Week 36: The Minced Don

Milo (the Springer-Cocker (or Sprocker) pup) and I arrive home, having followed his nose for 45 minutes around Farthing Downs. We’ve criss-crossed back and forth across the open downland, occasionally dropping down to the tree-line, sniffing all the rabbit scrapes, horse dung and cow pats on the way. It’s a beautiful, Saturday morning, the first weekend in Lockdown-2, and of course this means the area is heaving with people and dogs, manna from Heaven for the best looking pup in Coulsdon. He gets soooooo much attention and loves it, wrapping his lead around his admirer’s leg, eliciting a “Oh good, you are mine now!” from them, followed by a “Thank God - he’s all yours!” from me. We’ve had a lovely sniff about, the pup and I.

I open the front door to be greeted by Gin (the Mrs, an acolyte of Juniperus, the God of London Dry Distillation), bottle in hand and frayed expression on her face.

”Did you get my text?”

”Nope. Been dealing with the pup and his hundreds of fans”

”The power is out, but we know it’s this house only because it‘s just out downstairs. The WIFI is down and the kids are going spare!”

”They can always come out for a walk with me”

For some reason, this comment was deemed as Unhelpful.

”Have you checked the circuit breaker in the cellar?” I enquire.

”Yes, one panel is fine, but I had to flick a switch on the other. Can you check it anyway?”

And so, dear reader, it came to pass that I discovered the main circuit breaker for half the house flicked into the “off“ position (and later learned that Gin thought that resetting it involved flicking it up and then back down again).

I reset it with a cry of “Let there be light!”, and to my relief and cheers from upstairs, everything sprang back to life. Good news! This also means that whatever caused the circuit to break is no longer an issue, along with the nasty Electrician bill that would inevitably follow.

Suddenly a shout from the Study, the room in which BT (Boy Teenager) mostly dwells. “Chunky!” (he calls me this because of the extra stone I’m carrying around the midrift), “my monitor isn‘t working!”

I immediately suspect that a power surge has killed his monitor and caused the circuit breaker to flip. And yet that should be impossible, not only because of the circuit breaker, but because we had a surge protector installed when the solar panels were put in (yeah we are semi eco-warriors. A bit).

I ask BT some questions; Was the monitor working before the power went off? Yes. Was there a flash or bang or the like when the power cut out? No. Did anything unusual happen at all? What was he doing at the time?

“I was playing FIFA, and the other bloke was a sweat and scored a lucky goal. He was so lucky! So I punched the monitor screen“.

Wait, what?

”You punched the monitor screen?”

”Yeah I’ve done it loads of times. I don‘t hit it hard”

”Errr, how’s about you don’t do it at all? You are going to have to buy a new one now out of your own money”.

”Yeah, I don‘t mind”

”OK, well how’s about this for another reason: when you punched your monitor, you took out the power to the house”

”What? I punched the power out? Really? Wow! I took the power out! I am that minced! [for those not au-fait with current urban terminology, this means muscley]. I am the Minced Power Don!”

”Yeah mate, you are also going to be £250 lighter“

The Minced Power Don. Other than punching monitors, he’s had a quiet week as has not been feeling great with a cold. Happily though, his sleep pattern seems to have stabilised with bed from midnight and up about 9am. We can live with that.

Saturday was a bit of a day one way an another. It started oh so well (I feel a Queen song coming on!); I fixed a new mortgage arrangement saving lots of dough each month, the weather was lovely, a walk around the local heath was planned for the afternoon, and a nice meal in the evening. What could possibly go wrong? Apart from punched power outages. And ill teenage sons not wanting to leave the house. And the local and rather glorious heath being so busy because of Lockdown (given that all anyone is allowed to do is go for a walk) that we couldn’t get into any of the carparks. And ending up in grid-locked traffic with the pup having to cross his legs, poor little fella. I’ll tell you what else could go wrong ... BT‘s phone finally letting go of its tenuous hold on life. And GT (Girl Teenager) dropping hers and killing the screen, despite the protector that was attached. God, months of mortgage savings wiped out in one evening. If I didn’t already know that Fate and Chaos are demons of the imagination, I could almost envisage them sitting on a log in one of the circles of hell, deciding that it was time to meddle with That Family in Coulsdon once again.

A brief change of scenery: Gin and I are in a church hall in Leatherhead several weeks back at Puppy Training Classes run by the Dog’s Trust. Milo is extra distracted, so much so that the normal treats that we use to reinforce (bribe?) positive behaviour are having as much effect as paper mache hat in a Thunderstorm. Sian, our teacher-trainer suddenly says “Right, time for the big guns Milo” and whips out a tube of Primula squeezey cheese. Blimey, it’s like some one has rammed a rod up his bum. Boing! Instant attention. This stuff is magic! The merest hint has him as obedient as Guide Dog. As soon as the lesson is over, I dial up the Ocado app and add a tube to the weekly shop.

Whizz forward a week; the Primula has arrived, and I’ve used it (sparingly) with Milo to check it still has the same effect. Hell yeah! He follows the tube about, mesmerised, enthusiastically licking the nozzle when he’s allowed. Brilliant. We have a tool for Really Important Training, and by God we are going to use it. I leave it on the mantelpiece in the Room of Milo, where his other treats are kept.

Later that day, GT gets home from college and says she will spend some time with the hound. I offer to make a cup of tea and disappear into the kitchen. Then she calls out “Dad, this Pr-Eye-Moo-La stuff, it’s really nice”

“Have you had it before then?”

”What do you mean?”

”Have you tried it in the past?”

”Well no. I’ve never seen it before. But I’ve just tried some from the tube on the mantelpiece”

I nearly drop both mugs of tea.

”You what?”

”I just tried some”

”Let me ask you a question; what shelf is that tube kept on?”

”Milo’s”

”So whose is it?”

”Milo’s. But he won’t mind me sharing a bit”

”How do you think Milo eats it?”

”You squeeze some out for him?”

”Correct. The tiniest amount imaginable”

”OK”

”And then he licks it off of the nozzle”

”He what? Oh My God!”

And with that, Little Miss Primula, as she is now known, rushed upstairs. She was last seen frantically cleaning her teeth and gargling mouth wash. The rest of us? We finally stopped laughing about it a couple of days later.

Poor GT. She’d been feeling poorly all week too, with the same cold that BT has and I’m still shaking off. She also got massively engaged with the US elections, not least of all because of some long-standing American chums who she has been chatting with for years (but never actually met). Quite literally she shouted the place down in joy when Biden hit the 270 mark. Let’s hope the votes were all genuine, with the accusation from the Bloated Orange One to the contrary being yet another made-up Trumpism (you may detect that I have as much time for him as our own Shape-Shifting Clown-In-Chief).Woah Mr H, stay off the politics! That way lies nothing but trouble. And blood pressure problems. Oh God I hope an EU trade deal is sorted before 1st January. I may not be responsible for the content of this blog if not.

Anyway, that was week 36. Bugger all planned in week 37 other than Dog Training, Dog Walking, Dog Sitting and the occasional bottle of wine. Wonder whether it will work out that way?

Love & elbow-grease,

Mr H

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