Sophie's Blog

The oblong box appears to be telling us this morning, wedged in amongst the politics, that Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull volcano is misbehaving again and is puffing its ash clouds on to the North Westerly winds and hence towards our air space. We would not care two hoots really, now everyone we know is home safely, but we are expecting visitors I understand from far away. It is to be hoped the Wind Gods will direct the ash somewhere else when the time comes for my Dear Ones to come from the US of A. Other than that, which is currently a small worry, on the fringes of my mind, because we have a couple of weeks to wait yet, it would seem that when the Volcano misbehaves we seem to acquire a beautiful day; and so it is along the footpath this morning. To quote Sting ‘You can tell the sun in its jealous sky; we have walked in fields of gold,’ ( smelly oil seed rape, not barley, unfortunately.)

The political hacks are still debating about a hung parliament, I understand, (there is one in my household that thinks the lot should be hung after the way they have treated the public purse, whatever that is). Apparently every vote will count. We shall see she says. Even she, my floating voter and undercover political activist, who is complicatedly (is that a word) left of Mao Tse Tung and right of Attila the Hun, is sick of the political debates and general foolish predictions. All she really says on the situation is that she cannot stand any more Ed Balls, Yvette Cooper and Harriet Harman, that is for sure as I have mentioned before… However, while she was out this morning, the voice on the radio said, (she leaves the radio on so I won’t know she is missing), that, in the event of a hung Parliament, if Clegg won’t work with Brown and he stands down, then Harriet Harman the now deputy Prime minister will be Prime minister, assuming Labour can form a parliament without spending any more money. My scribe could wake up on a morning not too far away, with Harriet Harman in charge of the country. I won’t of course be letting this drop of knowledge access to her ear anytime soon, the dramatics would be quite beyond bearing, we will face the HH problem when or if it happens.

Google asks this morning on its site ‘Are more people searching Google for Brown, Cameron or Clegg? Find out more’. The answer is… You will have to search it yourself. I am extremely bored with the whole debate.

Happy Birthday Mrs Fairy Fingers, have a Beautiful day.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie.

I have had a mixed weekend; it started positively, with a trip to the river with Dexter to take photos for the blog. This quickly deteriorated when I was the victim of assault and attempted murder when he tried to drown me!! I was enjoying an extended paddle in the deep part of the river below the bridge when his person, usually a great supporter of mine, chucked his float on top of me. Before I could work out what was happening he landed on top of me also. Even the great Ian Thorpe would have struggled to survive this onslaught, I understandably sank. I have fortunately experienced total submersion in the past and managed to disentangle myself and successfully, if rather waterlogged, reached the safety of the bank. The assembled personage thought my difficulties highly diverting. Were they quite mad?

It has been a strange bank holiday; really he has spent most of his time working; I have of course been willing to sit on my window sill supervising. We ventured out to Springfield’s (we have discussed before that this is a shopping mall that has been built on the spring fields.) She shopped while we walked along the river, this was fabulous, just me and Him and a selection from my new tennis ball collection; for him to throw and me to chase and no moaning person with us; absolute bliss. What could possibly go wrong? Well the weather threw a wobbly. The sharp wind rustled up rain clouds from nowhere, they pelted us with hail; his much loved golf umbrella, a constant companion in adverse weather, folded inside out and died. However, he did not let this deter us from completing our walk (after all if he went back early he would have to join in the shopping!). so after a very enjoyable and entertaining walk he kindly placed me back in the car with water and a nice piece of Tripe to sustain me and then he went in search of the missing her; who was not answering the mobile as usual. She was eventually rounded up; I spied them coming across the car park he was, as expected, loaded up with her shopping. So, the May bank holiday passed as if it was an ordinary weekend, with none of the usual trips to my favourite of places Holkham, which is the norm on a long weekend. I can only dream of the miles and miles of golden sands.

A small snippet of newsy gossip; apparently she has heard it on the grapevine that Alan Duncan, our Conservative candidate in our ultra safe Conservative seat, was in the village last week canvassing. He was perhaps fortunate that he did not get to speak with my scribe, there might have been what we will call a ‘Mrs Duffy moment!’ (Mrs Duffy is the lady that so famously had a very pleasant discussion with Gordon Brown who then introduced us to the world of the gaff). With only two days now before, what she calls, Election Day, no one seems terribly excited. Perhaps because nothing is really going to change, whoever arrives in number ten; we will still be a village, with no school, no pub, an unenforceable speed limit, no designated dog bin and the highest council tax in the country, plus a remarkably slow broadband connection (our download speed managed a snail busting 15K over the weekend (interestingly he had to explain the kilo byte designation to a BT canvasser last week as she only worked in Mega bytes, needless to say they did not gain a returning customer on this occasion).

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

Sophie’s Blog started life as e-mails written to my daughter-in-law to make her laugh while my son was away. Both are serving officers in the RAF, and initially married life for them was spent based at different stations (or sometimes different countries) and involved a considerable amount of mileage meeting at weekends and holidays. Sophie was a vehicle to keep us all close and in touch as a family. Our newest member, my daughter-in-law, was an inspiration and kept the momentum going throughout. Sophie we found had a voice, which was unique, she actually had a well honed sense of humour, which suited her personality and her ongoing battle with the necessary interloper ‘her’ and the love of her life ‘him.’ I was encouraged latterly by my Tutor Group on the first run out of the Open Universites creative writing course A363. This course was the icing that topped my Humanities degree. My tutor group and study buddies encouraged me; Sophie’s voice they laughingly said was very funny and her stories, they thought, had legs! Others said that both voice and stories were unsustainable over a period of time. These comments caught my imagination so as my son and daughter-in-law were now based together in the USA and were a willing audience I decided I would find out, firstly, if I would run out of ideas, secondly if I could sustain the voice; could I write as Sophie’s scribe for a year? We shall of course see. Now I will hand you over to the inimitable, the indomitable, La Grande Sophie.

Birthdays have a grounding effect on one, don’t you think? I sit on the windowsill and watch my world go by. What has happened in my world this year you ask? Well I carry on being the most beautiful that I can be. This is not difficult. I have a fabulous coat. I am well exercised and loved what more could I ask. I will tell you the secret of my fabulous life style. Conflict. Not too much. Not too little Just enough to keep me on my toes, and everyone else on theirs.

For instance there is a cat that crosses my garden. I do not like this; it shows disrespect. Considering he never goes next door where Murphy the terrible lives; shows you the magnitude of my problem. Jack the Collie who lives the other side does not have the c problem either. So why do you think Dear Puss uses my domain as a corridor. Jack says it is because I am a girl! Well one has to suffer these stupid remarks as he is rather handsome. However, I caught Puss waiting for the goldfinches yesterday, underneath the hydrangea, very crafty, this will not be tolerated. I will sleep on this problem and invent a remedy. Trust me.

