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Let’s Just Have A Think About That

30 Mar

Few of us truly understand how directly beliefs can affect the spiritual, emotional and physical health of ourselves and our world. Sometimes this is positive; for example, one might believe that her experiences as an international mover-and-shaker are interesting enough to share in books. Those books are then read worldwide and make even the lowliest of people stop before swallowing the whole bottle of pills and promise to dedicate their lives to being more fabulous, which improves the entire global community. However, things don’t always go so nicely. A person might believe that those without enormous trust funds don’t deserve basic human rights and then do his level best to fuck up the lives of others once he becomes Chancellor of the Exchequer.

thinkSince what we believe has power, it’s important to think critically about what we think about whatever we’re thinking about. Too frequently we just follow along with the ideas our friends and family, the media or taxi drivers pass on to us.  Often we just buy into what are called “commonly held” beliefs without ever questioning them, and that’ll end up leading to nothing but trouble: from small hassles within our own households to devastating world wars and natural catastrophes. It takes time and energy to think critically, of course, but as usual, I’m here to help. Let’s debunk a few assumptions that most people seem to just take for granted as truth and examine their possible consequences.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away

There’s no need to worry about doctors showing up at your house unnecessarily: most doctors don’t make house calls, so if you really don’t want to see one, just don’t go into the surgery. Of course apples are tasty and good to eat, but we need to stop perpetuating the fear of doctors stalking our homes because it scares little children who sometimes have to walk past hospitals on their way to school.

Breaking a mirror means seven years of bad luck

A mirror is simply a fancy pants piece of glass that reflects whatever you put in front of it. Breaking a mirror has no more negative affect that breaking a champagne flute: if you step on a piece, you could cut your foot but other than that, it’s no biggie. If you’re really worried about seven years bad luck, instead avoid getting married.

Waking a sleepwalker could be dangerous

First off, sleepwalking doesn’t exist: the person is pretending. Why do you think you always find your husband sleepwalking his way to the whorehouse? The next time you encounter a sleepwalker, throw a lit match at them and you’ll see how quickly “waking” one can actually prevent a dangerous situation.

Dropping a penny from the Empire State Building can kill a person

This belief encourages people to throw away their money and perhaps without it, the economy would be in better shape. If you want to kill a person on the sidewalk below, the best bet is to drop a bullet out of gun while aiming it at their head.

Goldfish have a two second memory span

Why do you even care? What are you doing to your goldfish that is making you obsess over how well they remember things? The truth is goldfish have wonderful memories—I personally have met goldfish who can remember the Korean War in great detail so just watch yourself.

Eating a dictionary can improve your vocabulary

The ink used in dictionaries can stain one’s teeth and cannot be properly processed by a human’s digestive system. To improve your vocabulary, read more books and do more crosswords.

Unfortunately, I can’t be there with you all the time and if I have ever promised to be, I’m guessing I was probably drunk at the time. Please use these examples as models to question all of your beliefs. Hold tight to the solid, helpful ones and dump the others. Many local communities have salvage centres where you can drop off dumb ideas that can be recycled into jewelry and household goods which can then be purchased on Etsy.

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No Raccoon Has Ever Lied To Me

2 Feb

Raccoons-bite-baby-sleeping-in-cribI’ve never seen a raccoon in England. If you’re not familiar with them, they’re furry grey animals with fluffy tails. A bit like squirrels except less squirrel-ish and more raccoon-ish. Their most distinct feature is the black mask across their face, making them look like fluffy bandits. Cute! What I like most about raccoons, though, is that they are incredibly trustworthy.

This may come as a shock to you, but as a child, I lived for eight months in Canada. My mother led me to believe that this location change was due to my father’s draft dodging. Alas, I was too young to realise that not only was the draft not enacted at the time, the US was not even at war. Nonetheless, to this day, I still see my father as a conscientious objector, and I look back at those months with great fondness.

One afternoon I decided to head out for a long walk in the Canadian wilderness. I went out with one of my brothers (or sisters, I don’t remember exactly, and does it really matter?). We hiked through the woodland, making small talk and pausing frequently for me to capture nature with my Kodak Instamatic.

