Labra...Doodle...Do

“Slurp” went Bridget as she licked Chickie’s face from chin to forehead like an ice cream. Ironic really as I’d only seconds before been discussing what stinky little germ incubators dog’s mouths really were. I laughed along with the crowd, all avidly watching the cute exchange between pooch and child from their pub benches.

“What breed is she?” I enquired trying to pretend I couldn't see Chickie’s tongue travelling in a southerly direction to sample the fresh doggie drool curdling on his chin. “A Labradoodle” said the owner, who was also feigning nonchalance about her newly stained linen trousers. Chickie’s arrival to pet Bridget had resulted in an exuberant bounding routine, sending her water bowl flying through the air and landing at her owner’s feet.

“A Labradoodle” I scoffed, laughing. As I waited for her to tell me the real breed, I realised that she wasn’t actually joking and Bridget really was a Labradoodle. I’ve checked on Google and it’s true. Labradoodle’s exist and I met one today.

This weekend it would seem I’ve reached my personal stupid best. I’ve enquired as to whether Scotland is a separate country, I’ve admitted to thinking people weren’t allowed to honk their car horns between 7am and 11pm at night because the Highway Code said so and I topped it off with my tumbleweed moment, laughing far too hard at Bridget’s owner’s genius fabrication of Labradoodles.

Yes, it’s time to go back to work. It seems that a woman can’t live on ironing, cooking, cleaning and sewage management alone without losing a few brain cells in the process.