JONTY SPINS.

Every so often, my keyboard would be appropriated by one or other of the household pets.  In this instance, it was Mr Jack, the greyhound.

The missus has asked me to put paw to keyboard and relate to you the latest amusing incident from the life of that young blade, Jonty. She would do it herself - only she's still rolling around on the floor, helpless with laughter and isn't very sure when she will be coherent again.

She had just returned home from collecting the boy from that school place (shame we can't send Jonty there) and had opened up the Big Chair Room again. We're not allowed in there when the people are out, because otherwise young Stupidhead-The-Woolly-Eared-One trashes the place and destroys everything. It's not so bad, as we get to use the Big Bed Room instead, where Jonty amuses himself by flinging the teddies around the room and chewing off their noses.  ~rolls eyes~  Anyway - I digress.  Before she went out, the missus threw a new box of tissues onto the back of the Long Big Chair so that it wouldn't get eaten by the Devil-In-A-Dogsuit while her back was turned.

In later life and innocence personified.

As soon as the door is opened we all pile into the Big Chair Room and Stupidhead does his normal thing (he's SO lacking in decorum) of throwing himself upside down onto the Long Big Chair, in one (he thinks) smooth movement (imagine a hairy fish landing in the bottom of a boat and you've got it). He likes to do this, as he thinks it looks as though he's been there for hours and in the hope that nobody will chuck him off, you see.

The tissue box was jolted by the Great Hairy Twit landing like a ton of dog biscuit on the Long Big Chair and started to slide downwards. Mum and I noticed this, Jonty didn't.

The next thing Jonty knew (and it only took a split second) was the tissue box landing on his upside down head.

What happened next has proven to me that cartoon animators do, actually, work from life instead of imagination.

In a matter of seconds, Jonty had managed to spin (I swear this is true - trust me, I'm a greyhound, would I lie to you?) three complete circles, whilst juggling the tissue box. He was a blur of ears, paws and tail, and achieved keeping the tissue box spinning in midair throughout. After the third revolution, he managed to leap clear of the nasty, violent tissue box and onto the floor.  Our only wonder is that he didn't wet himself in the process (because you know, he's very likely to!). It’s just as well he didn't, or the whole room would have copped it as he was spinning like a catherine wheel.

I can't remember the last time I saw something quite SO funny. Mum was hysterical and I was grinning for ages. Ooooh, he might be a pain sometimes, but I tell you what - he's definitely good for a laugh!

AND THEN, THE PHONE RANG ....

There are moments in my life when things are trundling along how they should be, everything in its place, everyone carrying out their allotted role - and then the phone rings and in the blink of an eye, everything goes to worms.  This is one such moment, from more years ago than I care to remember (around 2003!) and when I still had working legs.

Initially, you need to know the geography of the lower level of our house for this one.  Imagine three rooms, on the right is one big room (utility and computers), on the left are two small rooms (bathroom and kitchen) and the phone is beside the computers.

Steve is in the kitchen making dinner.  Our son Morgan was just a wee fellow back then  and he and I are in the bathroom, washing hands ready for dinner. Jack – our extraordinarily huge black Greyhound - is laying on the carpet by the computers in the utility room.  The washing machine (also in the utility room) is busily working, all three computers (yes, we've gone one each) are switched on and humming away, Steve has got music on in the kitchen.  All of which is fine, except the phone rang.

In what was probably less than ten seconds, all hell broke loose. Morgan ran towards the phone (don't ask me why) and fell over Jack, who immediately panicked and jumped up  because he always thinks he's at fault, bless him.  He attempted to exit stage left by scooting towards the stairs by the kitchen doorway, causing Steve to fall over him as he ran towards the phone from the kitchen. Meanwhile, I am picking Morgan up off the floor where he's fallen between the two computer chairs. Steve reaches the phone just as the washing machine starts its VERY NOISY spin cycle.

I manage to complete a very athletic (for me!) move and hit the "off" switch on the washing machine, because I just know that Steve will not be able to hear himself think with that going on. In the meanwhile, he is muttering about "pan of chips in kitchen" as he answers the phone. Jack has run upstairs, making enough noise for a herd of elephants, I'm on my way to rescue said "pan of chips". Morgan is wailing about his poor knee and Steve is trying to talk to the phone company about their complete inability to issue a correct bill for the television/phone/internet service.

At this point I realise that - inexplicably - Morgan is waving a can of Mr Sheen furniture polish around, looking like he has every intent on using it (where did he get it from? Surely he didn't have time to find it, in between washing hands and falling over dog?).

Photo c/o Hayford Peirce

In a somewhat delayed reaction, hubby hits what he thinks is the "off" switch on the washing machine, except of course he’s turned it back on. As I pass, I swoop upon the can of Mr Sheen and wrest it from the grasp of the then indignant son, finally reaching the kitchen to discover that "pan of chips" is indeed as described - a frying pan with chips sizzling in hot oil. Now this is a complete nightmare for me - I just don’t do that, it's too scary! If anybody wants me to cook chips in our house, its an oven job or nothing. I realise that the chips are done, so turn off the gas and start fishing them out before they turn into something you could use to nail a fence together, when the washing machine starts spinning again! Eh? In confusion, knowing that I'd switched it off earlier, I dash out and switch it back off again - and dash back to the kitchen, where I throw everything that hubby had just taken out of the oven back into the oven again.

Bedlam.

I think the phone company has got our house bugged and knew the very worst time to ring. They had to. That couldn’t all have been coincidence. Could it?