It was mid-July. While most of us tend to think of cold when we think of Canada, I can assure you it was well hot. After an hour or so, my brother (or sister) and I were regretting not bringing drinks with us and decided to head home. However, we had lost our way and raccoon-wallpaper-10-752390neither of us had a compass with us. As we were plotting out our plan back to safety, I noticed a little raccoon with her kits in a nearby tree. I stood up to take a snap (even in times of danger, I am committed to my work as a documentarian) when I swear the mother beckoned me towards her. I cried out, and she and her babes scuttled down the tree and took off. We ran over to where the raccoons had been, and spelled out in pebbles at the root of the tree was the word “wow.”

“What do you think it means?” my puzzled sibling asked me.

I walked slowly around the message. From a different angle, it spelled out “mom.” So I determined that the raccoon was either directing us towards something worth seeing or leading us to our mother. Either way, we decided to follow and took off in the direction in which the animals had fled.

We quickly caught up with the raccoon family, primarily because they had thoughtfully stopped to wait for us. Again the mother used her little paw to urge us forward. As we made our way through the trees, we began to hear the sounds of a waterfall and then of gleeful laughter. We were almost home safe!

As we rounded a corner, though, it quickly became clear that we were not at the Whitt-Wellington homestead but rather the raccoon had led us to a park for nudists. My brother (or sister, whatever) and I stood transfixed as we watched the nudie grown-ups frolicking in the water, lying in the sun and bending over to pick flowers. For a few moments, we were frozen in our tracks. Then, we turned our heads away from the spectacle and saw the raccoons running away, so we followed again for quite some time until we ended up behind a police station. We went in, our folks were called, and eventually we got home. Neither my sibling nor I mentioned the nudists to the cops, our parents or each other. That day I learned what a naked man looks like, and all I could say was “wow” (read whatever tone you want into that). The other thing I learned was that raccoons can be trusted.

I bring this up today because it is 2 February, also known as Groundhog Day in America. In Pennsylvania, a whole bunch of people get together to listen to a groundhog called Punxsutawney Phil predict Groundhogs are Liarsthe weather. (If you’re not familiar with groundhogs, they look nothing like raccoons.) If Phil sees his shadow, it means six more weeks of winter; if he doesn’t see his shadow, an early spring is coming. The problem is, of course, that groundhogs are notorious liars, and Phil’s predictions are usually wrong.

Don’t go to groundhogs for your information. If you want the truth—however harsh, wrinkly or dangly it might be—a raccoon will lead you to it. If you want to know the weather, however, simply look out your window.

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Hair of the Dog That Bit You

1 Jan

If you’re feeling inspired and came here for some advice on resolutions, don’t be a fool. I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions and neither do you; you’re just pretending. What you’re describing as inspiration is guilt.

That’s the problem with most of us: we get confused about our feelings. We say we love our partners, but if we’d just look a little more closely, what we really feel is hate. We say our friendships are motivated by loyalty, but they’re not: it’s usually envy (how you may feel towards me) or pity (how I may feel towards you).

I’m guessing that a fair few of you are waking rather “hungover.” You probably would describe it as a headache or tummy upset, and I’ve no doubt you are ascribing it to the copious amounts of liquor you lapped up during last night’s celebrations and/or commiserations. Of course, alcohol can eff your body up good and proper, but what are you really feeling? Regret? Shame? Impregnated?

These are the symptoms no hangover cure can help you with.  Fortunately, my insight into the true workings of the human body (including the mind) can. Follow these directions—to the letter—and you’ll feel better.

1. Look yourself in the face (you will probably need a mirror to do so).

2. Notice the regret in your eyes (indicated by a red tinge, drooping eyelids or dark circles).

3. Consider what caused that regret (this may be a specific event or just an acknowledgement of your general failure as a productive human being).

4. Notice the shame on your face (indicated by blotches on the skin, hickeys on the neck or the red itchiness around your mouth as an HSV-1 blister prepares to burst forth).

