Well, me old muckers... we seem to have made it.
To the end of tax return season that is. Just a day to go until HMRC (or HM Arsey as Renee calls 'em) start levying the fines. Except they've extended the deadline by two days because of some strike or other.
Those workers should be more dog-like. I'm always on strike. Except when it's walk time. Or food time. Or play time. Or treat time.
But I'm having a bit f break whilst me humans shove off on holiday. At 3 O'Clock on Sunday morning I was rudely awakened, plonked in the back of a car and driven 400 miles to Richard's parents. I was very pleased to get there, I can tell you.
So pleased I ran right passed them into their back garden pausing only to bite the one and only bud there was on a bunch of tulips shooting out of a plant pot, knocked over the bird bath, decided I needed a drink, slurped a full bowl of water and then promptly threw up over the lounge carpet.
I may have been a little too excited.
Since then, though, I've calmed meself down and am generally taken things easy. No more being marched to the shop at 7 in the morning without a chance of slipping the ol' lead, even for a few minutes.
Nope... it's up at 8, loaf out into the garden for me morning ablutions before a leisurely breakfast and a walk with old man Lambert down to the shop for the papers. Sit outside, looking cute and get me chin scratched by the little ol' lady before heading over to the park to pretend I like chasing a ball.
It's a leisurely life for me for a couple of weeks.
It's important, I think to re-charge the batteries and I'm sure Renee will come back off her holibags fighting fit and raring to go. I'll be right behind her. About 50 yards right enough.