I am of course
La Grande Sophie

Today is the last day of April. It has been a funny month. My persons have been missing for a good part of it, visiting the little Accomplice in The US of A. I have been incarcerated on my ‘holidays,’ My proof-reader was stranded, also in the USA of A, by a rogue Volcano and its ash plume;(we are happy to report she is now home safe and sound) my communication and transactions with my blog have been severely tested and subsequently curtailed, due to the village children’s Easter Holidays from school and consequent lack of broadband etc.

April has also been a strange month weather wise. Usually, our prevailing South Westerly winds bring the April showers, that, as the old song says, ‘brings the flowers, that bloom in May’. This April however, has been a very dry month, (we have had less than 50% of our usual rainfall; it has been a wonderful plastic bowl less month). According to old fashioned weather law this mostly forecasts a wet summer. Research by my scribe tells us, that in the last 100 years, 9 dry Aprils were followed by wet summers. The April of 2007, which was warm and balmy, was followed by floods. Only one year bucked the trend, 1984, when remarkably heavy rain in May-June gave way to a dry summer. All I can tell you however, and who am I to go against what she calls the Stats, is that the weather and Mother Nature are as old as time; to forecast even with the benefit of hindsight is still a risky business. All I know for sure is we have another magnificent day along my footpath and the blossoms of the hawthorn promise a bumper harvest of sloes; for them to combine with something called gin in the Autumn. I have tried to sample this gin stuff when she is not looking, but quite honestly the smell!!!).

Last night we had Popcorn, the last mid week party to be held in honour of the Leaders, I have been told. I only went along for the Popcorn. Am I a party pooper? Perhaps, but the repeated exclamations of ‘Oh please,’ from her, and ‘answer the question’ from him,’ directed loudly at the oblong box, all became far too much for my beautiful ears; I went to bed. I understand from the conversation or perhaps lack of it this beautiful morning, that the bottle of red was the most memorable event last night. My scribe says, in the words of Bob Dylan, (looks like we are having a Dylan revival) ‘The times they are a changing.’ They say they are both certain, from what was not said by the Leaders, that hard times are coming financially. As previously noted in this eminent chronicle of a year in my life, if there is any belt tightening that needs to be done financial, it should start with haircuts; hers and mine, visits to the vets and holidays at Stalag Rutland Water. It will be May when I return. Have a lovely weekend.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

They tell us our lovely sunny sojourn will end today, but it was warm and balmy in the meadow this morning, we benefit from this sort of weather and it sets us both up for the day. I love to sit in the garden in the sunshine; so does she, for a little while we are in unison, and peace reigns

It is hoped Gordon Brown has a better day. The sight of her Prime Minister appearing on the oblong box with his head in his hands unnerved her. She worries about this seemingly tortured personality that was on show, he has after all, she says, control of our everyday life. She would prefer to see a strong statesman-like figure. It would inspire more confidence in the future she says. It is a fact too, that what worries her today tends to worry most everybody tomorrow. It was an unfortunate slip by the Prime Minister that instigated the appalling body language described. He carried out a private conversation in his car while still wired up to the united press and so most of the free world. Although the Labour Spin Docters are telling us ‘we all make these mistakes,’ it would seem it really did show how little our politicians think of the humble voter, she thinks. My scribe also says that yesterday’s debacle with Mrs Duffy in Bob Dylan’s words from his great album Blood on the Tracks could be summed up like this, ‘Where lightness was a virtue. The road was filled with mud.’ It is obvious the PM was doing fine until he got in the car, nice and light, then he fell in the mud.

The Aylesbury Two registered in their comment last week that they had had their votes virtually stolen, (my words not theirs), because they reside in the speaker John Bercow’s constituency, as was said the speaker’s seat is usually uncontested out of respect for this historical and improtant office of state. They certainly do things differently in the Ukraine; there the opposition throw rotten eggs and smoke bombs at the speaker, and start fist fights in parliament in their enthusiasm to get their point of view understood by the members. The pictures in The Telegraph of their speaker sheltering under umbrellas in the middle of a parliamentary session were on their own worth the price of the paper yesterday, my scribe declared. However, I am in no way implying that the Aylesbury Two should follow the example of the parliamentarians in the Ukraine, but the spectacle did liven up breakfast yesterday when they watched the sky broadcast.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

It is a glorious day in beautiful Rutland; one of many that have graced us these last few weeks. It is a welcome change from the cold, rain and mud of so many yesterdays, which, even the warm sunshine cannot quite wipe from our memory. The plastic bowl lies in wait for the return of the rain, I enjoy its unemployment.

The blackthorn bushes along the lane have burst into bloom; their white blossom every bit as stunning as the snow flakes that came in mid winter. The crops have taken hold; now we have field upon field of stinky yellow rape to look at, walk in and smell. Ugh! The woods though are truly exquisite; they have that clean fresh look that is unique to this time of year. The rooks are busy building their nests and their noise is that of a community at work. It is tempting to linger over long in their domain and mischievously disturb them; the noise heightens to a crescendo when I enter the woods. My presence is usually heralded by an alarm call from what she thinks might be a jay; but is in fact a magpie. We have these odd differences of opinion her and I. She asked him the other day if he thought perhaps, the really large holes at the end of the hedge were in fact a badger set, ( a hole is a hole I am afraid to him, so there was sagely no comment) but no, they are just very large rabbit holes (or they could be hares, if they would only stand still for a second for me to see); she watches to much Country File on the oblong box I am afraid.

I am just off for a swim in the river, she will not approve, but never mind; one has to enjoy this warm sunny weather while one can. I would like to dedicate this post to my friend Dexter who has decided to withold his vote this year as a potest against the Dog insurance idea floated before Easter.

I am as always

La Grande Sophie

Today is St George’s day the patron saint of England. The first known church dedicated to Saint George was at Fordington in Dorset. Fordington was a Royal manor belonging to the Kings of Wessex and it is said that Alfred the Great, the subject of Wednesday’s post, mentions the church in his will and spent his Christmas feasts there according to my scribe. It is perhaps befitting that such a great leader and soldier should revere a Saint who had a military background; for St George it is believed, was a soldier and a brave one. England shares this saint with Aragon and Catalonia in Spain as well as Georgia, Lithuania, Palestine, Portugal, Germany and Greece. Although he is revered in many countries he is better known here for killing a mythical beast, a dragon. The legend is my scribe thinks an allegory; maybe a way a showing persons that they should meet their own dragons or fears full on; even when the odds are heavily against winning. The fair maiden that is rescued is in fact the person’s self esteem; an interesting concept and very deep one for this beautiful Friday morning; considering last night’s events, the leaders debate, at Bristol hosted by Sky. The leaders individually fought their own perceived dragons for 90 minutes unfortunately they don’t get a fair maiden for beating their dragon, just a huge debt to resolve which is why there is no saint volunteering to help.

