Dachshund Wednesday

I have a theory. Everyone that makes it to January wishes each other 'Happy New Year' because they know that January and the few months that follow will inevitably be shit. Suppose it's really a commiseration, or maybe it's a bit of a sea shanty to get us through the worrying, depressive, penniless, water-mangled months that England endures at the beginning of the year. January to April is the pipe flush of the system before the good beer starts to fill the lines. 

To celebrate my new year, today I defrosted the leftover cauliflower cheese from Christmas dinner and ate it with a jacket potato. Let's face it, in this political climate, one can't afford to turn one's back on leftovers...or potatoes.

In contrast to my own celebrations, Bob down the street bought a new Tesla which started a war with Paul next door. I know this because Paul stopped to tell me on his way past my house on his morning jog (dear God, the Lycra. The Lycra! *cringes*) while I was moving some old leaves off the grate. To quote Lycra Paul, "Bob shouldn't have been trailing the cable over the path! Someone could go arse over tit on it!" 

Regardless of it being none of my business at all, especially as the folk at the bottom of the street don't often socialise with us at the top (we have small houses, you see,,,), over the last year I have become one of those people that everyone tells things to. They rant at me about other folk and then leave. I think they've picked me as their sounding board because I just nod and say nothing when they speak, largely because there is very little to say. If I said what I felt, at the very least it would be "don't talk to me" or "piss off, Paul", but for some reason I say nothing and endure their exhausting, putrid drivel. 

In other news, Sue's pet dachshund escaped from under their gate this morning and proceeded to take a steaming dump on my driveway. I put it in a box and left it outside her door. The turd, not the dog. 

Remember to:

Get milk and bread.