L goes into holiday mode, switching off her works email and going on to hotmail instead.
I’m finishing at lunchtime, so that I can dispatch the dogs to their holiday lodgings. Amazingly my wiggle parcel arrives before I finish, perfect timing. This is my parcel of calf supports and surgical stockings. Well sort of. L asks if they’re poncy? A bit. The socks come up well over the knee. I feel they should be worn with a short skirt, if only I had the legs. So yes, very poncy.
I had intended to spend the afternoon with the dogs but as I can’t limp as far as the park, so I chuck a ball in the garden instead. MD is so crap at this though and I quickly realise that I’m just delaying the inevitable. Delaying the grisly job that I have to do. So I bundle the boys into the back of the car, they come very willingly, and I drive them off to their fate. The Premier Pets Hotel. Which is an oxymoron of the highest order.
I accompany them as the kennel maid shows them to their quarters for the next week or so. We all take a good look around the accommodation and then, sort of satisfied, we all head for the exits. At which point I have to push them back inside and explain that two of us are staying here for a while. What? Us? Yep.
I beat a quick retreat, collect L from work and then we leave town before somebody finds out what we’ve done. I’ve booked a late deal at the Manchester Airport Hotel. £29 for a double, well worth it to avoid sleeping in a dog free house.
The hotel is sort of seedy, like these places often are, filled with a transient population of travellers and business folk. In fact it’s just like being away on business except I'm with L. Bonus. And they have Hobgoblin on the bar. Double bonus. These places never have Hobgoblin on the bar. Four pints and seedy fish and chips. Just the job.
(Thursday 8th March)