This is the second of our mid week sorties into the popcorn store that usually only comes out on a Saturday night film or when there is a Rugby match. I hope what she calls the Leaders Debate can be a weekly event. I sit between them of course on the sofa, they drink a bottle of red and we eat a large bowl of popcorn; a good time is had by all. They can’t remember a thing that has been talked about this morning, the same happened last week and both have headaches, but they laughed a lot last night so it must have all been highly amusing. She keeps The Book of Tells by Peter Collett handy so she can work out the body language of the protagonists’. He says this is all psycho babble. Not sure about this statement; I always know by his body language when I really need to start behaving. Anyway, I digress, I went to bed after the popcorn, having these miniaturised persons and objects on the oblong box invading my private arena for too long gives me nightmares.

Did this immersion in a new form of political debate give my persons nightmares you will ask? I think it possibly should. However, one takes everything in his stride and you will never know what he thinks. The other is like a leaky sieve; you get to know everything that goes through her mind. What was the outcome then, you will be desperate to know I am sure, (desperate is the new political buzz word you will please note that since Nick Clegg used it referring to Gordon Brown they are all using it) what impact did this have on my floating voter? Well she says she will vote for anyone who does not make her listen to Ed Balls, Yvette Cooper and Harriet Harman ever again. I am perplexed, were they not watching David Cameron, Nick Clegg and Gordon Brown. It is obviously a case of too much red wine and popcorn. It has all got too much for her.

Have a lovely weekend and please try to keep it free of politics, as the sun will be shining for most of us it would be a shame to spoil it.

I am as always

La Grande Sophie

The weather is set fine for a while, according to my nose. It thinks the warm winds from the South; South East will be with us for a while. This is good, as we seem to have shaken that cold East wind that, once it gets a hold on us seems to stay all summer here in beautiful Rutland. The rooks are building high in the tree tops, so perhaps and this is just my thoughts on the weather, we may have a passable summer; but it is early days yet.

We had an interesting event at lunchtime yesterday my scribe was busy working on her plot, you know the guys with the super witch, whilst toasting a hot cross bun she had found earlier in the back of the freezer. She actually watched the toaster burn her bun creating her very own ash plume. (The fire alarm went on for so long the neighbours came hot foot thinking we were on fire.) This she says reminded her of a story that she was told at school in a history lesson; (this would be about three centuries ago I am sure) about King Alfred and the cakes. He was a Saxon King who ruled the southern part of England from 871 to 899. He was being badly beaten and harassed by the Danes who were rampaging all through his lands. According to faithful Wikipedia; Alfred was a highly educated and intellectual ruler who encouraged education and improved his kingdom’s legal and military structure. However before he was held in such high esteem, he had to sort the Danes; this was the plot he was working on, hiding in a peasant cottage, looking after the peasant’s cakes and burning them in the process. He was roundly told off for his absentmindedness. He was obviously at a low ebb and in a dreadful plight hiding out in this fashion and being told off by peasants. Nevertheless, he soon turned things around and sorted the Danes by a mixture of stealth and clear thinking. The oblong box tells us David Cameron the Conservative leader may be in just such a trough of despair. He perhaps, like Alfred, needs to take stock and think things through; plot a bit, burn some poor peasant’s cakes; create his own ash plume, it is obviously a winning formula.

I must apologise for Monday’s blog it would seem I travelled far ahead of myself. It would seem that the Royal Navy is not being sent as far as Florida to fetch, my Proof reader; she will be trapped in lovely sunny Florida till the 27th when her flight has been rescheduled. (Silly of my scribe to think we still have a Navy capable of crossing the Atlantic).

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

I am returned from my sojourn at the Stalag Rutland Water. I am of course very pleased to be home. I also understand I am very lucky to be home. I could be still at the Stalag according to the oblong box; care of a volcanic eruption in a place called Iceland. Volcanic dust has stopped all flying over most of Europe. It would seem I am an extremely lucky pup; my troops arrived home before this momentous happening. My faithful scribe and co however, do not see this in the same light. Apparently a few more days in Las Vegas would have been ‘excellent.’ I have actually had a very nice time, you will be relieved to note. There was an extremely chatty spaniel in the kennel next to me who taught me many new tricks; one of them, of the voice variety; that actually gets me attention at home at a faster pace than even I have been used too. It is some where between a howl and a yelp and is rightly just on their nuisance level.

Does volcanic ash affect our broadband level I am wondering? According to him I know this is technical but bear with me, we can only get 50Kbps (on a good day, when the schools are not on holiday) instead of 2M+bps (about 40 times faster) which is the norm for the rest of the country. If so, I think we may have been experiencing this phenomenon for sometime. Or could it be as she says; we are just one of the neglected, uncared for villages in the ‘Tory shires’ that BT cannot be bothered to give a decent service too and no one cares about because we are an ultra safe seat electorally. Apparently with decent broadband I would have been up and running last week (schools still on holiday speed down to about 28Kbps). Perhaps the persons called the Government could help. My scribe thinks however: that all they will do is bring in a broadband tax that will make no difference to us at all except hit his bank balance, whatever that is.

I think my scribe is not happy because her gambling buddy, scrabble tormentor and my proof-reader is stuck in Florida due to the ash cloud. This passing bad mood is pure jealousy of course. She says however with a smirk of pure malice, that she is reliably informed that the Government persons may be about to put a stop to this unexpected extension to her pals holiday and enforced absence from the scrabble and poker boards on Facebook by sending the Royal Navy to fetch her; so all will be fine and back to normal soon I am sure…! How much will it cost to send the Royal Navy to Florida and can we afford it is a good question. How many people have ever had the interesting experience of sailing on a Royal Navy boat is another. A source tells me, flying through an ash cloud may be the better form of travel, in fact I am told my source would rather have root canal surgery than step foot on a R.N boat of any kind.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie.

Sophie has an appointment with the Vet this morning and then leaves to holiday at the very beautiful resort of Rutland Water. She will be back in print in two weeks.

Sophies Scribe.

My forecast rain has arrived. We look well washed in beautiful Rutland this morning. This gloomy looking weather, my senses say, will stay all day. The clouds are heavy and low, with light rain even now on their heels. We have a worrying feature that I have noticed from my window ledge. A pair of collar doves seems intent on building a nest in the guttering. This is not a good idea they will find; I cause mass panic in the new brood when I sit on the window ledge. Still, I expect the would be parents know their business best. It is not for me to criticise, it is just that she would not let me sit on my ledge last time there was a brood and I object most strongly to that. So I am busy making my presence known now, in the hope they will go away. A few ladylike barks should sort it.

