Hair cut and a Drunken Angel.
I have been walked early, an unusually long distance for this time of day. This as normal readers will know, is because she is slopping off without me, possibly to the hairdresser; she looks like she needs a…trim? It is a cold, odd sort of day; large pink clouds float across the sky and the ground is hard and frosty. The oblong box says we will have snow. In truth for once it may be right. There is a lazy north wind blowing; it proceeds on its way; with a promise of snow to come. I know these things.
I will enjoy my afternoon, with the drunken angel. We will have a fine snooze her and I in the warm. She resides on the top of the edifice, the make believe tree. Never opens her eyes, or moves: but from the look of her she has been at the Baileys. (I love Baileys. How do I know? Well that is another story). No amount of delicate tweaking, and it has to be delicate as you know this thing wobbles, can persuade the angel to reform and stand up straight. I like her she has an incorruptible style.
Time for my snooze; I wonder what my necessary interloper will come home as, a blonde, brunette or redhead. It is so amusing. However if she hates it, he and I will be in purgatory for weeks. It could ruin our Christmas.
I am of course
La Grande Sophie