Make me better

I have a stinking cold.  You know how you shouldn't ........but antibiotics really help.  I had some hanging about from a previous ailment.  I can't say I feel fine but I feel a lot better than I did and that is not just my cold clearing up.  I am full of it.

Now, I am being very makey these days.  I made a tea towel bag at a workshop last week which is superb and I have a big sewing bag on the go - instructions a bit wordy but I am getting there with much help from lovely neighboury person Who gave me the pattern.

On Wednesday at sewing group I got elected to be bookmaker - not taking bets but person who has to make a Christmas book then demo it to all and get them all to make Christmas books to hang on a tree.  Fun or nightmare?  Mine will be very arty. I want to get on with this but no chance with a stinking cold, a bouncy puppy, a bag to make and a Mr Smith demanding a meal.  I also want to make Donna a lovely bag for her birthday.  60.  Blimey we're all getting old.  How scarey!

And now back to bed with pills. 

House party

People are coming and the pudding has gone wrong.

We have slain a fatted lobster, hung temporary curtains as the new ones are still with the curtain lady and cleaned and spruced our house.  The boys have come home and messed it all up again.  I still have to finish the headboard I am making for the other spare room and trying to get the dog wee off the bedcover in the small bedroom. That damned puppy; he ate yew berries and had mammoth shits all over the kitchen floor.  He starts school on Monday.

On Thursday evening Glen the Good hosted a giant ice bucket challenge at the pub.  He rigged up plastic half barrels on a scaffold, stuck everyone underneath it and you can imagine the rest.  I watched from the safety of my nice dry house and popped round afterwards to congratulate some very wet people.  It was a brilliant event and raised over £500 for a local charity.  Well done everyone.

My weight stayed the same this week, yet again.  I really despair.  I might have to actually do the diet in order to shift some pounds.  I will this week but this weekend might be a bit tricky.  Actually, the pudding has gone wrong so I might be safe.

And now to be the hostess of the mostest despite Mr Smith's best efforts to scupper the weekend.  He has bought the tiniest leg of lamb to feed the five thousand.  It will be a case of Is that nice for you? as he serves each person a teeny slither of meat on their plate.  Oh well, they will have to eat lots of pudding - oh they can't, it's gone horribly wrong.  

Number Six

We went to the dog show.  He came sixth.  Our puppy who hadn't a clue what he was supposed to be doing, sat down and had a bit of a scratch then bounced about instead of walking nicely and tried to play with the other well behaved pups.  Useless.  But he won a rosette ... which he ate when he got home.  I now own the sixth best puppy in the world.  We are so proud.  There were only seven pups in the whole class.

I love things like that - local dog show.  It was fun and low key and all the dogs were nice and not growly and their owners were delightful.  We watched several events - puppies, seniors, young handlers (best dog with a child), greyhounds and we left at friendliest dog which looked a bit over subscribed.

And now he is exhausted.

Eaty Arty

We have been eating rather well of late.  Mr Smith is getting wonderful dinners every night. My new cook book arrived The Hairy Dieters.  We have followed their recipes to the letter and made some amazing meals.  The portions are rather on the large side as they are for big hungry hairy bikers rather than fat little artists so I get it for lunch next day.  Haven't lost an ounce.  Actually, this is because I went on the razzle on Tuesday and got slaughtered.  I still feel hungover and it's Saturday.

Hythe dog show today.  We are taking the puppy and putting him through his paces.  He is hopeless at anything that involves obedience and is totally thick so the agility course should be a hoot. He looks pretty.

Took the eldest fruit of my loins to a Folkestone for the day on Thurs where there was some dreadful art passed off as the Folkestone Triennial - the sort of thing that required a lot of words to describe its conceptuality.  We didn't see Yoko Ono's step ladder or Andy Goldworthy's stairs with cement chucked down them but fell in love with the ticket office, a giant seagull with a window in its wing.  Thank God Mr Smith wasn't with us.

My pompom shoulder injury nags on.  Much better but still apparent.