5. Consider what caused this shame (make a note to call for an STD/pregnancy test on Tuesday).

6. Comment aloud about how unattractive regret and shame look on you. If you live with someone, get them to tell you you’re hideous.

7. Drink one litre of freshly juiced kale, lemon and garlic (if items are not available—and they probably won’t be because you’re not one to plan ahead, are you—drink eight ounces of milk that has gone off—which I bet you’ve got at least a pint of in your fridge).

8. Vomit.

9. Splash cold water on your regret- and shame-stamped face.

10. Get into bed and think about things until you weep yourself to sleep.

I guarantee tomorrow you’ll wake up renewed and ready to change your life. Or at least your sheets.

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Apologies: The Good, The Bad and The Tuneful

22 Sep

Apologies should be rather simple affairs. A good apology needs to do three things:

  • be genuine
  • admit responsibility
  • indicate a willingness to change

At this point, you’re probably with me. You’re probably thinking of all the times you’ve been wronged and how you deserved an apology which embraces the three concepts outlined above. However, just hold up there, Nelly. Let’s talk about you for a second here. When was the last time you gave a real apology? When you said sorry for bumping into that old man on the bus, were you genuinely remorseful? I actually saw you and could tell that you didn’t mean it at all. So maybe you shouldn’t get up on your high horse and actually listen and learn.

Nick Clegg should have listened and learned as well. By now you have seen/read about/ridiculed/sung along with his recent apology video.

You know I have a bit of a soft spot for old Cleggers—I can’t help it, I tend to take pity of the pathetic and lonely in our society. But if he was intending to win back supporters with a heartfelt mea culpa, he failed miserably. Let’s analyse!

We made a promise before the election that we would vote against any rise in fees under any circumstances. But that was a mistake. It was a pledge made with the best of intentions, but we shouldn’t have made a promise we weren’t absolutely sure we could deliver. I shouldn’t have committed to a policy that was so expensive when there was no money around, not least when the most likely way we’d end up in government was in coalition with Labor or the Conservatives who were both committed to put fees up. I know that we fought to get the best policy we could in those circumstances, but I also realise that isn’t the point. There’s no easy way to say this: we made a pledge, we didn’t stick to it, and for that, I am sorry. When you’ve made a mistake, you should apologise. But more important, most important of all, you’ve got to learn from your mistakes. And that’s what we will do. I will never again make a pledge unless as a party, we are absolutely clear about how we can keep it.

Here’s why it’s crap:

Is it genuine?
No, I don’t believe it to be. Why not? Because I don’t believe what Nick Clegg says anymore. Sorry, liars, but this is what happens when you lie. It’s hard for others to believe anything you say after you prove that you say things that aren’t true.

Does he admit responsibility?
No. He blames it on his innocence, his confusion about how the government machine works. “There was no money around”? Really? There was enough money for seventy four launches of the Big Society, there was enough money for loads of bullshit, because that’s how government works. Everyone—even the Lib Dems—knows that’s how government works.

Also, by claiming “the most likely way we’d end up in government was in coalition,” Clegg is saying the Liberal Democrats never had a chance. That wasn’t what he was saying before the election, and it’s not what people believed after the debates. I know it’s hard to imagine now, but many people voted for the Lib Dems because they wanted Nick Clegg to be prime minister. For him to now say, ‘we didn’t know how hard government is, the big boy rules are way tougher than we thought,’ well, that’s just poor, Nick.

Does it indicate a willingness to change?
No, even though he wanted it to. If we look closely at the “learn from your mistakes” section, we see that what he’s really saying is that he won’t make pledges anymore unless he’s sure he can keep them. But nothing in politics is ever guaranteed. What he should have said is in future he will keep his promises.

As I’ve said before, it’s wisest to avoid having to apologise by not fucking up in the first place. But we’re all humans and humans do mistakes. It’s never easy to make a public apology—from Jimmy Swaggart’s to David Letterman’s—it’s a difficult act to pull off. Perhaps Nick Clegg should have studied the master of the political apology: Richard Nixon.

