Befuddlement
I had to ask my computer what day of the week it was this morning. Turns out it's Tuesday.
I'm not sure what's going on with my head at the moment, but it's definitely not firing on all cylinders. I'm no deviant like Mr Stuart, and I've been avoiding Trace to stop myself from catching whatever lurgy she's got. I don't even feel particularly ill, just listless and unfocussed. And dog tired (which is very tired indeed, if you've met any of our dogs.)
It may well be that one particular dog is responsible for my malaise. Chiswick, having recovered from his near-death experience, has once more slipped into eating only very occasionally mode - he's gone off the porridge and the weetabix and the expensive meaty dog-food and instead just badhounds around for whatever it is we're eating. More irritatingly, he's taken to climbing into the dog bed with the other dogs.
When he was a pup, he used to do this with my parents' old yellow labrador, who didn't mind. He's never managed to find another dog as considerate, but still he tries. Mortimer sometimes puts up with him, but more usually stalks off to another bed. Macrahanish just growls, a low, sinister rumble that goes straight through the kitchen ceiling to our bedroom and connects with a lower-order part of my brain. I can't sleep with that growl going on.
And then there's the chattering. Many years ago we had an Australian Terrier called Chegwin, who was born deaf. He had some brilliant coping strategies - he'd sit on the stairs with a view out the window so that he could run out barking when anyone arrived; and if you shouted at him really, really loud, he would wag his tail as if he could hear you (or as if he thought you looked really stupid pulling that face). He was a complete pain to take for a walk; not disobedient, sir, just deaf. And he talked the whole time, making strange growly-squeaky noises that he probably had no idea he was doing. Chiswick has become increasingly deaf over the past few months, and he's taken to yittering to himself for comfort. This is another noise that wheedles its way into my sleeping brain and yanks it back to wakefulness.
So of late I've not been getting much shut-eye, and that which I have managed has been fractured and unrestful.
Still, at least my computer knows what day it is.
I'm not sure what's going on with my head at the moment, but it's definitely not firing on all cylinders. I'm no deviant like Mr Stuart, and I've been avoiding Trace to stop myself from catching whatever lurgy she's got. I don't even feel particularly ill, just listless and unfocussed. And dog tired (which is very tired indeed, if you've met any of our dogs.)
It may well be that one particular dog is responsible for my malaise. Chiswick, having recovered from his near-death experience, has once more slipped into eating only very occasionally mode - he's gone off the porridge and the weetabix and the expensive meaty dog-food and instead just badhounds around for whatever it is we're eating. More irritatingly, he's taken to climbing into the dog bed with the other dogs.
When he was a pup, he used to do this with my parents' old yellow labrador, who didn't mind. He's never managed to find another dog as considerate, but still he tries. Mortimer sometimes puts up with him, but more usually stalks off to another bed. Macrahanish just growls, a low, sinister rumble that goes straight through the kitchen ceiling to our bedroom and connects with a lower-order part of my brain. I can't sleep with that growl going on.
And then there's the chattering. Many years ago we had an Australian Terrier called Chegwin, who was born deaf. He had some brilliant coping strategies - he'd sit on the stairs with a view out the window so that he could run out barking when anyone arrived; and if you shouted at him really, really loud, he would wag his tail as if he could hear you (or as if he thought you looked really stupid pulling that face). He was a complete pain to take for a walk; not disobedient, sir, just deaf. And he talked the whole time, making strange growly-squeaky noises that he probably had no idea he was doing. Chiswick has become increasingly deaf over the past few months, and he's taken to yittering to himself for comfort. This is another noise that wheedles its way into my sleeping brain and yanks it back to wakefulness.
So of late I've not been getting much shut-eye, and that which I have managed has been fractured and unrestful.
Still, at least my computer knows what day it is.
Comments
But thanks for the suggestion, Norma;}#
I confidently predict that within another few days I'll be so wrong it will appear that I'm right.
By the same token, I have the most accurate watch in the world. It doesn't work at all, so it's exactly right twice a day;}#