The oblong box says today is budget day. Mr Darling, yes he has survived the ‘forces of hell being unleashed upon him’ and is still here to apply his last Budget she thinks. Because it will be unlikely he can survive the ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’ twice. What ever happens, win or lose for New Labour she thinks Mr Darling will be a casualty, come Election Day. (This is a shame she says as he seems the only safe pair of hands available in this cabinet which has an inordinate amount of unelected persons.) It is predicted, he will have to balance the books, whatever this means (possibly that strange ritual they teach at finishing school, when they pile books on a persons head and they have to walk without them falling off?).

I have been told that my expensive luxuries will have to be curtailed, (by this she means my tripe sticks etc, not my trips to Stalag Rutland Water for hair dos, you will note). There is some discussion on a 3p increase on the most important fuel that drives my kennel on wheels. This will mean less junketing around socialising she says. This I will possibly miss more than the tripe sticks. These are my only pleasures since the Vet has said that I am slightly overweight? Trips to the Vet should be rationed severely; on this we are both agreed. If certain dogs stayed away from me I would certainly oblige on this count. The trouble with going to the vet is that one thing generally leads to another. There is always the inevitable look down my ears. Oh my ears they are so beautiful I know and such a trial. I always have something wrong with them apparently; the vet is obsessed by them. There will be a nice bill for the insurance coming Mr Tesco’s way this time I know.

Have a good budget day, but she says beware, what the Chancellor gives with one hand he will take back twofold with the other. Such is life. Like the Bookies, she says he always wins in the end.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

Be friends; an interesting concept, that I am philosophizing about this morning, sitting on my window ledge in the bright sunshine. Yesterday, I met, for the first time since our, shall we say ‘incident’; that dog, who will remain nameless and who, I am sure will never be a friend. How could I possibly be friends with a dog who was intent on getting his nashers around my throat and nearly managed it in fact? Who has subsequently caused me to be conveyed to the vet’s not once, but twice; with another visit pending? I do not believe in forgiveness; I believe in keeping well away; I believe in once bitten twice shy. So yesterday, when I saw him coming towards me sedately on the lead like butter would not melt in his mouth, I decided the better part of valour was to pull her and me quickly towards my front door, it did not enter my head to be friends. Or let bygones be bygones.

What is a friend? Well take the pair I live with, she thinks he is her best friend. I have news for her, he is mine, the most important person in my world. I have other friends, like Jack who lives next door and guards the footpath. He is a Border Collie and very fine. Or he is till he thinks he can take advantage and pinch my ball. That is not friendly; ‘handsome is as handsome does,’ in my book.

Even my best of friends can be tedious and wearing, I find. When he brings the brush out of the cheap, Louis Vuitton look alike, bag, I find him very tedius and very wearing, as you know. He is known on occasion sometimes to tell me off because I won’t ‘be still’ and put up with the purgatory of being brushed. (She tells me off all the time, as I have no doubt informed you before. I care not, she just likes the sound of her own voice and her burblings are totally meanless and mindless in my honest opinion.) Mostly him and I jog along together enjoying each other’s company. He respects me and I respect him. Respect is the corner stone of friendship I would think. That is why the phrase ‘treat em mean and keep em keen,’ so popular and so common, is so wide of the mark. Best friends, would not see you harmed in anyway.

I am so relieved to release this unconscious psychological tension by talking this over with you. Abreaction is good for the soul. It is a lovely morning again but my nose tells me there is rain on the way.

I am as always

La Grande Sophie

Oh what a beautiful morning. We have been off for my walk, hung out the washing, and listened to the moans on the Wright Stuff about how much Rugby there was on the TV this weekend. Him and I enjoyed it all immensely. She came down when the Popcorn was on offer at half time and disturbed things; I had to make room on the sofa for her.

She had been playing Poker on Facebook and won 20 odd thousand chips, just to lose it all. However, the kind people at Zynga Poker Texas Hold Em have put her up a level, and given her player points. Not sure how this worked and neither is she. One thing is for sure she is a lousy gambler. She takes by far too many risks. I know I watch her from the window ledge. It’s a good job none on this is for real. She has to ‘know when to ‘hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away and know when to run;’ as the song says. To be frank she does not have a clue. She is now skint, totally deficient of make believe chips and is dependent on her gambling friends sending her gifts to feed this time absorbing habit. She eagerly awaits the ‘accept a thousand chips’ type gift that arrives every so often from her main gambling buddy. At the moment she is short of an amount to play and that will teach her. As I said it is a really good job this is not for real. We would be on Stamford High Street busking by now.

Nothing much to report, my scribe says today, other than on this day in 2233 – James T Kirk, science fiction captain of USS Enterprise (Star Trek) will be born, my scribe tells me. He apparently will like to ‘boldly go where no man has ever gone before.’ What do we have in common, James T Kirk and I? Well we both love to split the infinitive, I am reliably informed.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

We have reached Friday in fine style; it is a lovely morning in beautiful Rutland, the wind is warm, from the west, bringing the promise of a true spring day. This week we have talked of many things, from Shakespeare to Saint Patrick and his Welsh roots and capture by Irish raiders. At the Cheltenham Festival we have found that the Irish are still raiding successfully, hundreds of years after acquiring St Patrick. They have won most everything at Cheltenham. Today, Paddy Power makes Kauto Star the odds-on 4/6 favourite, while Denman is a 4/1 shot to win the Gold Cup, unfortunately, on this week’s form, it could be any one of the horses racing. According to sky news; tens of millions of pounds will be gambled on just these two racehorses this afternoon.

We have talked of the very first test match between Ireland and Scotland, the famous Finn MacCool and his protagonist across the Irish Sea in Scotland. Ireland play Scotland this weekend in the last of the six nation meetings. We have also talked of the original dog of war, the Irish wolfhound. With the last of the six nation tests, to coin a Shakespearean phrase it will be a case of, ‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.’ Julius Caesar Act I scene 3; which has nothing to do with dogs unfortunately, as it is a magnificent dog type phrase. It is more to do, however with knocking down the restraints and structures that prevent war. A bit like telling the British Public the legend of the WMDs my scribe says, greasing the wheels so the public was happy about going to war in Iraq.

I noticed, on the oblong box, another Irishman is fighting his corner this morning. BA chief executive, Willie Walsh, is in deadly conflict with the Unite union’s joint leader, Tony Woodley, at the TUC headquarters in London. Will he get the flying public of the ground and bust the strike. I expect Mr Walsh to take heart from his illustrious forerunners, Wellington and Montgomery. I also think on this week’s performance the luck is with the Irish; perhaps Mr Woodley should throw in the towel now.

