I wore high heels for this?

Last weekend we went to a Gala Banquet Dinner Thing at Jo's uni, because he is the President of the Exchange Club, which makes me the First Lady of the Exchange Club*, which means I had to fulfill my duties by attending and smiling at people. That's how we do things in the political world. I may be an opinionated, intelligent, high powered career woman in my own right, but whether my husband achieves success, or cheats on me and fathers a love child, my job is to smile and stand by him.** In this picture I am failing in at least one of those requirements.

So I played the dutiful political wife, in spite of the fact that I had just lost my dog, my aunt, and a chunk of my hair within the preceding twenty-four hours. I thought that maybe going out and talking to actual people would cheer me up, when in fact it meant that I spent four hours gritting my teeth and necking cheap champagne in an effort not to start weeping into the (very tasteful) table arrangements.

Actually, it wasn't that bad. Little Lord Frenchelroy and his Deutsche Dame had had a bit of a tiff, so we took refuge in each other's sulkiness and sat in the corner drinking heavily for a while. Then, hooray, hooray! my snob buddy The Thin White Duke turned up, and we had a lovely time dissecting the latest episode of Game of Thrones and discussing Proust, because that's how we roll when we get together. High brow or low brow, but nothing in between.

After that it all gets a bit blurry. I smoked a Cuban cigar with Frenchelroy (because I am a fucking idiot and never learn that smoking cigars when I'm drunk will not end well). I spoke absolutely execrable Spanish to a girl from Pamplona, who turned to Jo and told him that, while his Spanish is very good, mine is utterly incomprehensible. To be fair, this was after four hours of drinking motivated by utter misery and social awkwardness, I think I'm usually a bit less... slurry. I met a guy from Denmark who speaks like the Swedish Chef. An entirely different, and very drunk, Spanish person screamed puta tu madre at me for reasons that seem to have more to do with the fact that the bar had just closed than anything in particular I had done. He then stole a water jug from the restaurant, and later confessed to having been sick in it in the cab on the way home, so I didn't take his suggestion about what I should do to my mother personally.

Then the young folk moved on to a bar, and Jo and I went to our hotel. What's that? Oh, that's right, we stayed in a hotel because we like to live the high life. Wait, did I say hotel? I meant hostel. An absurdly tiny room in a fire hazard of a hostel. A hostel in which they seemed to think it was appropriate to pipe loud music into our room at 3a.m. So not especially glam. 

And that's about it. Oh, and I saw this girl's nipples, but then so did everyone else in the room, so there's not much to tell there. Good times.

*I think I've about used up my quota of Needlessly Capitalised words for this post in that first sentence alone.

** For the record, to the best of my knowledge Jo hasn't been cheating on me with our live-in au pair and fathering bastards. For one thing, we don't have children, so hence no au pair for him to cheat with - the day he suggests we get an au pair, I'll know to be suspicious.

Dear Petbarn lady - you are not great at customer service

So, today was the day. The dog had one last walk on the beach, then the vet came round. Jay was given a sedative to put her to sleep, then an overdose of anesthetic, and she was gone in a few seconds. It was all very peaceful, and Jay wasn't scared or in any pain, but it was still horrible, and utterly heartbreaking. But for all the joy she gave us I would go through it all again in a heartbeat. She was a member of our family, and I will miss her so fucking much.

Mum had to pick the vet up from the animal hospital, because she doesn't have a car, and while she was there she settled up the account (because, as distasteful as it might be to discuss, death costs money, just like everything else in life). When mum paid the bill, the following conversation took place (please note that our vet operates out of a big Petbarn complex that also sells pet food and accessories);

Receptionist: Oh, you've spent over x amount, which means you qualify for a $20 voucher to use in the store!
Mum: Um, no thanks.
Receptionist: But you've spent over x amount, you can use these vouchers in the store!
Mum: I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm actually paying a bill for euthanasia and cremation...
Receptionist: ...
Mum: So... after today... I won't have a pet...
Receptionist: Oh, sorry! Haha!
Mum: It's fine
Receptionist: OK, here's your receipt! Have a lovely day!
Mum: Umm. They're putting my dog to sleep today, so I doubt that it will be a lovely day
Receptionist: ... Oh... Okay, have a good one!

My own personal experience from today was that my work friend decided I needed to go out for lunch to make me feel better. She invited one of our other work friends, and felt the need to add; 'we're taking Tash out for lunch. You need to be nice to her today. Her dog is dead'.

Yep. I'm just glad that I didn't tell her that my great-aunt also died today. Fucking hell, my dog and my aunt are dead and my hair is falling out. Is there any way to pause the world so I can have a few days that are not completely shitty? Because I would very much like to do that.

Goodbye, we love you

When we were kids my brother's favourite hobby was begging my parents for a dog. When I was about fifteen he went on a hunger strike and they finally caved in, much to my disgust. 