It’s clearly genuine as the regret is written all over his face. By repeating “I let down,” he shows he is taking full responsibility for his mistake. And was he willing to change? Well, he never tried to cover up any break-ins ever again. In fact, in 1982, when he had to bust out his car window because he’d locked the keys inside, he took out a full page ad in the New York Times detailing the entire event. Nixon’s apology changed his legacy forever. Did you hear those tributes that poured in after he died? People were able to forget about his criminal actions, the thousands of people killed by his military decisions, and the tons of other damage he did to American society and democracy. The flags were at half mast for a whole month, for Christ’s sake!

That could have been you, Nick!

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I Rarely Sleep With Liars

25 May

I’m not one to fall for silly lines. I can’t count the times I’ve been told I was the “first” or the “only true” or the “most bendable” love a man has had, and I have always seen right through his strategy. Men are often confused by what they see as women’s unrelenting commitment to truth. Of course, truth is important to women, as it should be for all right-minded people regardless of the layout of their pubic areas.

But truth is a complicated concept, and a brief explanation of the nuances between the different kinds of truth is warranted.

THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH

No one wants this. It’s too ugly. Although witnesses in court cases are threatened with a needle in the eye, neither the prosecuting nor defense table really wants anyone telling the whole truth. The last time you waterboarded someone, you probably asked them to tell you the whole truth. What if their truth was actually “I will say whatever you want me to say to get you to stop doing this”? You’d look a fool. Anyone with a lick of sense can see that this kind of truth isn’t helpful to any situation or military conflict.

LIES, DAMNED LIES

Now obviously this route is neither correct nor seemly. We all know this: telling one lie leads to another lie and another and then it’s a pack of them. Not only is it horrible, but it’s also very difficult to keep track of. It’s one of the great lessons of childhood—remember the itsy bitsy spider who weaved the web of lies because she was practicing to deceive the old woman who swallowed the fly? Your grandmother didn’t tell you that story for nothing, you know.

THE FACTS BUT NOT THE DETAILS

Generally this is the appropriate level of truth for almost all situations. Details do one of two things: hurt another person or make you look like a twat. An appropriate fact would be “Yes, I saw the defendant hanging around the office building”; there’s no reason to add “so I invited him in and gave a passkey to the safe.” It’s a subtle balance, and you’ll often be pressed to give as many details as you can, but resist.

Let’s look at a couple typical scenarios men and women find themselves in where the “truth” often plays a key role.

Do I look fat in this?

Don’t say: “Yes, you look fatter than I’ve ever seen you. Take off the offending item immediately and hide your shame. You shall not be attending the ball with me tonight.”

Don’t say: “What on earth are you talking about? You look thinner than Angelina Jolie” (if she actually does, immediately get her to a medical professional).

Do say: “It shows off the real you, and that’s the you I love.”

Did you cheat on me with that woman?

Don’t say: “I did, and it was the most fantastic shag of my life, partly because of the illicit nature of the encounter and partly because she let me do that thing you said you’d die before letting me do again. Therefore I intend to keep seeing her, but I don’t see any reason to let my cheating change our relationship at all, so would you make me a sandwich, please?”

Don’t say:  “I don’t know what you are talking about. Someone has clearly Photoshopped that picture of me having sex with her in my dental chair afterhours when I claimed I was away at an orthodontist convention.”

Do say: “I did because I am a small man in more ways than one. If you forgive me, I’ll be forever indebted, but I’ll also understand if you change your Facebook relationship status to single and get new locks on the house.”

Of course, the easiest way to deal with the truth is to take a little care in advance. If you’re about to do something that one day you may need to tell a lie about, the most sensible approach is just not to do it. Don’t take the money from the till. Don’t text a photo of your erection. Don’t marry a fat woman. It isn’t too difficult to understand.

But men are fallible creatures and seem to get themselves into troublesome situations at the drop of a hat. You’re welcome for my helpful advice.

