouds built impressively and dispersed. We stayed oppressively hot and clammy and felt quite miffed. Cheated, even. It didn't rain all evening, then a tiny front doorstep-dampening drip came later on and the night was dry. We know we should be careful what we wish for and I am glad that I got the mowing done - I would have been cursing if the shaggy grass had got wetted and then taken days to dry out again. It has not rained today either. Ah well.

In the local bogs the turf cutters are taking full advantage
of the drought. This turf is "footed" up to get some air through
it and we have seen some being cleared and carted away to
store. This is Kiltybranks.

Meanwhile in archery I am still having a whale of a time, loving my new hobby. When weather permits we are out of doors and the instructor is doing his best to get us ready for an assault on nearby inter-county "Field Archery" competitions. Field Archery is where you go yomping around through the woods and fields trying to find and then hit model animals made of dense foam rubber. The beasts are a bit larger than life (to give us half a chance - the crows are more like ravens and the partridges are as big as chickens, for example).

We have also been introduced to the black arts of scoring so that we can see whether we are improving week on week. The animal models are marked with an oval roughly corresponding to the chest/lungs position and a smaller oval where the heart would be. The scores vary according to size, range and difficulty of the target/shot but might be, for example, 15 for a kill (dead hit on the heart), 10 for a 'wound' (chest area) and 5 for a 'hit' (anywhere else on the animal). There is much banter around how the animal is not officially dead even though you have just banged an arrow through his head, in one eye and out the other. There are also silly scores for some of the more ridiculously tricky shots - a rat on a log THIRTY metres away (!). Hit that one, you get 40, knock him off his log with your arrow stuck in him and you score 60. I have not got within a foot of the blighter.

The pigs this evening.

I should quickly add, just to quiet the fears of people who think I have got a bit blood-thirsty, that it is ILLEGAL everywhere in the British Isles to hunt anything with a bow and arrow, even a cross-bow. If you want to go a-hunting you need a licence , a pretty fierce draw-strength bow and you need to be on mainland Europe - Germany, Italy and some of France, I think. We are definitely just playing at it. It is just more entertaining to go 'hunting' between the trees, than to spend 2 hours lobbing arrows down a Badminton hall.

Pastures new. The sheep are back in the orchard. 

What ever way about it, I was 'on fire' on Sunday and it seemed I could not miss those targets. After my first try out 3 weeks back when I scored just 65 as a combination of 13 'hits', no wounds and no kills, I was suitably humble and knew my place - the beginner/new boy/trainee. On Sunday, for some reason, I found myself transformed into Dead-eye Dick. I got 2 kills in the first group and hit several other 'animals' more than once (you get 3 arrows per target). I had surpassed my 65 one third of the way in! I must admit it did not go as 'deadly' as that all through and I still missed my due portion of targets with all three arrows (of course, I have still not bagged 'log rat') but I ended with a score of 145, over twice my first one. No pressure for next week!

Liz (in orange) gives the sheep strict instructions not to eat
or break off the trees. 

The sheep, meanwhile, Have razed the front lawn to the ground and left only a few grass-flower stalks and some now obvious nettles and thistles. The lack of rain has no doubt contributed and the grass has stopped growing. We do not want to let them back into the East Field yet as that is resting, so we have rather bravely moved the gang into the orchard tonight. This is with some trepidation as we know what damage sheep can do to young trees by browsing and by scratching their itches by rubbing at them. We are hoping our trees are that bit bigger and taller so that they can afford to lose a few lower leaf-clusters (raising their 'skirts' or 'Savannah-ing' we call it here). They are also in some cases still guarded by the tree guards we originally fitted when we used this field before, several years ago. We are hoping that the sheep will focus on the lush grass and buttercups and leave the trees alone. Liz has read them The Riot Act.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles......

The house in Hastings where I grew up.

