Now according to Chris this could be my first ever blog without a spelling error. I write most of my blog the day before I post, the day that it happens so to speak, and then tell you that yesterday such and such took place. I usually write while I’m at work, not always - unfortunately some times, things happen after I've left work, but mostly I write at work – Do I look guilty? I think not, they get their monies worth out of me, don’t fear – and then email it to myself at home. Trouble is I’m that used to emailing Chris during the day that I sent it to him instead – minus the pictures which I was having trouble with, so he got to check it first – only one ‘r’ missing – so I must be getting better *grin*. I have a little pot of memories that I can tap into if I run out of time to write something – I have to do this, Himself is being a pain in the arse about how long I can go on the computer at night – he now thinks two hours is long enough. It’s a right bugger – I have to wait till he’s asleep and get up again – if I haven’t fallen asleep myself that is. It’s probably the only rule we have that drives me mad – hence I look for ways round it. What? Look, I’ve never pretended to be perfect – only human.

If there are mistakes after this bit, blame Chris for not spotting them.

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So talking to Chris yesterday made me think that my husband may have the patience of a saint at times – he married me for a start! Yesterday’s blog got me thinking of a couple of time he just done something for me, not for a bit of peace, but because I was upset and he could do something to make it right.

There was the time when Tracy and I were coming back from shopping and found a badly injured moorhen in the road. There was nothing that could have been done to save it, but it was still alive, just. I moved it to the grass and then rang Himself. He in turn came down to me and put the bird out of its misery.

Then there was the time he buried a dead cat. The cat in question was a ragged ear stray that would fight anything – known locally as Ginger No Ears, for obvious reasons. I suppose he must have belonged to somebody once, unless he was feral of course. There are a lot of farms around here. A couple of people in the village put food out for him and he wasn’t above walking into someones house and stealing their cat’s food, but he wouldn’t let you go near him or pick him up. He just didn’t like people – or cats – or dogs – or anything else for that matter. He wasn’t by the wildest of imaginations a particularly nice cat. Then one day he got run over on the dual carriageway. Whoever had knocked him down had moved him to the central reservation, and that’s where he stayed for four day – in the middle of summer - in a heat wave. Whenever I drove past he was still there. No one wanted him even when he was dead.

Now it takes a very special person to drive up there with a spade, dig a hole in a nearby field and move a very smelly dead cat from the central reservation and bury it in said hole. But Himself did – just because I was upset about no one claiming him.

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I am being harassed at work by my manager – I came in yesterday to find a note on my desk. She’s on a crusade to try to stop me drinking so much pop – she keeps pinching my cans of Pepsi and leaving bottles of water in their place. I keep telling her you can’t put water in Bicardi, but will she listen!

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Autumn is most definitely on the way, I look this picture out of my window at work. It won’t be long before we go to work in the dark and come home in the dark. The only day light I’ll get is through that window :-(