Have a good weekend.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

Yet another day at the Cheltenham Festival has proved a clean up for the bookies, I am reliably informed. The old saying ‘you never see a bookie walking or riding a bike’ seems to hold true she says. As my usual readers will know, last week we saw some construction work being created by the footpath beyond the river and we were going to investigate. Going to the village beyond the river, usually involves a lead walk along the road; then coming back I have a free run along footpaths all the way to my own which runs alongside my Tumbledown. Well, the other afternoon we went to see what was going on. We successfully reached the village and travelled through with no ill effects (there are a multitude of dogs who like to bark at me from their gardens) and came down past the green onto the footpath that runs towards the river. In the garden of a house that borders this magical walk towards home and a swim, was a large dog, a very large dog. He was being groomed by a very small person, so looked an even larger dog.

She says conversationally to the dogs person, ‘Oh isn’t he is lovely’ hmm! (Please lovely, no he was not lovely, he was big!). Well he was friendly and wanted to play with me, but…! Playing with something that is possibly as large as a small pony has its risks; one could end up as dinner. I was given a treat by his person. It would appear that Finn is an Irish Wolfhound. Now they have an illustrious pedigree. They are the original ‘dogs of war,’ extremely brave in battle. So valuable were these dogs that they were only allowed to be owned by Royalty. They would wear beautiful, intricately designed collars, encrusted with precious jewels, on a par with the jewellery that adorned their owners. The dogs were given as gifts to important visitors to the Irish court. I think this is my sort of company, aristocratic, brave and congenial they tell me, what more could a girl want for a friend?

Finn has an interesting name my scribe says. For anyone who knows Irish history, Finn MacCool lived on the Antrim headland and boasted that he was the strongest giant in the world. But the Scottish giant Benandonner disagreed. They started hurling rocks at each other across the Irish Sea, (this is perhaps the first known form of Rugby) and after a very convoluted legend, which is extremely entertaining for persons, it is explained how Loch Neagh the largest loch in Ireland, the Isle of Man and both ends of the Giants Causeway were constructed. Finn MacCool was reputed to be 52 feet high, amazing you will say, frightening you will say. It would appear Finn in the next village is well named; he looks 52 feet tall to me. I feel on reflection that there is no future in our relationship, no matter how friendly, beautiful or aristocratic he is.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

I understand, from the oblong box this morning, that the bookies cleaned up at The Cheltenham Festival, most of the favourites failed and my scribe could only manage to predict a second place. I, however, was extremely clever, as I predicted the winning horses in all three races surveyed would be Irish. Have a wonderful St Patrick’s day all those in the Emerald Isle (most of whom are actually over here at Cheltenham) my scribe tells me you have a beautiful country. St Patrick’s Day is celebrated all over the world in some style. In fact everywhere the Irish have settled there will be parades etc. In places like New York where there are large Irish communities there will be much jollification, I am informed.

There is much myth involved with St Patrick my scribe tells me, he was believed to raise persons from the dead and to have banished all snakes from Ireland. He started his journey to beatitude as a missionary bringing Christianity to the Irish Tribes. These people honoured their Gods with fire. So St Patrick honoured Christian festivals with bonfires. The tribes also saw the sun naturally as a very powerful symbol; St Patrick superimposed the sun on the Christian Cross, thus inventing the Celtic Cross. The most charming legend is his use of the ‘seamrog’ Gallic for little clover’ the Shamrock. The Shamrock has three leaves; with this lowly plant the Saint taught the primitive tribesman about the Saint’s religious hierarchy, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. This year my scribe has been told the shamrock has suffered in the cold weather, like St David’s daffodils and so is in short supply.

It is believed that Patrick was a member of the Brythonic nation; these nomadic tribes settled the western side of Britain, what is now known as Wales. He was taken as a small child by Irish raiders, pirates who sold him into slavery in Ireland. It would seem that St Patrick was a Welshman. It matters not, of course, in my honest opinion, where you are born, so long as you flourish where you are planted. Happy racing today; ‘May the Luck of the Irish be with ee,’ remember if the horse is Irish and has an Irish Jockey it’s a winner. That is my theory anyway.

I am as always

La Grande Sophie

Yesterday we had a fine wind, which would have dried her washing for her if she had had the forethought to load the machine during the day and get it done. Lately, we have had to endure thumps and bumps during the night waking us all up. Why does she do her washing in the middle of the night? So that we can be green and conserve energy of course as electricary is cheaper at night (because we are all asleep so they have a surplus or some such thing). I would think the little saved would be well worth its price in sleep, however. Today we were woken in the early hours by thumps and bumps, and so have a machine full of washing and there seems to be no wind. This has put a frown on her face; she may have to use the tumble drier which is definitely not green and truly expensive.

Today is the first day of the Cheltenham Festival, the oblong box told us at breakfast. This, for the uninitiated, is horse racing over jumps. Racing at Cheltenham dates back nearly 200 years to 1815. The first racing was such a success, that popularity soared. All was not sunshine and laughter, risk and adventure though. There were some, like Cheltenham’s Parish Priest, Reverend Francis Close, who preached the evils of racing in 1829, arousing such strong local feeling and angry outbursts against the sport of kings, that the race track was burnt to the ground in the next year. So in 1831, trainers, riders and punters just up stakes and moved down the road to Prestbury Park, where they have been happily steeplechasing, ever since according to cheltenhamfestival.net there is more info and some lovely photos on this site too.

It is greatly expected that the Irish raiders will come and win most everything this year as usual, so betting on anything that has been trained in the Emerald Isle, or ridden by an Irishman is a good bet I would think. However, here are my tips: as my scribe has researched these and has not got a clue about horse racing, I would generally decide to ignore them and certainly not bet your shirt on them. You have been warned. The only thing I will say about horses in passing is, that in my experience one end bites, the other end kicks and the middle looks extremely uncomfortable, how do persons stay on them? Here are my tips as promised. Good Luck!

2.40 The Package
3.20 Punjabi
4.00 Garde Champetre

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

‘Beware the Ides of March’ persons say. Why I ask? It is a perfectly good day, the sun is shining, there is a warmish wind, the day beckons with a multitude of pleasures. It was on this day in 1876 that Test cricket was born. We love cricket in my house. So again I ask the question why beware this particular day? I have sent my scribe, in the interests of our usual correspondence on this blog, to see why we should ‘Beware the ‘Ides of March.’ It would seem we must blame Shakespeare, a playwright of doubtful note, (persons are not sure if he actually wrote the plays that it is claimed he wrote), according to my scribe, he mucks about (think she means ‘takes poetic license’) with not only British history, but also classical forms such as Julius Caesar and Cleopatra…! (Yes, we are eventually getting to the point. Hooray).

