“You should get into Trade Secret, Pinky!” Emmsie bellowed across the staffroom to me the other day. “They have cow print winter pyjamas on sale. You’d love ‘em!”
Emmsie knows me oh too well. It was all I could do not to abandon work and recklessly drive Golden Boy (my car) to Trade Secret to nab me a pair of those PJs right there and then.
I’ll tell you who is a bit keen on my bovine attire though… our Fox-terrier Celine. Celine has had many nicknames bestowed upon her over the last five years; Punky, Punky Brewster, Punk Sausage, Pinky Punk, Moo, Little Cow and the Cow. The last three names were bequeathed upon her in honour of her Friesian cow markings.
(Pablo the Chihuahua has developed some unsavoury practises of late; including following me into the toilet, snatching the toilet paper out of my hand as I’m about to use it and zipping out the door like a malevolent bat out of hell.)
He still has his razor-sharp baby teeth and hasn’t yet learned that when a girl says no, she doesn’t want to play anymore, she means NO! Previously, in order to evade the pesky Mexican nuisance Celine has resorted to disguising herself on the bedspread like this-
Emmsie knows me oh too well. It was all I could do not to abandon work and recklessly drive Golden Boy (my car) to Trade Secret to nab me a pair of those PJs right there and then.
What if they all sell out? I thought in alarm.
Restraining myself until the end of day school bell rang, I hurtled out to the car park, aggressively pushed my way through the after-school pick-up traffic and flew like the Green Hornet towards Trade Secret. I was stunned to discover at least twenty pairs in an assortment of sizes still hanging on the rack. Perhaps the word about the cow print pyjamas hadn’t spread as yet, I mused.
Ah… how things have changed. When I first married Scotto it was all about satin negligees and hot little teddies in magenta and leopard print. Now it seems I’ve slumped to the dowdy depths of massive, granny-like flannelette sleepwear.
Ah… how things have changed. When I first married Scotto it was all about satin negligees and hot little teddies in magenta and leopard print. Now it seems I’ve slumped to the dowdy depths of massive, granny-like flannelette sleepwear.
Poor Scotto. The saying, “Why buy a cow when you can get the milk for free” has a unique connotation for him. He went ahead and bought the cow but now he can’t find the bloody milk under all the furry fabric.
I’ll tell you who is a bit keen on my bovine attire though… our Fox-terrier Celine. Celine has had many nicknames bestowed upon her over the last five years; Punky, Punky Brewster, Punk Sausage, Pinky Punk, Moo, Little Cow and the Cow. The last three names were bequeathed upon her in honour of her Friesian cow markings.
In consequence of this characteristic we have purchased a beloved plethora of ‘cow toys’ for her to play with. She has gradually developed a curious attraction to anything that resembles cow print.
When she espies her Mummy sitting on the couch kitted out as 'Clarabelle', she assumes I’m just a big and brand new toy.
When she espies her Mummy sitting on the couch kitted out as 'Clarabelle', she assumes I’m just a big and brand new toy.
Celine has also astutely cottoned on to the fact that I am an excellent and inconspicuous place of sanctuary from her rotten little nippy brother, Pablo Escobark.
(Pablo the Chihuahua has developed some unsavoury practises of late; including following me into the toilet, snatching the toilet paper out of my hand as I’m about to use it and zipping out the door like a malevolent bat out of hell.)
He still has his razor-sharp baby teeth and hasn’t yet learned that when a girl says no, she doesn’t want to play anymore, she means NO! Previously, in order to evade the pesky Mexican nuisance Celine has resorted to disguising herself on the bedspread like this-
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| Celine in disguise. |
Now she merely climbs on to my lap and stays very, very still.
For Celine's extra hilarious guest post please click here!
For Celine's extra hilarious guest post please click here!
