Just blame the dog

It's been a rather odd start to the year - I mean even odder than can be expected in this world of insanity and celebrity mediocrity. To start with, it seems that when Desperate Dan McScrooge passed the edict that all medically-retired cons had to be penalised, he had overstepped the mark somewhat. Hoss the Boss has decreed that the medically-retired will NOT be locked up all day but will be allowed to carry out their little jobs and functions unmolested. This has got me to thinking that, just maybe, Hoss the Boss reads my bit (this bit) every week - or, if not him, then someone might. Whatever the case may be, it means I had better demonstrate a certain amount of circumspection in the writing - you never know WHO might be hanging around these days.

Then I had a rather curious note thing from the OASys people to tell me that they are coming to see me on the morning of February 9th at ten bells to "review my OASys", whatever that means. Once a year this is supposed to happen - this will be the fourth for me in a year! Very odd indeed. However, I'm not going to automatically presume it is sinister because it may be that someone, somewhere, has decided to actually put it right at last, maybe at the instigation of an influential figure like Blodwyn or The Wallace - you never can tell with these things. What I DO notice is that it isn't the Smiling Assassin this time but someone else who I don't know, as far as I know.

Then I had a letter from my solicitor to tell me that the parole hearing won't be in February, something nobody had ever mentioned before, but we will get the date any day now as the listings for March would be decided on 7th of this month - last week! No mention of my request for Andrew and the independent psychologist's attendance of course, that seems to have been ignored so I have sent another letter off to them about it. Michael Naughton can't attend but he sent me a book - very nice of him.

I also wrote off to the appeal solicitor to ask for the information required to allow me to write to the ECHR (European Court of Human Rights) in Brussels. Her silence on the subject is deafening so I'll be on her case again this weekend, after I've written this in fact.

So, this year is a bit odd, so far.

On the home front, Boudica's pigeons seem to have largely left her now, but that could be something to do with the insane dog she has got. It's a Staffie called Cassie (I believe) and its party trick is chewing everything in sight, including Boudica. She's bought a muzzle for it but the dog, clearly as mad as a March hare, thinks any form of chastisement is a game.

I've got a little bird myself now, a wagtail that comes into my cell for cheese, and it's turning into a bit of a pest. The minute it starts trying on my clothing I'll chase it out.

Boudica's new little dog got me to thinking and, as I mused, the train of thought wandered, as it does, and I got to thinking about the good old days - although what was good about them is a mystery to me really. Never mind that, I am wandering again - the point is that I got to thinking about my time as a callow youth over there in the good ould Emerald Isle.

When I was about fourteen I had myself my very first girlfriend, whose name I have completely forgotten, and that's probably just as well, everything taken into consideration. She would have been the same age as me and went to the same school, run violently by nuns most of the time. Ever seen a nun play foothall? I'll say this much for them, they are game for a laugh, but they are not slow with a right-hander around the ear for miscreants. I got a lot of right-handers around the ear as I recall.

All of this reminded me of a story - and from this point on you have to read this in an Irish accent.

One Sunday, my girlfriend told me I had to go to her parents' home for my Sunday tea - that's what they did in those days over in Sligo. So, my Grandma got me all done up in my best wellies and off I went.

Now, they had a dog called Heinz - fifty-seven varieties, ha ha. (Sorry about that. I can't actually remember the dog's name - it would be a sorry state of affairs if I could remember the dog's name and not the girl's.) So, I arrive at the farm, on the other side of Easky from where I lived with my Irish grandparents, and pretty soon we were all sitting round the kitchen table for our tea. Oh yes, all the best the farm could offer was there - the cold pies, the sandwiches and a big pot of tay, lovely.

So there's me, tearing lumps off the lettuce sandwiches, when I had a wee accident. I let go with one of those little accidents children seem to find so amusing. Just a wee "Pffutt", nothing to get excited about, but awfully embarrassing to a fourteen-year-old in front of his first girlfriend's family.

But her daddy saved the day - he kicked the dog and said sternly to it, "GET UNDER!"

"Ah," thought I, "this is great - the dog gets the blame!"

A couple of minutes later I do it again, a bit stronger this time and it came out, "Pfffarr".

"GET UNDER!" says the daddy to the dog again.

"Brilliant!" thinks I. "I'm on a winner here."

A couple of minutes later I let go another - I blame the lettuce. This one would have graced a municipal shithouse in Rome. "PFFFAARRRTT!"

"GET UNDER," yells the daddy, "BEFORE HE SHITS ALL OVER YE!"

Had a nice letter from Jo Bruce the other day - sorry, Doctor Bruce. You have to admire the likes of her - not all that well herself and yet she still runs off to third world countries to do all she can to help. Have you seen the pictures of Camp Mercy and read her blog? Boudica thinks she's great - so do I.

Mind, I think farting at my girlfriend's tea table is great, so what do I know? Incidentally, the story about the tea table and the dog? It may be one of my little jokes - much like the OASys in this place.

The Voice In The Wilderness