Julius Caesar, a famous Roman Emperor from Classical times was assassinated on 15 March 44 BC. (Idus Martias) classical Historians such as Plato wrote of these times. Then Shakespeare came along and wrote his play a few hundred years later. He coined the phrase, ‘Beware the Ides of March’. Now persons think the 15th of March has the portent of being unlucky. Well it might not have been very lucky for Julius, but please, for the rest of us? Also bear in mind that many months had an ‘ides’ a fifteenth day in the Julian calendar and other persons must have come to grief on them too. I will get back to you on this subject, if I can, it sounds of interest. My scribe says she is sure May, July and October, the ides fell on the 15th also. These if she remembers rightly were sacred days for the God Jupiter, definitely feast days, public holidays. Along with another 45 other public festivals according to the BBC on line encyclopaedia who agree with much of my scribes findings. How did the Romans ever find time to manage an Empire she asks when they were so busy partying? (Is partying a word I am sure it is not, however.)

The one Shakespearean/historical phrase she found, that I think is very apt and one of which I do approve. ‘Et tu Brute,’ ‘Even you Brutus’. Caesar said this with his dying breath, in the Shakespearean play, as his friend Brutus plunged the dagger into his body. (We are feeling bloodthirsty and dramatic this morning, I apologise) However; and here is another point that took a very convoluted route but was found eventually, she says on an evening, ‘that dog needs brushing.’ I sensibly head for the stairs, but I am caught and brushed by my beloved. I hate being brushed. Like I said ‘Et tu Brute,’ is very apt. Even the most beloved friends have a dark side, I find; even the most beloved friend can have a traitorous intent. Persons are only human after all.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie.

We have come to the end of the week; one that we are glad to see the back of. Even happy creatures like myself have times that are not so happy. So we will move on. One slight moan, it looks like rain and Accuweather says along with the real feel chill factor of -2, that rain is in fact forecast for late morning and early afternoon. This is a blow, as the fields were drying nicely and yesterday saw me at all my old haunts without the dreaded plastic bowl at the end…! Something is being constructed in the far field, beyond the river and it has been decided we will investigate this afternoon. Not that we are nosey, you understand. This morning is also market day and we will be off, I know, to town. I love to socialize, and apparently it is very good for me; as you can see we will be busy today.

We passed a milestone this week 144 posts provided 5000 readers. Small pickings you will say in the world of the popular blog, some of which get this sort of amount in a day; but we are thrilled. This does not of course count the spam Akismet fields for us. The few spam comments that get through the net give us much entertainment. They are still trying to flog Viagra to us and the jokes are getting worse, she says. Sometimes there are ladies in interesting costumes with rather more skin showing than is elegant I feel, (last week there was a blonde bombshell which was deleted very quickly I understand). You get the odd abrasive comments which are looked at for an element of truth, could we do something better, I doubt it? Then they are sent to the Trash compartment to keep for my memoirs, everything has its place my scribe says, when one is working on a creation. Last week one comment wanted to persuade me that my web site looked tired and I should move my account, conveniently, they could offer me a better looking site! Please, I know it looks as if I was only born yesterday, but! I think a book on ‘how to win friends an influence people’ was required by that service provider.

We had one request last week to do the posts in Spanish as well as English, from a group who are learning English. Do you know this may be possible; soon, I have friends who have this talent, and may be persuaded. Often we receive lovely comments, from persons who have cocker spaniels who see my traits in their dogs; but mostly it is persons just saying we make them laugh. These are the best comments. As someone famous once said ‘you can’t please everyone all of the time, but do try to make everyone laugh.’ For all those and there are a few, that can’t find it, the RSS feed is at the very bottom of each page, in the small print, that no one really bothers with.

Have a lovely weekend, thank you for reading. Whoever you were my 5,000th reader you were a ray of sunshine in a dark week.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie.

It is a lovely morning, I note from my window ledge. The sun is curving its cheerful energy around the trees on the green and the birds are singing. Today will be a beautiful day, I know these things. I have to report we have a full complement of Tump Cottage snowdrops in the garden, and a few crocuses (I queried this with him, but he assures me this is the correct plural form of crocus), but other than that no sign of spring flowers, the daffys (this is not the correct plural form, but we can’t let him win every time) are still pushing their way through. All I have to do is keep my paws off em, she says, they are coming along nicely.

Today as you know is a long day for him; Thursday is his get through as best you can day. For us it is totally different, today I will sit on the window ledge for long periods. Today we will join the other lot; the ones that have been stuck in the canyon for weeks and have been a trifle boring. Why does she have to add romance and so spoil a perfectly good tale one asks? However, I have news; they are out of the canyon and are now lost in a mountain’s cavernous maze. It is quite amazing the trials she can conjure up for these poor persons, still they have a dog with them so they will be fine I am sure. What has happened to the super witch mentioned a couple of weeks ago? Well she is still fantastic, really ghastly, alarming, appalling, revolting and unspeakable in a fascinating way. We finished that chapter in fine style at the weekend, it was great fun… Although somewhere along the line, probably on a rewrite, she will realise that persons are not all bad; they all have a redeeming feature. Don’t they? Yes I am sure, there must be light along with shade, A363 said that somewhere.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

My scribe is a bit jaded today. I don’t think she has got over the problems we had on Monday. I don’t like her frightened it upsets me, makes me anxious. I pick up the vibrations down my lead and then I don’t act in a confident manner around other dogs. This has the effect, of changing the way they are with me. Like everything in life you have to walk the walk, talk the talk; be confident. I hope she bucks up soon.

All the publicity about fighting dogs and pictures that go with it, on the oblong box, are not helping my situation. It misses the point as well; small dogs can be just as effective at savaging another animal or person. It is all a question of control. It was a small dog that attacked us on Monday. The persons called the Government wants all dogs chipped and insured. I am both, which is a good thing as I was beginning to think I would need the insurance on Monday. However, the Government person on the oblong box continuously avoided answering the question being asked; how are you going to enforce pet insurance, when you have a comprehensive database for car MOT and insurance and cannot enforce that. I do not know what the answer is; but she needs to get over this. Other than moving house, which, until I finish writing my memoirs, is impossible, she will have to live with the situation.

We are off to town, that will help. Retail therapy, that’s what she needs.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

We are serious this morning, According to the oblong box, the person called the Government is to bring in what the popular press is now calling a Dogbo, this is to match its person equivalent, an Asbo. Both these awards are for persons and dogs that are not behaving in a manner that is acceptable to society. She says Asbo’s have not exactly been a success with persons; how are these dubious accolades likely to be a success with dogs? They will just be another badge for bad owners to wear with pride. ‘Look out World my Dog has a Dogbo.’ Fantastic she said. Why is this relevant to my sleepy village in Rutland? Yesterday, I was attacked.

