Regular readers of this blog will know that I am a man who struggles with life and is often at odds with the world. What I mean by this, is that it feels as though things conspire against me. Technology is a good example. As wonderful and liberating as it is, it just doesn’t work for me. On a train, I can’t get a signal whilst sitting next to people face-timing cousins in Australia or watching a movie. Speaking of televisions, I can’t even turn mine on these days. Apps don’t open. Calls are dropped. Messages appear and then just evaporate…
Domestic life too. I spend approximately half of any given day looking for things. Things that have mysteriously moved. We have phone chargers which are literally mobile and scissors that like to play hide n’ seek.
And animals too are adding to my torment and I am afraid that my dog, Tess is a fully paid up member of this insurgency.
Odd socks are a problem for any family of a certain size. In the Holland household, it is depressing that I am unable to buy socks quickly enough to replenish our family sock drawer. Last night, on my way to a salubrious charity event in Mayfair with a raft of celebrities and very wealthy people (I am neither) – on the train, I noticed that I was wearing odd socks. One navy, one black but in the gloom…
Tess is a major contributor to my living sock hell – deriving enormous pleasure by making off from a bedroom with sock in mouth and heading for the garden. The same applies to shoes, football boots, trainers (sneekers) and anything else that comes in pairs.
I mentioned earlier an animal conspiracy and so allow me to introduce friendly Mr Fox and his extended family.
Our neighbour keeps a very tidy front garden – but oddly, for his back garden he takes inspiration from the film Tarzan – which it transpires is an ideal habitat to our other neighbours, The Fox family. Whilst the Foxes enjoy the safety provided by the jungle canopy, they obviously feel constrained by the lack of space to run about in which explains why the next door garden (mine) acts perfectly as their over-night playground and toilet.
And what fun they have, especially so since the next door dog (Tess) kindly provides them with toys for them to play (destroy) most recently a brand new football boot which never got to see any game-time.
The other morning, I couldn’t find my slippers.
Having exhausted all the obvious places in our wretched house, I feared the worst. Tess averting eye contact and me more generally is a big clue.
And sure enough, there they were… in the garden. Where they have been all night and no doubt, providing hours of fun for Foxy Loxy and his happy little brood.
Both slippers are beyond repair. Puncture marks all over them both. The top of one slipper has been ripped apart and then for their finale…
The reality to me is glaringly apparent but this photograph does not do justice to their insult – although if you look very carefully, there are clues. On the left slipper are two flies and the air around the slippers is thick with them.
No prizes for guessing what attracts flies more than anything else…
Yes people, you’ve guessed it.
The fox has done a shit in my slipper. A more brazen gesture of contempt I cannot imagine.
I am about to publish this post and in doing so, I will establish whether or not my neighbour reads my blog.
I will keep you posted.
Comment below with examples of your own personal tortures and crosses that you bravely, bear.