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More Fool You

1 Apr

Words. Essentially the idea behind them is that you scrawl a few symbols next to each other onto a piece of paper, and if someone familiar with your language sees them, they’ll be able to read that word and know exactly what you mean. Let’s look at an example:

BUTTERCUP

If you speak English, you’ll know that those symbols put together mean this:

However, if you’re of a certain age with an obsession for pop culture references, this might have come to mind instead:

Or, god forbid, this:

So now we see that words can be a little more complicated than we first thought.

There are thousands and thousands of words in English and at least 100% of those words have more than one meaning. Last night after tea, I had a delicious pudding that many of you may be familiar with—gooseberry fool. It was light and creamy and just so dreamy that I confess I had seconds.

Yet the word fool has other meanings. It can refer to a different noun, meaning “silly or stupid person.” Believe it or not, it can even be a verb, “to trick or deceive.” Often when a person has been “tricked or deceived,” they are considered to be a fool. Ironically, the opposite is true. I am not unaware of a man who considers himself an expert at “fooling” people—I’ll refer to him as Mr X as I’m quite good friends with his wife, Mrs Patrick Grayson Harrison, and I don’t want to embarrass her. Mr X seems to believe quite strongly that he can fool others—sometimes by telling an untruth and sometimes by leaving gaps in the information he shares. One evening he told his wife that work had kept him late, when actually he had gone ten-pin bowling with his mates. A few months later when his wife asked how his day had gone, he said “Fine,” when he had in fact been severely reprimanded by his employer for shoddy work on a report. Now no doubt at the time he was actively tricking her, he was thinking, “My wife is such a fool.” However, she always found out the truth. So not only was Mr X’s deception revealed but his attempt at fooling only added extra nastiness to the whole affair. In the end, as is clear to all and sundry, it was Mr X who was proving himself to be the silly or stupid person.

Now believe it or not, some words are even more complicated. Take a word like “hurt.” It can be a verb, noun and even an adjective! What the eff? How are we to ever tell what a person really means?

Considering that words are the basis for our communication, it’s no wonder we get confused sometimes. The best we can do is be precise in the words we speak and thoughtful in the way we listen.

And it’s probably best for everyone to just avoid all types of fools—unless it’s the gooseberry kind, to which I say, Thirds, please!

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Today is A Saturday

17 Mar

Saturdays are good days for most people: the first day off from the work week, but not the last. A day to sleep in. A day to spend doing whatever it is you (not your boss) want you to do.

But if you live in America, this Saturday is not a good day. This Saturday is a very bad day.

Why? Because today is St. Patrick’s Day. Now if you’re Irish, St. Patrick’s Day will probably mean something to you—after all, St. Patrick is your patron saint and God knows patron saints are important on this side of the Atlantic (one of the prep questions for the British citizenship test requires would-be citizens to name the four saints and put their holidays in calendar order, though this hardly seems indicative of being ready to be British). So Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you lot. I’ve got nothing against the Irish (except Bono): you gave us Graham Linehan and Dara O Briain, so no doubt you’ll be relieved to know you’re all right by me.

But I do have something against the American celebration of St. Patrick’s Day. First off, for almost every other day of the year, Americans are all about America. If you say you’re African-American, that’s political correctness gone mad and you’re asked to show papers indicating that you or one of your parents actually came from Africa (and it’d better be from one of the countries in Africa that Americans actually know). You might hear the term “Arab-American” bandied about; this is just fancy talk for terrorist. And if someone calls themselves Mexican-American, this is likely to mean: drug smuggler, job stealer, and/or lazy bones. Americans like Americans (Native ones the exceptions, of course). The USA is all about only full-blooded Americans.

Except on St. Patrick’s Day.

Then all of a sudden, everyone is Irish-American. Proving you’re Irish-American is relatively easy, no papers need to be produced. Here is the test:

1. Are you from Boston? If so, you pass.

2. Have you heard of u2, the potato famine or Riverdance? Please go to the head of the class.

3. Do you like drinking and do you own anything green? That’s good enough.

From TheOnion.Com. Read it, then read this: LiterallyUnbelievable.Org

St. Patrick’s Day in America is not about celebrating Irish heritage or any of St. Patrick’s super great deeds (apparently we’re talking a thousand miracles here, people). St. Patrick’s Day in America is about getting drunk. Then getting drunk again. And if you’ve got the time, you can sneak in one more getting drunk. This means it is also about vomiting, and since many drink green beer (because they’re hardcore Irish, you see), this means green vomit. And the fact that this year, St. Patrick’s Day falls on a Saturday when most (save vicars) don’t need to get up to work the next morning, well, it’s going to get ugly.

