Saturday, January 11, 2014
I don't think I could every truly trust...
...someone who doesn't feel a little bit of childlike wonder when they see a rainbow.
Thursday, January 02, 2014
Guest Post: Nigel's New Year
Ahem.
Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, or barking, I was invited to say a few words on this blog about the rolling in of 2014.
Of course, it appears that I was not important enough to be invited to speak on the first day of the new year, but the 2nd will have to do.
What does a mere dog know about the rolling over of one random, arbitrary date into another arbitrary date? Well, as much as Alan Titchmarsh's cat does, and possibly more so. After all, cats sleep for 23.5 hours a day, so don't notice much at all. He probably still thinks it's 2003 and Alan's still on GW.
So, my horticultural friends, what does 2014 hold? Soothsaying can be done in many ways, but I hold with the traditional canine divination technique of throwing my bowl of premium tripe over my doggy shoulder and reading the future in the stomach linings. Well, it's better than eating the stuff.
So, what do the bovine guts say about the forthcoming year?
Well, firstly, there will be an increase in interest in handsome golden retrievers as garden accessories. Not entirely sure what this new trend is down to, but I completely approve. A sun-kissed retriever enhances any multiple-thousand pound greenhouse, or extensive trowel collection. But not even I can rescue a weedy, ill-conceived 'mound'.
Around about the time of the new Gardeners' World series, he who must be obeyed will suddenly start searching for his mobile phone and muttering something about tweets. Perhaps he's interested in the nesting birds.
Carol will, unfortunately, suffer an industrial accident. The extent of woolly scarfage she drapes around herself will lead to a hideous accident with a shredder, resulting in scenes reminiscent of the ending of Fargo. Either that, or she will explode with ecstasy when explaining the intricacies of primrose fertilisation.
I will win Britain's Got Talent with my outstanding potato balancing act.
Finally, I foresee that flouncing will become the new twerking. Just try not to get the image of my beloved master twerking in your mind, or you'll require industrial amounts of mind bleach.
Oh, one more - everyone on Twitter will take a chill pill and not bother replying to or following people who they get slightly narked with over silly things. Oh wait... that'll never happen.
Happy new year. WOOF!
Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, or barking, I was invited to say a few words on this blog about the rolling in of 2014.
Of course, it appears that I was not important enough to be invited to speak on the first day of the new year, but the 2nd will have to do.
What does a mere dog know about the rolling over of one random, arbitrary date into another arbitrary date? Well, as much as Alan Titchmarsh's cat does, and possibly more so. After all, cats sleep for 23.5 hours a day, so don't notice much at all. He probably still thinks it's 2003 and Alan's still on GW.
So, my horticultural friends, what does 2014 hold? Soothsaying can be done in many ways, but I hold with the traditional canine divination technique of throwing my bowl of premium tripe over my doggy shoulder and reading the future in the stomach linings. Well, it's better than eating the stuff.
So, what do the bovine guts say about the forthcoming year?
Well, firstly, there will be an increase in interest in handsome golden retrievers as garden accessories. Not entirely sure what this new trend is down to, but I completely approve. A sun-kissed retriever enhances any multiple-thousand pound greenhouse, or extensive trowel collection. But not even I can rescue a weedy, ill-conceived 'mound'.
Around about the time of the new Gardeners' World series, he who must be obeyed will suddenly start searching for his mobile phone and muttering something about tweets. Perhaps he's interested in the nesting birds.
Carol will, unfortunately, suffer an industrial accident. The extent of woolly scarfage she drapes around herself will lead to a hideous accident with a shredder, resulting in scenes reminiscent of the ending of Fargo. Either that, or she will explode with ecstasy when explaining the intricacies of primrose fertilisation.
I will win Britain's Got Talent with my outstanding potato balancing act.
Finally, I foresee that flouncing will become the new twerking. Just try not to get the image of my beloved master twerking in your mind, or you'll require industrial amounts of mind bleach.
Oh, one more - everyone on Twitter will take a chill pill and not bother replying to or following people who they get slightly narked with over silly things. Oh wait... that'll never happen.
Happy new year. WOOF!
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