It is not the first time I have been attacked here. There are several dogs that do not like me. I don’t take this personally; most of these dogs don’t like other dogs either. However, I was coming away from the Post Office, (yes we do have a post office, at least part-time), when, out of the clear blue sky, we were attacked from behind. It was a small dog, but mobile, I was on my lead and she held on fast as we were right by the main road. I screamed, she screamed, the dog was aiming its snarling nashers at the area around my throat, she reached her hands down to pick me up, and the dog got his mouth around her wrist. It was this she thinks, that maybe shocked the dog, because it backed off. Then its owner came. Were we alright? I have a couple of punctures in my head; she has a couple of teeth marks in her wrist. We both felt like sitting on the curb and crying. But yes we were alright. She says she is lucky, he always buys her good gloves, or this story could have had a different ending…!

Dogs have lived with humans for millennium; you train us badly or well. We are loved, fed well, starved or mistreated, ignored or spoilt, genetically engineered, for your whims. You are the leader of our pack; it is for you to decide. Rightly or wrongly, we are what you make us. Chipped, insured, even cared for and well loved, we can still be dangerous, we are animals and territorial, not extensions of your ego; we can always do the unexpected. Owners would be wise to remember that.

Go safely out there it is a funny old world; who knows what is around the corner or behind you.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

We are late this morning, which is a nuisance, because it is a fine beautiful morning yet again and the footpath calls. No amount of chivvying on my part could prise her away from GMTV and their coverage of the Oscars. It is not the film content or the great directional achievements that anchor her to the oblong box. Not even the sight of her favourite Mr Darcy, walking up the red carpet, is of special note. It is the dresses; my scribe for this morning, is a dedicated follower of fashion.

What is so fascinating about this never ending parade of flash photography and posing persons I wonder? As one who has never felt the need to show off in this fashion, I am perplexed. I have but one very superb, shiny black and white outfit that suits all occasions, a capsule wardrobe that generations of beautiful cocker spaniels have genetically passed down to me. I have no need for sparkle, top gloss or glitter. I am of course exceedingly beautiful in a very natural way.

I have decided, because Mr Darcy did not win an Oscar this time, to award him a special Sophie Oscar, he keeps her very quiet on wet windy afternoons watching her Pride and Prejudice DVD, we are grateful.

I will also award an extra special Sophie Oscar for a star of the future that has come to my notice. So here it is, fanfare please. The extra special Sophie Oscar goes to the Little Accomplice, star of phone and Skype, for her rendition and perfect imitation of singing like a Dolphin.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

Here we are back in cyber space; how good it feels after yesterday’s dramas. The sun is shining; and according to my friends at Accuweather, although it will be a cloudy weekend it will be dry with sun on Sunday (hope this doesn’t confuse you as much as it does me, just remember this is weather speak for we are not really sure). The met office is still banging on about global warming; apparently their data says that the world is hotting up (is this a word, no, I am sure this is not a word). This may be the case, but my scribe wonders what the persons on the boats stuck in ice off Sweden, in the Baltic Sea, feel about this proclamation.

Recycling has also reared its ugly head, on the oblong box this morning. There will be chips in the bin? I know of chips, they are lovely and outlawed in our house, where healthy eating rules our lives; mine included, if you can imagine. Consequently, any chips are disposed of with pleasure, down the hatch, if they come into our vicinity, not put in the bin. (Please, no vinegar for me). She is very hot on her recycling; the only odd bits that go in the landfill are my carbon footprints (a funny descriptor as they certainly have nothing to do with my paws). This she knows makes the bin a trifle ripe, (I hope any bin checkers will note) but what else can be done when we have no designated dog bins; this is the fault she says of either the Parish Council or Rutland County Council who spends all the money on…. No we won’t go there again.

It is the Oscars on Sunday, this is some form of statuette given to actors for acting; a sort of pat on the back for doing a good job (and cheaper than the banker bonuses given for the same reason); if you see what I mean? I have decided that I like this idea and have initiated my own award, (without the tacky statuette) and so the first Sophie Oscar goes to Mr and Mrs Fairyfingers at DSAmedia; for stopping the most irritating Oops error code from Google, which so infuriated her yesterday. She still says she has ‘done nothing wrong,’ however I can tell you, sitting here on my window ledge, there is something about this statement, every time I hear it used; it carries a whiff of something, that is maybe not quite the truth.

Have a lovely weekend.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

I have had major problems with the website today and yesterday; my scribe has been very frustrated. We have been unable to gain access at all and have only done so now, by coming in from Zimbo. So I have no real idea what is wrong or if indeed I will ever publish this quick note. All I can tell you is that the screen displays ‘The web site has a DNS error on it,’ apparently this means it cannot find the server, at this point I retired to my Beanie, as I was getting concerned about wrinkles. After a miracle, the site was located and she explained the situation as ‘a bit like Darth Vader losing the Death Star’. I of course by now almost understand the problem, I just need to find this Darth Vader and ask for a picture of his missing Death Star so I can help him find it as he must be very upset, She was. Anyway, worse things happen in space, I am reliably told.

So don’t worry in lovely sunny Nevada etc, or you folks on Facebook; we are OK and will be back when Fairy Fingers have sorted us out. As usual we are a major pain to the lovely troops at DSAmedia, but they look after us with supreme style anyway. Although the panic filled words ‘I have done nothing wrong’ rings around our humble abode; it is more than likely her fault than not.

I hope I will be back tomorrow

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

We went as instructed to fetch Dollars, yesterday. I am of course allowed in the bank, even though I must admit to causing a certain amount of chaos. Persons like to fuss me and I like persons making a fuss of me, this makes talking to the cashier at the counter nigh impossible she says. Managing her handbag, money and me is a recipe for; well you can imagine. At one stage the whole place was in hysterics. I have been banned from the bank; she says I show her up. I show her up? I think that is a rotund bloomer, she showed me up in fact by dropping her purse. It was not me that caused chaos, I am a victim of circumstance.

On the whole, the trip to town was a large disappointment. I have a favourite place that I like to visit. If we have been to Burghley, to the park, (another most favourite place of mine,) we will come to it by a road under an arch. If it is Saturday and I have him with me, she slopes off to M&S or wherever, and I lead him through several small passageways off the main thoroughfare, we make a turn left, into a square. Firstly we come to a cafe; the heavenly smell of bacon sandwiches wafts towards us, we walk on by reluctantly, I know he would like to buy one. How would she ever know? Then tucked in the corner is heaven; here we buy my supplies of tripe sticks, pigs ears, black puddings and sausages. I peruse the new stocks; round rubber balls, rubber rings, soft toys. I am always made very welcome and given treats, encouraged to taste any of the new varieties. Yesterday I tried every available way to get to heaven, but I was resisted and crossly told to behave. (I did not however have to endure ‘the forces of hell being unleashed against me’ like one poor unfortunate you will note). ‘It’s shut.’ she kept saying. Shut, how could it be shut? I was in town. I felt like literally exploding (no I was not literally anything, this random use of literally as an intensifier, has to be discouraged it is too common for words; and incorrect grammar I understand).

