Reason To Get Up In The Morning #2

Thursday mornings especially.

Gina comes on Thursday afternoons.

She's married.

Not for long if I've got any say in the matter.

Reason To Get Up In The Morning #1

When a visitor arrives and he hasn't caught up with the edict about Boofheads not being allowed on the couch.

And, natch, I'm not about to update him.

*Snigger*

Mm? What? Time to get up?

Yeah yeah, so I overslept.

What does any sensible boofhead do when it's colder than Condoleezza Rice's smile and the days are shorter than Danny Devito? He hibernates.

So I did. I jumped into the cot and set the alarm clock for March.

Only I slept through it.

Dreams? I had a few. But not too few to mention. Best of all was the flying dream. Yeah, everyone has flying dreams. Mine was special. I was flying a Harrier Jump Jet launching missiles at a Cat Retirement Village. To paraphrase some bloke in some movie: "I love the smell of singed cat hair in the morning ... it's the smell of victory".

And a very special cheerio to Cosmo.

Be that as it may, I jumped out of the cot, took a look in the mirror, and fair pooed my jim-jams in fright. Five months in the cot can take a toll on a boofhead's appearance. So I said to the two-legged dogs, I said, "This boofhead needs a makeover".

Lo and behold, we're straight into the macchina - that's Italian for car; I hibernated with my iPod loaded with Italian language courses jammed into my oversized ears - and we're barreling down the road to see Paola.

Here I am, straight out of the hibernation cot, with Paola:


Paola's great. She kisses me every time I drop in. I try to kiss her back. She ducks. Maybe it's the big pink flapping tongue.

Paola and I usually shoot the breeze while she works her magic. She teaches me Italian, I teach her Dog. I'm winning.

So a couple of hours later, Paola's done her job, and I'm ready for summer. Even if I'm looking like Bjork with PMS:


So how did Barbra spend her winter?

Where she belongs:

Behind bars.

Lie Back And Think Of Vesuvius

Remember this?

The two-legged dogs' attempt to turn their bathroom from a sanitary relic of the Middle Ages into something which left you vaguely cleaner after you left than before you went in?

Yet again, they've outdone themselves.

Now when I pad into the bathroom for a spot of wallowing in the beauty suds and a brisk bit of bikini-line waxing, this is what confronts me:

Something out of Pompeii circa 78AD.

I'm currently hunting e-Bay for a toga fit for a boofhead.

I've circled the Ides of March on the calendar.*

The only good news is that Castigleonfia Firuntinaro - or whatever this village is called - is relatively volcano-free.

In fact, the closest thing to Vesuvius around here is any peto of mine.


* Yeah yeah, history pedants. The original Ides of March fell about 134 years before Vesuvius blew its proverbial cork. Even boofheads are allowed dramatic licence.

Small But Perfectly Formed

Notwithstanding the crushing disappointment that was Christmas - vis-à-vis the absence of the boxed-set Lassie DVDs (see post immediately below) - I did make a fascinating discovery over the Yule season.

I have no idea what Yule means. I imagine it's a misspelling of you'll. As in, "If you're expecting the boxed-set Lassie DVDs, you'll be bitterly disappointed".

Be that as it may, I came in contact with a couple of Small But Perfectly Formed creatures.

They belonged to two very nice Australian two-legged dogs - Cathy and Chris - who were renting the same cottage in which we stayed when we first came to this place with the unpronounceable name. They were here for three months. They left today.

I can only guess that these Small But Perfectly Formed creatures are puppy versions of two-legged dogs:

That's one. Called Bella.

Here's another, smaller one:

That's Olivia.

And that's me hiding under the table.

These Small But Perfectly Formed creatures are welcome back here any time they like. Because I like their priorities in life -

Making a fuss of me!

Bah Humbug!

I have very few heroes.

Savonarola, the Mad Monk who ruled Florence in the late 15th century, is one. A cove after my own flinty heart. What he didn't know about making people's lives miserable could be written on the head of a match. A match used to light a bonfire under such fripperies as fun. And pleasure.

That he himself finished up having a bonfire lit under him himself is an irony that has always escaped me.

Scrooge is my other hero. At least until C. Dickens copped out and turned him into a namby-pamby, do-good wally. Damn wimpy writers catering to their audiences!

You'll never catch this boofheaded scribe catering to anyone bar himself.

Take Christmas.

Please! Take it away!

This is what the two-legged dogs made of Christmas:

Savonarola would've had a 15th century bonfire under that little lot quicksmart.

Scrooge would've been apoplectic. Until he turned into a milk-sop.

And noi? Which is to say, in inglese, us? Barbra and me? What did we find for ourselves under the tree amidst the SatNav devices, boxed-set Pirates of the Caribbean DVDs, books, et al?

Two each of the above.

Not two packets. Two Schmackos. Each. Gift-wrapped.

Same as last year.

And the year before.

The same - not to put too fine a point on it - as every dang year since I joined this circus they call a family.

Now I'm a boofhead with principles. Never let it be said that I'd compromise my passionate beliefs for a mere piece of frippery.

But I'm here to tell you - I'd call Savonarola for the 15th century fruit loop that he was, and Scrooge for the shining example of the possibilities of human redemption that he was -

- for a boxed-set of Lassie DVDs!

Barbra, of course, would roll over for a second-hand VHS copy of Yentl.

Is There No End To The Madness?

You're not voted Best Groomed Boofhead at the local parco without effort.

It takes time. It takes care.

It takes a bathroom.

Yesterday I padded into the bathroom for a relaxing wallow in the beauty suds followed by a spot of eyelash tweaking and nose-hair extraction.

What did I find?

The two-legged dogs had destroyed the place!

They've gone mad. First it was painting, now they're ripping the place apart.

This place is rapidly going to the, um, dogs!