Hello, Cydney spaniel here. She’s lying in a darkened room so I’m to tell you what happened. To cut a long and very shaggy dog story short, the car failed its MOT. And we had to use public transport.
I’ve been telling her that Volvo is shaking like no doggy’s business when she brakes, but will she listen? Turns out the suspension is shot to pieces.
So she leaves the car with a mechanic in the country, near where the horses are, and tells me we’re getting a ‘train’ home. My best mate, the gamekeeper, drives us to the station where we walk up and down a lot of steps.
There is a sign by the steps saying ‘Proud to be working with the RSPB to give nature a home at this station.’ This seems a bit silly to me. Has anyone asked nature if it wants to live at a train station?
Anyway, a huge screeching machine comes along and the middle of it opens and she picks me up and we get inside.
I admit it, I have one of those funny turns I get when the sky starts banging and lighting up. I climb on her lap and look out the window and at first it’s fine. I can see fields and woods. And then some weird stuff starts going past. She calls it Croydon.
Absolutely everyone stops and talks to me. ‘Ah, is it a puppy?’ they all say. I think about saying, ‘No, it’s not a puppy! It’s nearly five years old. Stop talking to me like I’m remedial! I’m not a Labrador you know!’ But in the end I decide it’s best to do my trademark body wiggle. People love this.
When we get home I’m exhausted. I eat a huge bowl of Lily’s Kitchen coronation chicken and curl up in my four-poster.