Just when things are going smoothly, nothing too terrible going on — the doggies are healthy, bonfire night and the terrifying fireworks are over so that cat can go out at night again, hunny has started a new job that takes him to an office every day rather than working from home, and the elderly doggies seem to have got the hang of the creature-flap and run we’ve had built for them, the buses run on time, it’s only 3 more weeks until we finally get a pay day, and I love working half days in the office and half days at home, and all is well with the world — all that, and hunny says, while chewing his fish and rosti tonight, ‘Bloody hell, what’s that?’ What, indeed. One of his upper molars just broke in half, and there’s a bit of his tooth in his food.
The typically British thing that made me smile, was when his mum rang a little while later. I could only hear his half of the conversation: ‘Oh, not too bad thanks. I just had a tooth break on me tonight.’
You’ve got to love the Brits. Mustn’t grumble. So, how’re you doing then? Oh, not too bad. Bless.