Nice and frosty this morning, so we need to be quick off up the footpath, while the ground is still solid. Although the sun has yet to appear I feel today will be a fine day.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie.

It is a glorious morning in beautiful Rutland, a crisp, crunchy, sun filled morning. We have had a hard frost, so the ground will be firm along the footpath; if we are quick we may get as far as the river and back before the fields turn to a mud bath again, with no plastic bowl at the end of this jaunt.

However, I must admit to feeling a trifle uneasy this morning. She has been told to go to town to buy dollars. Apparently, the pound is falling at breakneck speed towards parity with not only the Euro, but also the Dollar. Why can this be of interest to me a beautiful Cocker Spaniel you ask? Well they only need dollars when they go away, places I can’t travel. The buying of dollars usually means a lengthy stay at Stalag Rutland Water for me, instead of the usual spring sojourn into the Peak District with the Nylon House. They will pay dearly for this inconsiderate behaviour, but I belong to the school that considers revenge should be savoured.

Another piece of evidence, which they think I have not seen, is the hard plastic boxes that live usually in the loft and now reside in the spare room, as you know from earlier posts, she throws’ quantities of her and a few of his clothes into these containers with gay abandon, then has to take loads out cause they are too heavy. This always happens and causes much gnashing of teeth; decisions are not her strong point she is a Libra. As you know I am a Virgo and do not believe in this rubbish.

These happenings’ are but tiny clouds on my horizon at this moment in time. (I will speak to my scribe again about using this inane expression… but not at this moment for we are in a hurry to get out into the sunshine.)

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

Today is the first day of March, Saint David’s Day, the Welsh contingent in the house reminded us this morning. There is not a daffodil flowering (the Welsh national flower) in the garden, but their green shoots are stubbornly winning through against the iced and sodden soil. Last autumn she replenished the stocks she claimed I had dug up so we would have a nice show this year, but green shoots is all we have to date, sounds like the economy. The English /Welsh mix of the inhabitants of my home make the six nations rugby very interesting, he is not happy with his teams performance last weekend; she says hers is ‘work in progress.’ Conflict is interesting for this budding author, without conflict there is no story.

The winter Olympics finished in Vancouver yesterday, we will miss them badly from the oblong box he says it is the only decent thing to watch these days. What we will not miss is the constant shriek of ‘down there is our hotel,’ when the BBC moves to outside broadcast at Whistler. We are also sick of hearing how near the ski lifts are to the Whistler Hilton…! The only people listening are him and I; he was staying there with her and I don’t care as it reminds me of my first introduction to Stalag Rutland Water.

There is a whisper on the wind this morning that we may have a General Election sooner rather than later. Firstly, as I told you on Friday, the Polls have closed (but confusingly have not shut); this is apparently a very good reason to ‘go for it’, such a common expression. Secondly, there is, the pundits tell us, ‘more bad news to come,’ sterling is apparently ‘a potential basket case.’ Thirdly, if he went in four weeks time there would be no Darling budget. How very interesting, to go or not to go that is the question. Things they say can only get worse, for our ‘ship of state’ my scribe says from her searching’s of the political papers in the interests of this blog.

I can broadcast the news from my window ledge, that at last a big golden globe brightens my world; we will have sunshine on the footpath this morning for the first time in months. The sun shines on St David, ‘Cymru Am Byth’. Today will be a fine day.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

We have had an interesting week, after our problems with the server and home coms, and our normal slow internet delivery, we started work again on Monday to find we had lost more than half of our audience, our stats told us. This has caused great gnashing of teeth from my scribe, but I have been quietly reassured and encouraged by the pick up during the week. One search engine used to find the site asked ‘does Rutland still exist.’ Well yes we do, but we are gradually sinking under a sea of mud, which seems relentless. Other stats show me that you are all still reading prose that she wrote in September, when we started. All very positive, I am sure; some of my best performances are in the archives.

The trials and tribulations on the bullying front are still rumbling along on the oblong box. The polls (this I understand is a group of people who ask another group of people how they will vote in the up coming general election, it does not sound to scientific to me, however) seem to be closing, she was telling him this morning, while he was eating his breakfast, he seemed as interested as he could be at this time of the morning; (politics at breakfast yawn!). She seems to think Labour might get the dubious honour of having to pull us out of the mess, they have allegedly got us into, she says this will be painful, people might never vote Labour again. Perhaps both sides should be careful what they desire. So long as I still get my fair share of pigs ears and continue to have my affluent life style, one really could not care less. Still, she says it will be poetic justice. Has this floating voter got some sort of secret agenda here? It is a good job nobody polls her, she is complicated, and they would need at least a week to figure out which side or even planet she comes from.

Have a lovely weekend, coms and slow internet provision (you may hear more on this it is a constant source of earache I find) allowing I will be here on Monday. My last word on bullying is, just remember, ‘every dog has its day.’

I am of course

La Grande Sophie

Today is as yesterday, I am depressed to say. I am beginning to think beautiful Rutland might well be better exchanged for somewhere sunnier or warmer. It is dank and miserable, there is but one change; it is now raining instead of the sleet and snow experienced yesterday. My walk in the afternoon was accompanied by the only segment of sunshine that was available, and for this we must be grateful. By some nifty foot work on my part I was deemed presentable after just towelling off, one has to be thankful for small mercies I suppose; I thus avoided the plastic bowl.

Today is a long day he will be late home today, I know this, by her actions; she gives him extra in his lunch box and a bigger hug. Today she will write and I will sit on the window ledge and watch the world go by. The chapter she is working on is interesting. We have a super witch who is giving the hero and heroine, plus supporting cast, a very hard time. She has a temper, but is too well bred to show it. Her temper is cold and calculating, it is her shadow, the part she does not show to the outside world. I am advised by my scribe that someone called Jung says ‘Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.’ This lady’s shadow is dark, the colour of coal, she is as hard as carbon and knows it, she has no lighter side that I can see at the moment. Like I said it is an extremely interesting part of this undertaking, for it is obvious that we are producing a psychopath; a sociopath who is multifaceted and menacing. I like the days when we deal with the super witch she is so unpredictable. She reads the juicy parts out loud to me; as I have told you before she likes the sound of her own voice, she will say ‘does this work Sophie?’ One day I might just reply.

Today will be a good day.

I am of course

La Grande Sophie