bloke moves to france with confused partner and two barking-mad terriers
Monday, July 4, 2011
Birthday boy. Wee Jockie. Ten today. That's seventy in doggy years. Knocking on a bit but still powering those short, stumpy legs over daily marathon runs (for a Westie). Seems only yesterday that he was just a little white ball of mischievous fluff. My, how tempus fugits. Bon anniversaire laddie. Extra grub treat tonight.
Bohemian hermit recluse hiding in the mist-shrouded hills and backwoods of central France; went to art school in the mid-Sixties and never really left; masochistic supporter of Aldershotnil FC; fascinated by the mystery of disappearing odd socks; follically, cosmetically and vertically challenged but horizontally unchallenged, otherwise perfect (it says here); probably one of the luckiest geezers in the whole wide world.