The story so far…

So the story so far goes something like this. We bring Lil-Pupskins into our lives after deciding that we want to make a difference in the little fella’s life. The little fella arrives at our house at 1.30am on Sunday morning after a two day ride in an animal transport van, having traversed about half a dozen different European countries in a 48 hour period (which is more than I’ve done in my getting-on-for-48-year life). The first thing he does on arrival, not surprisingly, is a very large poop. And then he continues to poop with a two hour regularity in a variety of different consistencies, starting with fairly solid, and progressing during the weekend through, ‘porridge’, ‘Mr Whippy’, ‘liquid soap’, and ending with ‘very watery soup’. Inside and out. Kitchen floor and patio stones.  When a pup’s gotta go, a pup’s gotta go. Poor little mite was probably a bit stressed after the journey and the change of food, water and language was enough to give him the runs. Nothing a bit of over-boiled rice and 24 hours without much to eat couldn’t fix. But my how I cheered when the first semi-solid sausage emerged, albeit on the kitchen floor. Anyway, enough of Pupskin’s irritable bowel.

I decided that I ought to stay up with him on the first night to check he wasn’t too lonely, and then, of course, I couldn’t leave him at all during Sunday. Sunday night saw me get an hour or two of sleep but mainly I needed to be letting Pupskins out to decorate the patio a fetching shade of newly-acquired-dodgy-tummy-syndrome. So by Monday day time, with the kids at school and G at work, I was left, slumped in a deck chair, one eye on the happy, contented, snoring Pup and the other rolling and glittering in delusional madness, not unlike Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner. This sleep deprived state transgressed the normal boundaries of sanity (which are pretty fluid for me at the best of times) and after I’d managed to fight off the singing bespectacled giant orange space-hopper which came bouncing in through the cat flap offering me a cup of tea (hallucination? dream? wishful thinking?) I started to gain a weird clarity that is the strange bedfellow of CRAZY. A glimpse of my life as I had always envisioned it to be, and not the cobbled-together, frantic, lurching mess that it sometimes feels like.

And then it was obvious. The way to get from frantic to frantastic (see what I did there?) was to start a blog, solely dedicated to documenting how to go from frantic to frantastic (which is not even a word, btw, and just as well because it actually sounds really stupid when you say it out loud). Committing to a blog won’t put even more pressure on me to focus on ‘Operation Transformation’. Far from it. In fact it would be rude not to share the breathtakingly boring & dull hilarious and motivating recipes for ‘How to turn shit soup into a sparkling sausage’. And so here I am. Tired. A little crazy. But blogging. The moral of the story? Go onward and upward…

About the Author

Magickal Beanist, busy mummy, committed vegan, ardent recycler, obsessive knitter, recent jogger, animal lover, Cotswold dweller, ridiculous writer, attempts to live a conscious, magickal life by design. Enjoys a large glass of bubbly stuff at the weekend. And I'm not talking about washing up liquid if you know what I mean. Contact me through the website. Your reward will be good karma and a friend for life ;o)

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