1. The ongoing fishpocalypse (I reckon I'm over halfway, after four and a half days work without interruption and a newfound intimacy with individual transferable fishing quota rights that I never imagined, or indeed aspired to) means that I have not been able to cook, clean, wash, or purchase food, let alone luxuriate in such frivolities as hoovering, paying bills and brushing my teeth. I am wearing Gap jeans circa 1998 from the bottom of the washing basket, a moth eaten jumper and a hoodie covered in mud and dog hair. I have developed a dowager's hump and a permanent scowl and spoken to noone but canines. My waking dreams are all of deep tissue massage, salt scrubs, spas, teams of industrial cleaners and fresh, nourishing food. My nighttime dreams, such as they are (Bob's ceaseless nocturnal vigilance against the forces of insurgency, or dust, continues), are all of hake.
2. "Bob" the covert ops dog seems to have developed stress related alopecia. My whole kitchen floor, indeed, all my floors, are covered in clumps of long, coarse black dog hair. It is a charming development. Perhaps I will have to give him back bald? I would imagine this might lead to me being terminated in a no fuss, professional hit. Frankly, if the fishpocalypse, and Bob's incessant barking, go on much longer, I will be begging for exactly that.
3. I have whined extensively to my dearest and dearest about both elements of my current predicament. Their suggestions are not entirely practical.
B suggested I should organise an illegal caged fight between the two dogs and open a book on it. Then, he thought, he and I could give up our respective careers and concentrate on illegal pet sports betting. This is not as good as some of his previous ideas for our alternative careers, such as cat couture (but not cat shoemaking "I'm usually too drunk for that cobbling shit"), or a petting zoo in my back yard full of creepy animals ("like goats. I love those calmly evil motherfuckers"), only because no-one would pay to watch my bag of bones and a bearded sausage shamble around looking haunted and failing to draw blood. When things got really tense, they might jostle for the best spot for lying down and falling asleep.
H has decided I should write a series of spy books with dogs as the main characters. SpyDogz will be the next big thing, she assures me, but unless I am hallucinating, I am fairly sure I saw Mission Impossible remade with guinea pigs at Christmas, so I think the train has already left on the anthropomorphised pet espionage stories.
M just sings "Les poi SSONS!" from the Little Mermaid to me, repeatedly.
Since I have never seen the Little Mermaid I had no idea what on earth she was talking about. Sometimes she mixes it up by telling me how incomprehensible my translation will be. "Like it was written by monkeys!" She is correct.
F thinks that my whole predicament is probably the fish taking their revenge after the fish pedicure. "You'll wake up with a severed tuna head in your bed tomorrow", she predicted sagely. "The fish, they do not forget".
The CFO just laughed uncontrollably when he saw me with "Bob" and asked whether I wanted a lead for one of the tortoises too. He updated me fully on tortoise health issues when I saw him earlier today. They are all "in" for the winter. One of them is having difficulty maintaining weight. One has an eye problem. I felt like a racehorse owner talking to the head groom, though I was not allowed to look at the tort spreadsheet. He has not seen the hedgehog babies since that first encounter. I do hope this will not become a sad story.
I have to go. The fish cannot wait another minute. Oh! I have promised the return of the Confessional, so get preparing your sins. I think we might reopen on Friday. I bet you've been bad.