Sleeping dogs don't peep.
Richard and I went to Chester yesterday for a meal out. We decided to avoid our usual haunts and try somewhere new to us. Later, after meandering round numerous shops, we went on to have coffees which tasted like bonfire smoke smells - kind-of smoky and gritty, and spectacularly putrid.
Look, it's only the first week of November so why are most of the shops crammed with Xmas tat already? I wish we could do as some Scandinavian countries apparently do and ban all Xmas decorations until December. I'll freely admit I can't abide the forced cheer and frantic commercialism of the festival. Ok, ok, so umpteen billion people disagree with me; I can live with that. Call me Ebeneezer if you wish. Or should that be Ebeneezella? No matter. But do we really need to have carols shrilled at us each time we enter shops still decorated with grinning pumpkins?
I've said many, many times before that Chester is one of my favourite places. I sometimes toy with the idea of moving there. Towards the end of the afternoon as the sun was already fading and taking the last of the warmth with it, we were sat outside The Blue Moon Cafe by the River Dee wolfing cake and tea, watching members of the rowing club scooting up and down, seemingly impervious to the cold water and sharp breezes. A lady tied her Westie to the railings and walked away. The poor dog had no coat on, and after ten minutes it was shivering with cold and howling in fear. She'd vanished inside a cafe, despite there being plenty of seats outside. Ok, so it was chilly but the poor dog thought it was being abandoned or punished for something. It was exactly six months to the day that our own Westie died of old age. Who'd have thought that one little dog could leave such a space behind? At least I have her DNA archive. Pets ask for so little but give so much. And here was this poor dog, howling miserably, while its idiot owner scoffed cake in comfort. Grrrrr, indeed.
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