"Just write about what you did in your holidays" - that clichéd old instruction in English Composition classes at school when you were first back from the summer break. Once a year I get the urge to 'go home' (all be it 'home' now feels very much like here, rather than Hastings or Kent), to catch up with Pud Lady (now 87) and my brother, Tom, to drop in on Kent friends and, of course, to get a fix of the 'Thames Sailing Barge' drug. I do all these in one trip, leaving poor Liz in charge of all the livestock. She asks for a check list in case she misses anyone, and gets handed one running to 4 pages of a note book this time (!). She tells me she loves it for a couple of days but by night-5 she is missing her lay-ins and cups of first-thing-in-the-morning tea and she is happy to hand the gang back,

Pud Lady cooks up the next cheating
devious manouvre in scrabble!

In these days of cheap flights it is all reasonably priced and we are delighted to be only 25 minutes drive down country lanes from Knock Airport. We both remember with horror those traffic-clogged trudges to Gatwick (and hour and a half each way on a good day) and some nightmare runs all the way round the M25 to Heathrow (2 hours if you were very lucky). I fly Aer Lingus to Gatwick, hire a small car (VW Polo this time), and trundle down to Kent always in awe of how many cars there are about; I am used to my quiet roads of the 'Wesht' by now. This time I dropped in on former neighbours, the 'Angel Betty' and Jim for a lovely chat and a coffee, then headed for Diamond's with John for supper, a visit from Mazy and a comfortable night's sleep.

Sailing Barge Cambria at night in St Katharine Docks

Thursday saw me down in Hastings catching up with Pud Lady and Tom, helping with and then sharing lunch and then being beaten badly by PL at Scrabble. She will read this, of course, so I can't be too rude, but we do have a good laugh with the Scrabble because she is always dreaming up devious cheating manouvres which she tells me are allowed when you are over 85 years old. There is a rule somewhere, apparently. You can write words upwards, diagonally or even detached from the rest of the grid, plus you can use shamelessly foreign words like "quinze" (15) or initials like 'TT' (tee-total) if it means you can lay your cunning word alongside an existing one in order to put your 'X' or 'Z' on a triple word. Who am I to argue? Just the obedient son........ To be fair in her defence, I should add that she also got lots of genuine and very clever, high scoring words without breaking any rules, 'Friezes' for example across a treble letter, completing 2 other sizable words into the bargain.

Those famous poppies at the Tower of London

From Hastings, back to Diamond's via Mazy's near Faversham for another lovely chat and to collect a cake and a jar of tomato chutney for the barge folk. John and I bought fish and chips (Ahhh the nostalgia) from our old favourite outlet, the Park Fish Bar in Faversham. Diamond is, as regular readers will know, not at all well and did not feel up to the fishy feast but she enjoyed us enjoying it. Local pub, The Elephant also operates a draught beer take-away service, where you can buy 2 pints of any of their guest draughts in a 'Tetra-pack' style container to bring home. We chose the mild Kent stout 'Canterbury Ale' and the paler (Rother Valley Brewery) 'Boadicea', both excellent.

Boozy reception and boaters' prize giving on board Cambria

And so to London to hand back the car at Gatwick and find my way through to St Katharine Docks to "join my ship". This was the Sailing Barge Cambria which was in town as part of Boris Johnson's "Totally Thames" festival and St Kat's "Classic Boat Weekend". Cambria is always a big attraction at such things - she is huge and tall so she can be seen for miles, she is free to enter (donations welcome!) and because she has no engine or terribly 'dangerous bits', parents and kids can come on board and go pretty much anywhere, up and down the three companionways.

Raffle prize - a nice jeroboam of red in
a hand painted bottle.

We make sure there are plenty of volunteers about to act as guides, to man the boarding stairs, to work the shop and, this year, the teas, coffees and cakes. I love to do the guiding and I am told that I have a natural gift of the gab (Blarney?) and often get a rapt group of listeners as I waffle on about 170 tonnes of cargo, 11 inches of free board amidships, lee boards and sprit-sail rigs. We opened the barge on Friday afternoon, plus all of Saturday (where we saw a record 1705 souls come through and hosted a gang of shanty singers who wanted to raise money on our behalf by passing round the bucket used for sluicing down our deck) and on Sunday till 4 pm (1125 people). We were exhausted, aching of foot from standing up all day and sore of throat from speechifying.

Former Mate on Cambria (in trade), Dick Durham (left)
judges and presents the champagne prizes. 

