*Growl*

Fed up and fucked off. Had a retriever in that screamed all night, spoilt fucking brat dog. And it bites, too. Got hold of my arm at five this morning and had a damn good chew. I bet the owners think this is cute, trouble is (a) it hurts and (b) I've seen this sort of puppy-play-mouthing turn into real biting.

I fucking hate golden retrievers. And no, I don't care if you grew up with one that was wonderful, or knew one that saved a whole fucking orphanage load of disabled kids. I've been attacked by them, barged, bitten, snapped at and generally been subjected to every kind of doggy bad behaviour by the fucking things and whilst it's true that most of it is the fucking owners, they have dodgy temperaments at best.

Kept as a kennel dog and worked, fine. Otherwise, just keep the fucking thing well away from me.

Slay bought me chocolate. He's up to something, I can feel it in my water.

Oh, and re the recent kerfuffle on Rockfic. Grow the fuck up. No one has ever said hetfic isn't welcome and - why am I bothering? The sensible ones are fine, the fuckwits (although they are rare on my beloved home site, they are there) will flap and fuff and cause fucking trouble whatever I say. So.

I maintain that a damn good gen fic is the hardest of all to write. So there. Ner.

Right.

I'm going to have a cup of redbush tea, eat my fucking chocolate, feed the fucking dog and go to bed.

Good fucking morning.

PS: Oh, and it's pissing down.

PPS: Two more to go. Thank fuck.

Just a quickie...

Just thought I'd take a moment to share something with y'all. One of the things about my job that makes me smile. (Plus, if I think about the amount of work piled up for me I'll cry.)

I notice that someone has obviously been to visit Mrs Smith. (Name changed just in case... you know how it is.) How do I know this?

The sheer amount of sugary snacks scattered around the place.

Now, Mrs Smith is a nice old lady of Eastern European origin who, like many delightful elderful ladies, dotes on her cat, Tom. She is also, like many delightful elderly ladies, dreadfully lonely. She doesn't get out much, especially since she recently went blind.

But Tom - who lives the life of Riley, I might add - gives her comfort in more ways than one. Firstly, he's an excellent companion. He's not stupid, he's an ex stray and knows which side his bread is buttered on these days.

He's good company, but Mrs Smith worries about him dreadfully. He doesn't go out anymore, you see. He's not a young cat, and has decided that sitting on his arse all day (only having to decide between the best chairs and his owner's bed), wandering to his perenially-filled food bowl and accepting all the fuss and chatter a lonely old lady can give beats the crap out of the rough and tumble of outside life. Oh, and he can always sit in the window and swear sulfurously at the neighborhood cats if he gets bored, because then mum frets that he's unhappy and gives him a prawn or two to soothe his feelings.

Tom has, as they say, landed on his feet.

He doesn't even have to claw the furniture. His mum, dear soul that she is, worries that he isn't wearing his claws down, so she calls us. She can't get to the surgery, so would one of us be so kind as to go and see Tom, clip his nails, worm him, de-flea him, and incidentally be a bit of company for a while?

Tom hasn't had a flea for years. He puts up with all the attention, though, allowing you to shave the teensiest bit off the end of his claws because it's been barely three weeks since it was last done.

"All done, Tom."

"Yeah, that was hard work, wasn't it?" he sniffs, eyes half closed and lip curled in a lazy sneer. Tom is not tremendously impressed with us but seems to feel that we are a small price to pay for his life of ease.

"Time for a bit of flea stuff."

"I suppose you must?"

"Yes mate, I really, really must. Now sit still."

And he screws his eyes shut and lets you rub the nasty stuff through his fur, stalking off afterwards muttering under his breath to sit on mum's bed and sulk. He's fully aware he'll get a nice bit of chicken for his tea (to make up for the trauma) so he's not too upset.

And Mrs Smith adores the company. The nurses take it in turns to do these home visits; it's hardly an onerous duty, as one is thoroughly plied with tea and cakes while you're there. Most of us will stay for an hour or so chatting, keeping her amused with stories from work, giving her the practice gossip (censored versions, natch), telling her about our families - and, of course, listening. Fascinating lady, and remarkably cheerful all things considered.

And generous to a fault. She's been scolded repeatedly by each and every one of us for this; when she knows there's going to be a visit she stocks up on doughnuts, cakes from the WI stall and any cakes from the supermarket she thinks look nice. (All right, she tells her carer that takes her shopping. Same thing.)

Thus I know that somebody visited today. There's three packs of ten douhnuts unopened, and probably at least one more munched through today. A Victoria Sponge from the WI, that I've had the last piece of. (The cakes from the WI stall are to die for. You get the odd strange combination of flavours - coffee and lemon springs to mind - but usually there's an undignified squabble over them when they arrive.) And a cherry cake of some description from Tesco.

And if I know Mrs Smith, the nurse who visited will have been sent away with a food parcel, and I expect that there were a few more cakes that people will have taken home with them.

As you can imagine, when it's time for annual boosters we have to speak firmly to her home help; she's not to bring more than the contents of one shopping bag, clear? We've had whole picnics given to us before, and it gets embarrassing when all that's been done is a quick vaccination. But then again, it's a big event for her...

Tom just sits in the carrier and looks unimpressed with us.

But despite his air of world-weary cynicism, I think he's as fond of her as she is of him.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I must get on. But first, I think I'll have a doughnut!