I took the hellhounds to Mauncester with us this morning* because the only errands I needed to run were to hellhound-friendly shops where they are much admired**.  I won’t say we had a good hurtle.  We had, by hellhound standards, a fabulous dawdle.  There are clearly too many dogs in Mauncester and EVERY FRELLING BRICK IS WORTHY OF INTENSE CANINE SCRUTINY.  EVERY SAPLING, EVERY GATEPOST, EVERY DUST MOTE.  ARRRRRRGH.  I WANT A HURTLE.  I’d settle for, you know, a walk.

Anyway.  We got home to the mews finally to a hellterror hanging from the ceiling of her crate*** like a square furry Dracula so, since the hellhounds were sated, I hurtled her back to the cottage because I wanted to get the indoor jungle outdoors for a few hours.†  It’s the hellhounds who usually go back to the cottage with me, both because the Off Lead Dog problem is least diabolical if you stick to the middle of town†† and also because hellhounds will GO LIE DOWN when so instructed and not follow me around and attempt to HELP when I’m trying to do things like ferry the indoor jungle outside, repot the frelling dahlia that is insisting on growing and start another load of washing.  Here, take this geranium and put it on the second step, okay?  And could you bring me a fresh bag of Perlite please?  AND STOP STEALING SOCKS.

It seemed unkind, she was so relishing being part of the action†††, to lock her up so I could mop the frelling cottage floor before we returned to the mews for lunch.  So I have that to look forward to as soon as I post here and go back to the cottage.  IT COULD JUST STOP RAINING SO MY BACK GARDEN AND THE ENTIRE SOUTH OF ENGLAND IS NOT A MUD BATH. . . .  And is inevitably (and squishily) tracked across a lot of kitchen floors.

* * *

* Morning!  Yes, morning!  You know, that thing that happens before noon and after the wee hours and, um, dawn, which this time of year happens even later than I want to stay up for.^  I admit there wasn’t a lot of morning left by the time I picked Peter up BUT IT WAS STILL MORNING.

^ Except after a Street Pastors night when I’m not sure but what dawn serves to remind me that the ordinary world is still there.  Maxine and I were talking about this last night while the long-timers were out of earshot:  here we are about to go descend on some innocent congregation and hold a Street Pastors pep rally+ and we’re still really both in the Early Gobsmacked stage.  We’re what?  We’re doing what?  If you stop to think/worry about it, all it is, practically speaking, is handing out lollipops and flipflops and hot chocolate—okay, and listening—but it is another world where we’re doing it++ and by putting on your logo—your God-armour—you’re kind of taking leave of this world before you enter that other one.+++  You need new skills—new ways to connect—and neither Maxine nor I really feel we’re getting much of a grip on this.  On New Year’s Eve she was watching Jonas engage with our target group the way I was watching Dominic—she was in one team and I was in the other—and thinking how does he do that?!  But Jonas and Dom have been doing this for three years and Maxine and I have been doing it for three months.#

+ Give me an S!  Give me a T!  —Pompoms optional and it’s been a lot of years since I did the splits.

++ ‘The nighttime economy’

+++ Of course all us practising Christians move serenely and gracefully through the ordinary world in perfect awareness of God at all times.  Of course.  There is never any bad language or any screaming or any dirty dishes in the sink.  And all our tulips are planted by the end of November.  This is why I turned Christian, you know?  Because I wanted to get all my tulips in by the end of November.  Ahem.

#Although the fact that I immediately manifested an entirely alien ability to catch strangers’ eyes, smile and say hello proves that the Holy Spirit has a foot in my door.  This made Maxine laugh, but then she has a normal job and deals with the public and has colleagues and so on.

** And no one says anything to me about the number of ribs on dramatic show.  In some cases because these are fellow sighthound people and they know.  As I was moaning to one woman (who has a Labrador/spaniel cross and a pointer puppy but her sister has skinny greyhounds) if the hellhounds were working lurchers in hard condition the ribs wouldn’t matter.  Pet dogs just look malnourished with their ribs sticking out.^

^ Note that they have eaten dinner.  We say nothing of supper to come.  Or what kind of a mood I’ll be in by the time I go to bed.+

+ SERENE of course.  PERFECTLY BALANCED in my awareness of God.~

~ BrgggglerreeeeeeeppppGAAAAAAARRRRGH.

*** She totally has prehensile paws.  I’ve told you about her putting her forelegs around your waist to hug you.  The current ritual is that last thing at night before I put her finally in her crate with more fooooooood she has a lap for as much time as I think I can get away with for random reading.  The moment I put my book down in preparation for putting her down, she sits up, wraps her forelegs around my neck  . . . and chews my face off.  This tickles something crazy.  She makes ridiculous noises while she is performing this liturgy and it is a good idea if I’ve got my earrings and my glasses off first.

† Hard frost last night, and the January sun has no strength to it so it takes forever to warm up in the morning.  In the MOOOOOORNING.

†† It’s not undiabolical, it’s just least.

††† BOING BOING BOING