At 4 we closed the shop and became Reception Venue of for a fun and lighthearted prize giving for the boat owners at the festival (71 more people!). There were all manner of daft categories as well as the 'best dressed' (with bunting) award - fizz went to the best fairy lights, a 'travelling light' award to a Belgian guy who had left his clothes behind, to a bizarre combination of best dog and deck furniture, and to the 'spirit of the Festival', a guy who found some lost jewelry in the Marina washrooms and managed to return it to its owner. It was all a bit mad and great fun. Judging, invention of categories and prize giving were done by friend and former in-trade Mate of the barge, Dick Durham, now a writer for Yachting Monthly magazine.

St Kat's Marina is now all 'done up' and renovated as chi-chi posh apartments, cafés and restaurants and the Marina had arranged for boat owners to get a discount card, so we ate in the evenings, in those eateries, sipping our house red and watching the marina's comings and goings and the beautiful lights on the craft, reflected in the water. They were all warm, sunny days and balmy evenings; we were very lucky with the weather.

Mapp and Lucia kill a blown cabbage

My journey home was going to be another 'innocents abroad' job. Although I had traversed London calmly enough on Friday to get to St Kat's, that was at lunchtime with no frantic commuters about, just me and a thin selection of ambling, confused 'tourists'. An early flight on Monday meant that I'd have to travel home during rush hour. I had visions of me clinging to an underground walk-way wall, face like a rabbit caught in the headlights, watching the torrent of determined and unsympathetic 'suits' flow purposefully past me.

My Bee's Lemon survived the slugs

No such drama in the end. I'd set the alarm for 06:45 and walked to Tower Hill tube by 07:15 with nobody much about yet. My District Line train to Victoria filled up but I'd bought my Gatwick Express ticket on Friday, so I marched through the crowds in Victoria to grab my seat on that, made Gatwick with half an hour to spare before I needed to check in, so checked in anyway and went to find some breakfast.

Roast Guinea fowl 'welcome home' supper. Not one of
our birds!

It was a nice easy flight home with the plane only 1/3 full, so nobody next to me in '25A'. Liz met me from Knock and delivered me home. I love the trip and the Cambria stuff but it is always lovely to be home to Liz, one of Liz's welcome home meals (Guinea fowl roast followed by raspberry and blackberry 'cranachan'), to the livestock and to our own bed. Happy, weary traveler.

Dust Collectors

At risk of being seen as dust collectors, Dad has enjoyed being able to bring over to the new house his esoteric collection of 2CV models etc. This sat around the bay window in Faversham and was probably the bane of anyone's life who ever tried to dust in there (hey Angel B?). Well it all made the journey via BGL to the new house and is now being broken out again and has earned its place lined up along the book shelf-cum-mantle shelf in the spare bedroom. Some of these models are mini works of art. In France, where the 2CV is obviously an icon you can find all through the flea markets and tat shops, little 2CV models made from old tin cans, usually with the original design of the tin left on, so your 2CV will carry Schweppes soft drink logos or Coca Cola. One of our favourites is made from the tin which used to contain cockroach killer (Anti-Cafard). It always amused Mum, Dad and Diamond that the French go in for whole shops proudly geared to rat traps, vermin control, cockroach sprays and so on. None of your hidden-in-a-back-shelf delicacy for these French traders - great big logos in the front window with huge pictures of cockroaches, rats, mice, fleas etc and in-your-face gung-ho pictures of dead ones, weapons to kills them and so on. The "Anti-Cafard" shop in the 18th Arrondisement (Montmartre) was always a must-see landmark in their tours of Paris. So, finding an actual Anti-Cafard 2CV model was a treasured find! Also a picture of me finding out what the sink in the Utility Room is there for. I'm told this is because I rolled in some Charolais poo, but I can't see that's a good justification, can you? Mad Deefs

And they Waddled Away

Our final full day at this address, and it's as hot and stupifying as all the previous week, making us all just feel like a good lie down instead of an arduous day's packing, cleaning and preparing to move out. Mum attacks the kitchen cupboards assisted by the Angel Betty and Dad sets about the greenhouse and shed. The new buyers are due to arrive at 11 to help Jezz-the-Windows in removing the bay window main panel once again, so that they can lift their sofa in. They have 2 sofas, but they decide that only one will really fit inside the room, so the buyer's Ma and Pa are collecting the other one later. The buyers decide to wait here, so they end up helping Dad clear the Greenhouse.

