DAISY, DAISY
It's been a while since I blogged. The reason, dear readers, is this: DAISY. (No relation of Kiss lead singer Gene Simmons, in spite of the tongue) Yes folks. A couple of months ago, we acquired a dog. A two-year-old boxer called Daisy, whose role was to shake our family out of its iPad-induced inertia, and get us out and about. Like the von Trapp family. But with poo bags. But what we hadn’t quite accounted for was the sheer magnitude of Daisy’s walking habit. The fact of the matter is that Daisy likes walking. Daisy like walking more than Lord Sewel likes to wear orange bras and leather jackets whilst snorting coke off the chest of a prostitute. Daisy likes walking more than Gwyneth Paltrow likes to give her nether beard a good old steam clean. Daisy likes walking even more than she likes the smell of asshole, which, my friends, is saying something. All of which means I now spend seven hours a week walking Daisy, when I could be blogging, in addition to