In case you think I’m hating on Americans, I’m not. As you know there is plenty to love about my little old United States of America. I don’t hate Americans. I don’t hate anyone. Except Bono.

I hate Bono.

Note: Yes, I do also hate Jeremy Irons. But I’m saving that wrath for 23 April.

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‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

24 Dec
Twas the night before Christmas, when into the house
Creeped little drunk Christopher, the Yuletide souse.
The Alka Seltzer was left right next to the Aga,
In hopes he would grab it instead of some lager.
 
Miss Agatha was nestled all snug in her bed,
Dreams of an incident-free Christmas danced in her head,
Though she quite certain it was too much to ask,
When she discovered that Christopher had taken her flask.
 
When in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,
She sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
She put on her slippers and her silk dressing gown,
Nipped out of the bedroom and headed straight down.
 
The amber of the streetlamp flooded the room
As she entered the kitchen, filling with gloom.
When, what to her wondering eyes did she spy,
But a little-too-merry boy, starting to cry.
 
Though he had promised this year to abstain,
She instantly thought, “Here we go again.”
He claimed to be sorry right down to his core,
Though he was interrupted when he fell to the floor.
 
Oh Stella! Oh, WKD! Oh, Malibu and Coke!
You’ve turned Christopher’s promises into a joke.
The night before Christmas is a time to deck halls,
But he’s pissed away, pissed away, pissed away all!

 

I hope your Christmas Eve did not include what has now become a tradition round here, a young man coming in intoxicated and spewing what are clearly the issues he has with his mother onto me. For once I’d like to fall asleep on Christmas Eve, dreaming of sugarplums, rather than questioning my level of tolerance that allows this pisshead to live in my home.

If you prefer the traditional version, enjoy and Happy Christmas to all.

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Service With A Smile

11 Dec

No doubt this month you’ve been faced with a queue of some sort. Perhaps you were posting your holiday cards or getting a flu shot or purchasing a gift for a person you admire (note: my ring size is 4.5). You were probably annoyed by having to wait and when you finally got service, you were expecting a little compassion from the person behind the counter. After all, you’re a busy, important person and your time is valuable. If a service provider makes you wait, the least they can do is apologise, right?

I’m afraid I am unable to back you up on this one. As you know, I greatly admire manners and would love to be greeted with a smile by everyone who serves me. However, I also believe in keeping things in perspective.

Just for a moment, consider that person who is serving you. How’s their day going? While standing in line waiting to buy something is a pain, standing at the till ringing up other people’s purchases isn’t a barrel of laughs, you know. Of course, they’re probably being paid to do so (though undoubtedly not very well), but is pretending their life revolves around you and your happiness part of their job description? If in the end, you got my ring (I hope you remembered I prefer baguette rather than pear-shaped), the transaction’s been successful whether or not the clerk smiled at you or wished you a merry Christmas.

The run-up to December 25 can be stressful. If you can, make a smile part of all your public interactions. But if you don’t get one in return, try to be understanding. After all, it can be very tiring autographing book after book, and even the most sophisticated of authoresses can sometimes become frustrated. I’m sorry I kicked your child’s shin, but you got your book and isn’t that what you actually came out for?

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My Relationship with The Lesser Species

16 Aug

I am an animal lover. From the time I was but a wee one, I have almost always had an animal companion by my side. My first pet was a traditional one; he was a stray dog whom we originally met when we discovered he was operating a betting shop from inside our garage. While we admired both his creativity and resourcefulness, this was no life for a dog and we set out to reform him. I loved little Brown Leonard (as we named him) and still recall fondly our walks around the esplanades of Trenton, NJ. He was always up for an adventure or a game of cards. Our relationship was based upon mutual respect, unconditional love and a substantial amount of gambling debt.