Eventually Ma and Pa arrive , the spare sofa is loaded and they are out of here till tomorrow when they actually take over the property. Mum and Dad get stuck into dump runs and final blitzing, working their ways in from the periphery to the hall then the front door assigning all the remaining stuff to one of the three cars, to 'give away' or to the tip. By about 2 the heat's getting too much for any of us and we all retreat for a good lie down.

The Angel B comes up trumps with an offer of supper and drinks. Mum and Dad jump at the chance to sit in proper comfortable chairs and eat at a table - they are all getting a bit fed up of camping and eating off paper plates on their knees on folding chairs..

And so to the final night here, on the mattress on the main bedroom floor. Tomorrow is a day for the final few dump runs, cramming everything that's left into the cars and getting them dispersed off the drive. This has to be by 13:00 legally, but Dad has arranged with the buyers that we all meet in the drive for a hand over at some point late morning.

Sadly, Dear Reader, this will also be cause of a break in transmission. As Dad finishes his contract with British Telecom and they turn off the landline, so too does the broadband service get turned off. We will be unable to see the internet for a few days till we get a broadband Wi-Fi dongle sorted out, so no more Deefer-Dawg for a few days. We have tried to get this sorted in this town but the only mobile phone shop here is run by an inept 12 year old with the intelligence of a ham sandwich, so we have not succeeded so far. When we pop up again it will be on the new email address (not that you'll need to know that). Meanwhile, not much point commenting on this blog through normal channels - email us off line if you want us to know anything

So, for now, wish us all luck and good fortune in our moving about, hoping that we stay safe and return to normal transmissions as soon as possible in the Brand New Life. Project Erroll is game on!

See you soon

Deefs

Pie and Mash (Twice)

AS part of neighbour Jim's ongoing 75th birthday celebrations, he and the Angel Betty are off to re-live their London-bred youth with a traditional Pie and Mash meal at local pub The Ship in Ospringe. Betty hails from Dagenham and then Westham, Jim from Customhouse, so they are London through and through, both having made trips down here at hop picking time along with thousands of their neighbours while they were young and then moving down here to live and to own pubs in the area.

Bet and Jim are going with some friends locally and when Mum and Dad express an interest in this trad food they get invited to join in. In fact many of the London-born but now local folk enjoy these nights, and descend on the pub for this, once a month, including Bob, who used to own a Pie and Mash shop in Canning Town. There is plenty of banter between tables as they all know each other.

The food is (Meat) Pie, with, Mum and Dad, a water-based flaky pastry, mashed potatoes and a greenish-white parsley sauce which was traditionally made with the liquor from stewing eels - this is called 'liquor'. Bet says you would sprinkle vinegar over the mash, and Jim also adds pepper. So delicious that Dad piles through it, starving and then when some of the guys decide to go round again (leaving out the mash), Dad goes round again including the mash. Respect!

The beer is good too, says Dad (Fuller's London Pride) and it's great company so they all enjoy themselves and have a thoroughly good evening.

Who ate all the pies?

Deefs

The Shipwright's Arms

Poor old Haggis is not very well and, naturally, as he is 14 years young, this is the cause of a certain anxiety among the humans, including the Angel Betty. He was off his food last night and spent the evening mooching around groaning and grumbling theatrically and was a bit sick at one stage.

This morning the humans cannot deny that they both crept anxiously down the stairs whispering "Please be OK!" and were immensely relieved to find the "H" strolling about un-concerned (and no longer groaning and grumbling). Mum left a message for the Angel B, who came round to check up on him each hour but only reported a coughing fit. Tonight he has his appetite back and is still not groaning, so we assume he's recovered from what ever it was.

