The worst kind of taco.

So, last night we were all hanging out in the front room, Madam was running around with Himself and Dude was lounging in my lap where he'd just taken a nap. We kept getting whiffs of a bad smell, and Himself mentioned it was something in the park, that he'd been smelling it for a couple of days. I assumed that's what it was as we had the windows open, but kept catching waves of this noxious reek and finally decided to check Dude's butt.

Yeah, it wasn't the park.

Himself got the cushion ready in the floor, got the nappy and wipes in place, and I handed Dude down. That's where shit got real. Himself merrily whipped Dude's trousers off.

Flinging.

Poo.

Everywhere.

It was all down his leg, up his back, everywhere. Then, due to the trouser whipping, it was all over Himself, all over the cushion, all over the floor. Everywhere. I had to carry Dude upstairs taco'd in the cushion, strip down the rest of him, deposit his pooey self in the tub and use the showerhead to blast the remnants down the drain. Several soapings later, he smelled significantly more boychild and less open cesspit.

We are glamorous, no?

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Lazy weekend.

Bliss. Sun, moglets, sun, loads of good food, sun, and Himself. Good combo, let me tell you. We let the moggies out sans leads for the first time on Thursday (sporting their new collars and tags, and freshly dosed with flea drops), just for about an hour to see how they handled it. Both of them tore headlong into the flowerbeds in search of new smells and the occasional bug to eat. On Friday I left the back doors of the conservatory flung open to let the seriously amazing weather in and the felines out. This turned into me sitting in the conservatory for longer than I'd care to admit, book discarded to one side because watching them chase bees, butterflies and each other was more amusing. Saturday morning dawned clear and sunny, so I hied myself down to the conservatory (as I woke up around half six and thought Himself might rather sleep a LITTLE longer...) for a bowl of muesli, a cup of peppermint tea, some reading and yet more book neglecting as I watched the lunatics conti

The real deal.

So, I thought I'd been having cravings for the last couple of weeks because I've been eating loads of tuna and pasta, seemed like that was all I wanted to eat. Tuna sandwiches with a cup of tomato soup to dip them in, and egg noodle pasta for some reason. That is, until Monday night. Monday night, Himself called me on his way home from work as usual and asked if we needed anything (again, as usual). I said no, that I'd already been to the store but I wasn't really hungry anyway, and that I'd see him when he got home. I settled in with the cats on the couch and started flicking channels, getting the girlie TV out of the way so that Himself wouldn't have to suffer through it when he got home... Half an hour later, it struck. All of a sudden, out of the blue, I was starving. It wasn't the usual "go rifle through the kitchen until I happen upon something that looks edible" hunger. It was specific, overpowering, CRAVING hunger. What did I want,

Dreams and other nocturnal habits.

I've always been a dreamer, in the literal sense. From a very young age I've been able to remember my dreams, and once I started a dream one night and finished it the next. This sounds great, and I've had some seriously fabulous nocturnal journeys through time and space, but on the flip side, not all dreams are good ones. I've had some proper toe-curling nightmares, and some of the worst ones have been in my adult years. The reason this is on my mind particularly right now is that I had a pretty gnarly one night before last, and during yesterday's aforementioned pestering phone call to my sister I told her about it. She told me that her boyfriend had been doing a little reading about dreams in general, and had researched (and actually put into practice) a tactic of dreaming deliberately. The research he found described the way to consciously go to sleep with a certain event or setting in mind, which basically ensures where your dreams will go. Apparently this

Random ramblings from the Texan in London.

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