Bloody Roger

 

It’s been a bit of a bust of a day.

I had nothing planned, and there were no good films I hadn’t seen yet at the cinema, so after a walk and breakfast, and a perfunctory chat about dog dirt along Bryon Street with Mrs Trellis, I lay back down on the bed to read.

I woke around 2 and could smell burning. 

I suspected that village Elder Islwyn was up to tricks, but the smell wasn’t damp woodsmoke but smouldering banana and orange.

Roger! 

After mopping the kitchen floor I had left Roger’s crate against the washing machine .

In his gleeful few hours of being unsupervised he had climbed onto the crate, then onto the kitchen worktops where he ate three eggs from the fishy designed bowl, several reachable sugar lumps from a container which I thought would have had a lid a Dim Welsh terrier could not have opened.

More importantly he had turned on the halogen oven hob with his warm paw. Luckily it was a back burner, the one I seldom use, but a much loved fruit bowl lay to one side and in his adventures Roger had slid it back over the hob.

I was lucky the cottage didn’t go up in flames

Now before the collective gnashing of teeth starts

We’ve all had one of these moments of luck in our lives.

More graphically I remember silently drowning in a swimming pool in Lloret Del Mar when I was ten, before some nameless man reached down to laugh me out. 

No man , no Going Gently, no little life lived

It’s a real It’s a wonderful life kind of moment if you let your head run away with things.