By the time I had found out all about how the Irish had saved civilisation - see previous blog - it was well past my bedtime and little Rover was deeply asleep beside me.
Rather than waking him, I squeezed in alongside him and pulled over what little of Jetstar's business-class blanket he was willing to share with me. Which wasn't much which meant that by three o'clock in the morning I awoke shivering and feeling like a half-opened Swiss Army knife because here's the other thing I learnt, "Never buy a sofa that's shorter than you're tall." Funny how life's lessons always come too late.
It's seven in the morning now, and I've just stomped across the raureif-covered grass to feed the water fowl by the pond, No need to feed Rover who's still dreaming of grilled lamp chops and his latest taste bud teaser, savoury mince. I know because I can hear him softly sighing while his little black nose twitches and his little pink tongue quivers.
Do I love this little guy? How did you guess? He's my best friend. And you know what they say: if a man's best friend is his dog, the dog has got a problem - except Rover who seems to take it in his short wobbly stride.
P.S. Those of you who read my blog attentively will have noticed the word 'raureif'. It's your bit of erudition for the day because I knew that if I used the English word 'hoar', you would've thought I couldn't spell ☺