Dad liked these pics, both taken from the deck of the SB Cambria last Sunday. This guy put-putted off down Faversham creek in his sail boat, midday-ish, sails furled, outboard running, black and white collie leppin' about under the (reefed) fore-sail. He returned under sail at about 2 pm, weaving interestingly with his dog running along the north bank. He'd presumably been for a lunch time drink at the Shipwright's Arms at Hollow Shore, which is accessible from the Creek side.

Every now and then the dog (who you can just see centre left in the pic, up on the grass bank) would judge himself far enough ahead to run out across the mud and swim out to catch the boat, but he'd always get it slightly wrong and the drunken sailor would weave by the swimming dog, apparently oblivious of the dog's attempts to get back on board. The dog, disappointed, would paddle back to the bank, leap across the mud, shake himself and run on ahead again up the grass levee.

We presume eventually man and best friend were reunited but everyone probably needed a good lie-down by then!

Deefs

Number plates

Nice picture taken here by the Angel Betty, when she came round to let us all out for a comfort stop. What better place for a relaxing dog, than on the table on the sun terrace? Mind you, I look a bit anxious here, with my ears back, so maybe I think I'm not meant to be up there!

Nice that Betty takes some notice, Dad is completely distracted by the fact that the DVLA have finally sent through the registration for their project 2CV rebuild, Mademoiselle d'Armentieres. They're all delighted it's a proper historic plate, in pre-1965 format (123 ABC), rather than the more problematic "Q" plates. Don't ask.

Betty loves me.

Deefs

Shut out by the Angel

Possibly divine punishment for chewing that lighter. I love, at the moment, as soon as I'm released through the back door, to race down the garden and check out the builders and their cars through the beech hedge; the guys working on the huge building sit behind our house.

The Angel Betty had come round during the day to let us out and then had nipped upstairs for something. Shutting the door, she'd gone back round to her house. A couple of hours later, Jim was saying to her "Ahhhh.... (Deefer's Mum) must be back - is that Deefer I can hear barking?". Later still the Angel B had looked out the front and noticed that our car was not back, so she asked Jim "Are you sure she's back?".

They decided to check on me and my occasional shouts (it's these builders - they need telling!) and realised that they'd shut me out for a couple of hours. No damage done - it was a warm day. I had shot out while B was upstairs and then kept quiet while the Angel vamoosed! Cunning escape plot huh?

Have a great weekend

Deefer

Look what they DID to me!

Oh dear, Oh Dear. Look what they did to me! That Angel-Betty who is normally on my side! Doesn't she realise I have to face my gang on the Rec and beat them up occasionally. All my street cred will be gone! I can just hear that Ellie now, and Archie.... "They did WHAT to you?" I am meant to be a ruffty-tuffty Scottish Highland dog, out in all weathers, tirelessly pursuing vermin across the heather and bracken, fur full of burrs and wildlife, feet muddy from peat bogs, nose bloodied and eyes gimlet thin, the steely-eyed killer look.

Ah well - thanks for the photo's Angel-B. They are great!

Meanwhile, today finds us back in Portmarnock, at the Steak Lady's house, but the Steak Lady is away on hols, so the house, which is a B+B, is immaculate and quiet, with even the crackin' little Yorkie, Cracker, being dog-sat next door. I've been used to the Silverwood house, baby-M trying out his 1 year old vocals, J-M and Em-J racing about excited by all the Santa provisions, piles of toys and games and wrappings, toys that make tunes and noise electronically, like trains and planes, dog/child-friendly furnishings, dogs Chance and Sam periodically taking us on for bouts of play-fighting, comings and goings, and the voices of Silverwood and Mr-Em, plus our own Mum and Dad rising above it all. Mayhem, but Puppy-heaven.

I am afraid, I'm suited more to that than the peace, quiet and "keep off the furniture" of Mum (nursing, it has to be said, a minor hang-over) and Dad (scared stiff we'll break something or I might leave a small curl of poo somewhere bad). I have already been shoo-ed out of the "best room" when I was caught lifting every thing one-by-one out of a pot-pourri, so now I'm confined to the more dog friendly kitchen area, where there are at least dog toys. One (rather alarmingly) looks like a pink ghost and laughs like the Laughing Policeman when you chew it's arm

Never will suss humans. Why can't we just stay in Silverwood?

Deefer