Bruised, but not beaten…

Published January 25, 2012 by Claire

I took the dogs out yesterday morning, as I do every day.  It was a soggy day, but the dogs don’t give a monkey’s chuff about such trifles and plough quite happily through the marshiest bits they can find. Within about three minutes Daft Dog was brown from head to toe, and the only speck of white I could see were his eyes as he galloped towards me intent on planting his paws as firmly as he could onto my thighs. Thank god it wasn’t Mad Dog though, ‘cos she’s a foot taller and although this means she doesn’t get quite as mucky as the little ‘un, it also means her paws catch you firmly in the midriff and you collapse into the mud like a sack of sh*t!

Anyhoo, I managed to dodge the incoming Furry Mud Missile and proceeded in a nor-nor-westerly direction ( I don’t know if that’s true by the way), with Mad Dog prancing merrily in front of me waiting for me to throw her ball for her. Now, as I have the body of a weak and feeble woman (albeit one who ate all the pies), I’m not much of a bowler, so I have one of these ball-throwy-thingies so that Mad Dog gets enough exercise. Also, as I’m a girl, I throw underarm.

So I draw the arm back behind me,  and I swing the ball-throwy-thingie forward with as much force as I can muster. And on the forward swing, it gets caught in my dangly dog-walking-cardigan pocket (so glamorous, you can’t even imagine) in which resides my stupidly large bunch of doorkeys. The doorkeys join in the general upward swoop and don’t stop until they connect quite firmly with the corner of my right eye, and for a few moments I absent myself from the world around me whilst I try to work out

  1. Who the very feck I am;
  2. What just happened, and above all;
  3.  Am I brave enough to put my hand up and find out if  I’m bleeding to death?

Dear Reader, you’ll be glad to know (depending who you are of course) I wasn’t, and didn’t, bleed to death. I do have a rather fetching bruise though, which I can’t quite cover with makeup. Super.

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