I couldn't understand why he would want another pet, as we already had a cat which the whole family hated with a passion. It would lull you into a false sense of security by cuddling up on your lap while you watched TV, only to go berserk for no apparent reason and scratch the crap out of your arms and face. At night it would lurk in the bushes that lined the garden path and wait for you to come home, then it would leap out at your legs and bite them. That was when it wasn't throwing up in any unattended shoes or bags it could find. It was bad tempered, unpredictable and basically just the most unlovable creature I have ever encountered.

But when the dog arrived at our house, I was smitten. Whereas the cat was psychotic and terrifying, the dog is anxious and bad with strangers (proving the old chestnut that dogs resemble their owners) to a degree that made me feel compelled to protect and love her. And has she continued to amuse me all these years, despite being the world's crappest pet in many ways. She barks at children, she has an array of revolting skin conditions, a gimpy leg, and bad eyesight that means that when you throw her snacks from the dinner table they are more likely to hit her between the eyes than be caught.

And I am devastated, because the time has come to say goodbye. She's been very sick for a while, and she's not going to get any better, so we've decided to let her go while she's still happy and not in a huge amount of pain. The temptation is to keep her around for as long as possible, but that's more for us than it is for her, and it's cruel to prolong her life just so we don't have to make a difficult decision. Three vets have told us the sooner the better, and as much as we'd like them to be wrong, they obviously have Jay's welfare at heart. They have all been wonderful, and have given us good advice. So tomorrow we will spend our last few hours with her before she goes to sleep for the last time. I like to think that we've given her a good life. She has been loved, and I think she knows how much we have loved having her in our lives. 

I debated with myself whether I should write about this, but it has really made me feel better to put it down in words. I'll miss her so much. Goodbye, idiot dog. You will be so badly missed.

Back in my day we had to make our own entertainment

We have a new BBQ, hooray! And a box and some packaging to play with!

Why am I only seeing this now?

I've watched this about half a dozen times, and it gets better every time.

It's my birthday soon, and I understand that Whiplash the dog riding monkey will never be mine, but look at this! It could be mine! Please buy it for me.

Home again, I think

Hi! We're home. I think. I've pretty much started to hallucinate due to extreme exhaustion. I haven't slept in...I don't know. I've lost count. Maybe 40 hours? Probably more, but in my addled state I start to whimper every time I have to think about the whole time zone thing. I've never been able to sleep on the plane, and we had a late night flight out of England, so it's been a while since I've managed to get some kip. Also, I'm trying to stay awake until something close to a reasonable bedtime, which is really only making it worse. 

But the important thing is that I managed to make it through yet another flight without having a total mental breakdown. Hooray!

We got home from the airport, had a shower, then made haste to the beach to get a coffee with the family and the dog.

(That's the dog, by the way). Now, back to real life. Or as close to it as possible.

Attempted Guggenheim I

We went to England for my cousin’s wedding, which was great, though exhausting. I worked out that transit time alone, as in the actual time spent on buses, cars and planes, was around fifteen hours, and that doesn’t include time spent waiting for said transport (two hours on the tarmac, Easyjet? Really? It’s no wonder everyone hates you. Not as much as Ryanair, but still, that’s like saying that swine flu is less bad than mad cow disease. True, but not comforting). 

Anyway, the less said about that debacle the better. 

We got back to Bilbao (two hours late, Easyjet. Don’t think I’ve forgotten), and I felt that I needed a little culture to make up for the shocking morning we’d had, so we went to the Guggenheim before we headed home. 

We were suitably impressed by the building. It was a bright, sunny morning, and the light reflecting off the tiles was blinding. We sat in the cafe underneath the museum, had a restorative coffee, and appreciated Frank Ghery’s brilliance. 

Then, all enthusiasm, we set off to see the art. Hooray! The Guggenheim! World famous art! Culture! What a nice building! It’s huge! It’s so clever!

Where’s the entrance? We’ll just have a walk around and look for it, it must me somewhere here... where on earth it is? Hahaha, maybe it’s a post modern museum and there isn’t actually an entrance, reflecting society’s inability to truly understand the inner meaning of anything. Hahaha. 

Oh, look, rubbish bins and a dank alley. Hahaha, is this one of the exhibits? Haha. 

Okay, where is the fucking entrance? Hate Guggenheim. Hate stupid sun, why is it so bright? Hate freaky spider statue, that’s not art, that’s a nightmare.

Hate people. Hate Easyjet. Hate Bilb... Oh, here’s the entrance. Aren’t we silly, we walked right past it and all the way around again, hahaha. We’ll just go in and...

Museum closed. Of course it is, it’s Monday afternoon, why on earth would it be open? Hate Spain. Hate everyt...

Oh, look. Here’s some art. 

Oh, and a nice doggy (who is sceptical about the artistic merit of Jeff Koons’ installation. Philistine).

Pacified by giant dog garden. Go home. Sleep. Dream of kicking a personification of Easyjet in the face. Ahhhh.

Dogs of Spain

As promised, here are some pictures of fluffy dogs, and a total lack of tortured soul-searching;