Of course, while I was still a child, my parents, or rather my father, selected our pets. In our household, my parents shared responsibility: my mother controlled everything and my father did what he was told. As my mother felt our reputation in the neighbourhood had suffered as a result of Brown Leonard’s nefarious former livelihood, she assigned all future pet duties to my father. Throughout my tenure there, we shared our home with quite a menagerie. My father was particularly fond of fish, though his aquarium was positioned in his private study which no one but he could enter. Over the years, that collection of fish became a tropical smorgasbord of exotic varieties, recognised state-wide as a perfect mini eco-system and the only real friends my father has.

The story I shall now recount involves the first pet I chose on my own. I say chose but, of course, the philotherians amongst you will know that a pet actually chooses you. Before I began travelling the world, I was based in a darling flat in Camden, NJ where I was known as “the Lovely Lady” to the locals I refused to meet eyes with on the street. It’s lonely when you leave a house full of love, liquor and noise, so I deduced that a pet might ease that pain. Unfortunately, most of the animals at the local shelter had backgrounds which I felt were too dissimilar from my own. But one afternoon I returned home to see find a small, rather trampish looking dog asleep on my doorstep. As I unlocked the door, he rushed in, climbed upon my settee and went back to sleep. Although this type of behaviour would be abhorrent from a human (yes, I am referring to Captain Snezley during his troubled years), I found it almost endearing from this pup. Through research, I discovered that his breed was most likely Telomian and I felt that he and I understood that a better life was deserved by both of us. I named him Sebastian and felt satisfied I had found my new best friend.

Sebastian slept soundly for the first three days post-arrival while I purchased a large array of items to make his new home comfortable. When he first began to investigate his new surroundings, though, he showed little interest in the toys, chews and reading materials I had selected for him. He instead preferred to stay crouched in the corner, occasionally peeping through the net curtains of the dining room window, watching closely the street. Having never been a dog myself, I was reticent to suggest alternative activities for him. I still considered him a friend but was beginning to doubt that he felt the same way towards me.

One afternoon (I remember it was a Tuesday, the day that unemployment checks were handed out so thankfully few of my neighbours were congregating on my street corner as they otherwise so charmingly did), a young policeman arrived at my door. As soon as the bell went, Sebastian ran upstairs in a way that made me feel he did not want to be seen. I permitted the officer to enter my house and, after pouring him a cup of tea, I asked him to sit with me in the sitting room. He looked tired, and I inquired about the case which was clearly exhausting him so.

Here he began a tale of such criminality that I shall spare you the details (which I don’t remember). But suffice it say, I felt victimized just hearing them. Before I could offer my advice on the best course of action in solving this conundrum, the young officer produced from his pocket a photograph (shoddily taken but clear enough to recognise) of Sebastian. I immediately put on a brave face. He asked if I had seen this creature, lurking. Although I normally try to keep my responses to police officers’ questions as close to the truth as possible, I confess in this circumstance I told a falsehood. He then bid me adieu, leaving his calling card in the basket near the door, put there for that very purpose.

Needless to say, I instantly confronted Sebastian about his involvement with illegal activities. He denied everything. I wanted to believe him and I told him I did, but I still had my suspicions. We lived together for another week but by then had become strangers. Although it broke my heart to pieces, I spoke to the boy next door and arranged for Sebastian to be shot and removed from the premises while I was at the market. The house no longer seemed the same. It was now free of his masterful criminal mind but it also lacked that love which can only exist between man and beast. Despite what had passed between us, I never grassed up Sebastian to the police. The guilt clearly had made him suffer enough. I missed him, but as I was by then planning my first trip to Europe and a pet would have complicated my itinerary, I believe the situation’s resolution was probably the best for both of us.

Relationships with animals are magical and in many ways more rewarding than many interactions I’ve had with fellow humans. I suppose the lesson here is that, no matter how good you are, how loving you are, you cannot trust anyone with a blue tongue. Keep this in mind, young ones, particularly when out and about on the dating scene.

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