Snappy September - Day Nine - Stepping Out
After a week of lost income and wallowing in the misery of accepting that being a freelancer means that a lot of stuff ends up being done for 'free', I emerged from it feeling tired but defiant, ready to fight on; to keep slogging away with the writing and do whatever I can to avoid having provide sexual favours in bus shelters for pocket money.
Besides, my new idol Mrs A Gooch wouldn't have just sat about moaning, would she? With that in mind, I stepped outside with a cup of coffee, noticing the first blooms of spring appearing on the Manchurian Pear Trees.
Dunno why they're called 'pear' trees seeing as they don't produce any - clearly the Manchurians were short sighted or disliked fruit - but after a long dreary winter and a bit of self-pitying navel gazing, the tiny flowers seemed like a sign.
A good sign, I decided, and dashed inside to grab the camera.
After spending a few minutes taking some well-considered arty farty shots from different angles, I looked down, sniffed suspiciously and realised I'd trodden in a freshly-laid, particularly fragrant and sloppy dog turd.
Frack - in my artistic endeavours, I'd not only got shit wedged in one shoe but both of them - a hellish stinking orange paste now embedded into every crevice and groove of the intricately patterned rubber soles.
Blossoms now forgotten, I treated Smoker Man on Second Floor Balcony Next Door to my angry Mexican Hat Dance minus the sombrero - frantically wiping each foot on the grass, swearing loudly to myself whilst also hoppity hopping around the other tussocks hiding old dog jobbies in order to avoid polluting my shoes again.
Sod this for a joke - I was going to get on that treadmill and go running and stop wasting my time----
------No I bloody well wasn't - imagine how the crap would get stuck on the conveyer belt, slowly covering it all with the dreaded e.Coli and the unbearable stench of Milly's matured mastications that would waft around the tiny toolshed, accentuated even further by the increasing heat of the machine and drops of sweat from my protesting body as I gasped for more air and sucked in her gaseous butt nugget soup instead.....
Well ram my face into a mobile home and call me Britney's drug dealer. Out came the gloves, detergent, boiling hot water, satay sticks and wet wipes as I cleaned both shoes. It took over half an hour and Milly sensed my frustration and busied herself elsewhere (not a mean feat considering our entire back yard is the size of a picnic blanket).
Much later, I'd completed the run and staggered inside for a big glass of water before seeing her sitting outside, pleading to be forgiven:
She was let in and kissed before I'd even disposed of the rubber gloves.