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Saturday, 26 January 2008

Dotcom Dating Formula.

Oh dear, I've got myself into quite a muddle.

It's not easy being a professional single girl.

Meeting a man at work is virtually impossible. When you do stumble across an attractive one, he's nearly always accompanied by a wedding ring or a long list from the girlfriend. Pity the ones who are not, I'll often resort to any measure to see his pet back for a 'recheck'. I like to think this is all part of a thorough service.

Recently I have resorted to shopping online for a 'dotcom' boyfriend.

I have dated five different men this month and to be honest it's becoming quite stressful.

To avoid confusion and duplication of stories/personal information/outfits I have come up with a simple formula to adhere to.

DATE ONE: Green jumper, jeans, flat shoes ('dotcom' dates are often shorter in real life than they say in their profile). Vet stories: limited to old ladies/tear jerkers in order to lull into false sense of me being perfect caring woman. Remember mantra 'I LOVE MY JOB'. Avoid discussing own pets especially giant rabbit in garage.

DATE TWO: Slightly low cut blue top, jeans and progressing to heals for those over five foot ten. Vet stories: funny, self depreciating, 'I once stapled my index finger to a rabbit' stuff, so he doesn't get intimidated. OK to start talking about long hours but remember 'I STILL LOVE MY JOB'. OK to mention two pet cats provided he does not have an allergy. Giant rabbit in garage still best avoided.

DATE THREE: Very low cut top, jeans and stilettos. Vet stories: glamorous 'I once got drunk on the TV programme Vets in Practice' stuff, probably best to avoid revealing I once snogged Steve Lennard in case he's the jealous type. OK to start dazzling him with 'gory operations I have performed' but remember even if they were at 4 am in the morning 'I LOVE MY JOB-MOST OF THE TIME'. Elude to unusual pet but best to avoid revealing that it is giant rabbit until am fairly sure have got my hooks in.

So far on-one has made it beyond date two.

Perhaps I am being too fussy.

After-all beggars can't be choosers, particularly those with a giant rabbit in the garage.

Wednesday, 23 January 2008

It's 'a-coming'...

The Norovirus has arrived.

It is amongst our workforce.

Being the most hypochondriac member of staff I have placed extra disinfectant in the toilet.

As if to add extra drama to the impending menace we have also received notification from the Veterinary Defence Society advising us we may be 'getting a visit from law and enforcement representatives' at some point this week. They can't tell us what it is relating to but it is serious and the long and short of it is that we are to 'remain calm' and keep our mouths shut.

How exciting.

I hope they come.

Though I feel positively guilty at the thought of it.

This notification has no doubt been sent to every veterinary surgery in the country.

Very, very curious.

Personally I'm hoping it will be to do with drugs, laundering, sex and violence.

Most likely in Wales or Ireland.

If they do come, it will be just my luck the Norovirus will get me before the 'law and enforcement representatives' and I'll miss all the drama.

I'll be keeping you all posted.....

Saturday, 19 January 2008

Who will care?

'Have you heard about the horses, terrible isn't it?'

Everyone was talking about them last week. Everyone.

The horses that were found dead and starving in a field in Amersham

'What about the poor woman with kidney failure who was sent back to Ghana?' I asked.

'Who?' They replied.

Compassion and empathy are amongst the most valuable attributes that humans have. They set us apart from other animals.

The life of a human will always, in my view come above that of an animal.

So sad then that we cannot feel the same compassion for each other.

A dying woman can be denied life saving treatment because she is poor, black and an illegal drain on taxpayers money.

But far, far worse than this is the apparent complete indifference to her plight.

Last year a sick whale swam into the Thames. The failed rescue attempt cost one hundred thousand pounds in charitable donations. Enough to pay for three years of kidney dialysis and one kidney transplant. Had the animal been left to die there would have been a public outcry.

Thankfully somebody out there cares for Ama Sumani. They care enough to pay for her first three months of dialysis.

But who will be there for the next three?

And who will care?

Tuesday, 8 January 2008

Location, location,location.

'There's been a development.' Says the nurse nervously as I re-enter Mrs Smither's flat after a short trip back to my car to obtain medication to administer to her sick cat, Fluffy.

'Oh dear.' I say rather worried that either the cat or the old lady have become deceased in my absence.

But the old lady appears from behind the door and both she and the nurse are gazing in the direction of the kitchen.

'I only let go of her for a second.' Says the nurse anxiously. 'She was so quick and and now she's hiding behind the washing machine.'

'Right.' I draw breath.

'She did that last time too.' Offers Mrs Smithers rather helpfully.

Wonderful.

'I've been rattling the biscuits and calling her name.' The nurse tells me.

'Not very likely to entice a deaf anorexic cat.' I mutter under my breath.

'We could all hide behind the sofa until she comes out.' Says Mrs Smithers.

I am not sure how she is going to able to negotiate getting her walking frame behind the sofa.

I start to try to move the machine but it is very heavy.

'Please don't break it, my handy mans on holiday.' Begs Mrs Smithers.

As Mrs Smither's would rather she had a broken cat than a broken washing machine, I elect to vacate the premises and instruct Mrs Smither's to contact us when Fluffy has emerged.

Later that afternoon I recieve the following message from a rather bemused receptionist who is not privy to the saga.

'Mrs Smither's says the cat is out of the hole, she says you will know what she means.'

Maybe she put the machine on a fast spin, clever old bird.

Thursday, 3 January 2008

Designer Cats.

I've seen it all from Gucci hooded jumpers for Pugs to Burberry baskets for cats.

Who am I to judge?


After all, my cats have the most expensive Alessi designer cat bowls on the market.




























It was therefore with some irritation that I was to learn that the lapping noise I could hear whilst soaking in the bath was the result of one of my cats drinking from the following receptacle:






























The make shift plastic cup I use to catch the leak from my faulty toilet handle. Nestled between the pan, the bin and two bottles of bleach.

I wonder what Caesar the dog whisperer would say if he worked with cats.

I guess it would be something like 'Your cat iz not human. Your cat iz cat. She does not know she iz a designer cat.'


Which probably explains why she also drinks from the bath, the toilet and the filthy water in the flower pot on the patio.

Tuesday, 1 January 2008

Crappy New Year.


As I teetered in my high heals, fishnet tights, white tail and bunny ears passed the boathouse window, I realised that everyone else at the party had decided NOT to follow the fancy dress code 'Anything deemed in-appropriate by the stewards at Henley.'

When the clock struck twelve, bunny ears was the only one who was NOT sat in her chair even though she was the only one NOT drinking.

How english, how very boring.

Then I had to endure what seemed like an endless conversation about rectal gloves and 'fisting cows' as the gentlemen in question put it so nicely. If only he knew that this particular line of questioning is endured by female veterinarians the world over on every social occasion attended by males and is, unfortunately a complete turn off, guaranteed NOT to get you a kiss at the end of the evening.

He did NOT take his rejection well.

I would like to clarify therefore, that I am NOT a female James Herriot.

I am Bridget Jones with a large supply of ketamine in the boot of her ford focus.

Lord knows, I could have put it to good use last night.