Tuesday 22 March 2011


The dogs of war are going at it like a pack of wild canines in North Africa. The Arab League may well have been naive to think that by supporting a UK and US led resolution in the UN, all that would happen is that the west would point their weapons at Gadaffi and hope he would stop. Even I knew that to impose an air exclusion zone would mean taking out any number of ground installations. No doubt causing any number of innocent deaths along the way. Precision weapons are not quite as precise as you might think, especially if you're not 100% sure of where the target is. Anyway, it's a bit late to put the attack dogs back on the leash. It would be good if they could sort out who is the alpha dog, otherwise they're going to end up running round chasing their tails like puppies.

Judging by some of the footage being broadcast it would be fair to assume that peace will not naturally follow...there's an awful lot of weaponry floating around. As we discovered in Iraq and Afghanistan, it may be easier to win the war than win the peace.

If you were a dog, what kind of dog would you be?

No, its not one of those pesky memes (which I love doing), but something I was actually contemplating this morning.

The Boy is without question a springer spaniel. Absolutely full of boundless energy, he's as happy as Larry (except when he isn't), bounces around, and fills the room with his energy and demands for attention.

The Cat, I'd say is more of an Afghan Hound..graceful and elegant...never rushed and rarely in a flap.

The Cat's Mother a Golden Retriever...beautifully presented, the most even of temperaments, plenty of energy, always happy and pleased to see you. Mind you even Golden Retrievers can bark, as did The Cat's Mother at the Halifax over the weekend. Now The Cat is 16 she needs to give them her NI number so they can tax her (yep George Osborne really is that hard up). The Cat's Mother tried to give it to them, but they refused 'Data protection' was their reason. So The Cat tried to do it, but failed as she didn't know what her balance is (there's so little in it, the book hasn't been updated since 2007). And now the account is blocked. So The Cat's Mother tore into them...no one was trying to take money out, no one was trying to do anything other than give them a number which they have to check anyway. So WTF. The Cat's Mother can growl and she can bark...she may even bite.

I realise I shall be trouble for suggesting those, but hell why not. It's my blog and I'll say what I want.

As for me, much as I would like to be a Great Dane (I'm not big enough), or a Bulldog (hardly a symbol of national pride), I'm going to have to admit to being a Jack Russell Terrier. It's probably fortunate that Grandma in Cyprus has a pair of them. She'll understand. I'm a scrapper. I can sniff out trouble and don't hesitate to get into a tussle. Inspite of my size (a perfectly average 5'8"), I'll take on anyone and anything. And rarely, if ever, do I come away with more than a scratch. In fact ninety nine times out of a hundred; no one hundred times out of a hundred, I come out on top. I've been doing this for 37 years. That's a Nota Bene years, as opposed to dog years or human years. And once I start, there's no stopping me. I can't help feeling that sometimes it would be nice not to get into these dog fights..after all if I'm right, as I always am, I shouldn't need to. It can be quite wearing. So sometimes I need to roll over, have my tummy tickled before I get up and start running around again.

You may have guessed from my last post that I'm currently in the ring with Lloyds TSB. If only they knew. I do know sooner or later I'm going to get a sound hiding, but I don't think it'll be this time. I sure as hell hope not.

In another battle, I've been fighting the Managing Agent for one of my properties who for a decade haven't produced any accounts. So I took them to the LVT the year before last. And won - they said I didn't have to pay for any period where there were no accounts. That didn't stop them sending me a bill for £11,000 in February. This morning I got another letter, crediting me more than £8,000. Pretty much game set and match. Again. Woof woof.

Of course some dogs are pussycats. Take this one. The new office dog who is too scared to tread on the wood floor, so sits or stands outside. Miaow, miaow.