flossing the cat

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,...

This week I am knackered. Red Bull doesn’t touch it. Touché Eclat doesn’t hide it.   Everyone has started asking me whether I’m okay. It seems my face is the main cause for concern. I look like a bloodhound on chemo. More specifically, I look like a bloodhound on chemo might look IF he were forced to shuffle around, say, Asda, for the rest of his life. My body, too, is exhibiting signs. I walk at a pace that would embarrass a sloth. I sigh and whimper and make grotesque mewling noises. In the evenings, when I haul my sorry ass upstairs, my posture is so spectacularly humped I cast a shadow that looks exactly like a FAT Nosferatu. There are many reasons for my exhaustion: 1. My partner has taken up a job in London, leaving me to care for three small children, two incontinent cats, and a house, single-handedly. When I say single-handedly, I’m not being literal. (I don’t know how that woman off CBeebies does it, to be honest.)   2. I need loads of sleep – but I don’...