A Squirrel has a lucky Escape.

Another windy and overcast day with a hint of rain in the air. Lilly the Collie looked at me and then padded over to where her lead hung amongst the coats and scarves. She sniffed it pointedly and then glanced round at me. Ten minutes later we were parking the car at Poole's Cavern. It was fairly quiet for a Saturday morning, just a few dog walkers and visitors braving the gloom. Once in the woods, Lilly set off in pursuit of the various scents. One in particular seemed to attract her attention and not even the squeaky ball could tempt her back as she snuffled amongst the rotting leaves and vegetation. And then the object of her interest broke cover. A squirrel had been minding its own business near the edge of the path. Lilly gave chase and gained on the small furry animal as it darted left and right. She closed in on its tail and was within a second of grabbing it when the squirrel changed tactics and forsook the leaf strewn floor of the wood and scrabbled desperately up the trunk of a nearby tree. Its panic diminished as it got higher and it realised that the dog, its equal on the ground could not climb trees. Lilly wandered around the base of the tree wondering where the squirrel had gone. She looked up at the tree and spotted the squirrel on a branch. She leaped up at the squirrel but soon realised that this was pointless, and came running back to be wagging her tail. I threw the ball for her and she set off after it. Much more fun. Balls can't climb trees.  

Belated happy New Year

The last few days have been a bit challenging weather wise to say the least. The background to this stormy spell has been the constant wind, which when its not trying to pry away our roof tiles, makes do with chucking the garden furniture about and rearranging the bird feeders. Even Lilly the Collie has been reluctant to step outside at times. Luckily we have not had any trees down and despite the best efforts of the wind,the roof is still attached to the house. During a brief lull, while the wind died down for a bit, I took the Christmas tree, stripped of its finery and looking a bit forlorn, out and put it in the back of the car. A trip to the tip later, once I have dropped the Weasel off at work. It seemed a bit sad taking it down. Another Christmas done, another year gone, and already a week into the new one. I'm not sure about 2012 to be honest. Its a bit scary. Everyone is growing up, leaving home, and moving on. A fresh start? Or the same old? Decided not to make any resolutions again. (Is that a resolution?) They don't work for me. Well its a bit late but happy new year, I hope 2012 brings you what you want.

Things I don't want to ever hear again

"Dad, its the Munch. I've been shot in the leg."

I hold the phone to my ear. Already I am up from my seat and heading down stairs to find Mrs BW.

"You've been what?"

"Shot in the leg dad, I'm at the hospital in Buxton."

"Shot?" I repeat. Mrs BW looks up from her knitting. Concern etched across her face. "Alex says he's been shot" I tell her. Well there is no easy way. " He is at Buxton hospital." Jenson Button would have come second in the race to the door. She grabbed her car keys "I'll phone you when I get there" she says as she disappeared into the damp dark night.

The line is dead. I stand and stare helplessly at the phone. And wait. Twenty minutes, half an hour, a year later it seems, she phones. He's okay she says the police are here. He has been shot in the leg. They think its a high powered air rifle. He has a nasty wound in his thigh. The armed response unit are here.

None of this really sinks in, accept for the bit about him being safe. And I had been speaking to him. He must be okay. I phone the Weasel to give her the low down before the face book rumour mill starts cranking into action. She is understandably mad and upset by turn. She vows vengeance on the bastard who did it. "If I find him Dad I'll......"

24 hours later a friendly genial PC sits in the front room, sipping my Ethiopian Highland coffee. "Nice coffee, this, I'd like some for my flask. Anyway so where did you feel the pain in your leg exactly." This to the Munch. He sits at the table, a strained look on his face but half amused. This is not me, this is somebody else.

He still has the pellet in his leg. He has been shot, had a general anaesthetic, and woken up in a strange hospital bed all in the space of 24 hours.  That's enough excitement for 24 hours thank you.

If only you had gone to Spec Savers Sir!

I had the pleasure of referring Buxton Thirds against Ashbourne Fourths on Saturday. For the record Buxton won 19-14 and no one got yellow carded or red carded. Sir kept his hands firmly in his pockets. Well it was a Sunny fields and its blooming cold up there. The Ashbourne scrum half, obviously yearning to give up sniping and living off the crumbs of his forwards and take up the whistle was ever so supportive, telling me every time there was a Buxton error. I thanked him early on in the game and asked him nicely not to. Then not so nicely. Then I reversed a penalty to try and get the message across. It worked. However he then seemed bothered about my time keeping and sought to help me out by asking how much longer there was to go? Every two minutes or so it seemed. That is the rugby equivalent of the child on the back seat of a long car journey asking if we are nearly there yet. Irritating and not at all helpful. As we all trouped of headed bar wards some of the players thanked me. One of the grizzled, scared, seen it all front row; suggested that it was a pity I didn’t go to spec savers. I made a note to keep an eye out for him in future games. I drank my beer and headed homeward. I’m not sure about referring yet. The jury is still out. But it was nice to know that tomorrow morning I would wake up and be able to leap out of bed and not feel if I had spent the night beneath a heavy roller.

What a Good Dog!

I don't take Lilly to Monks Dale very often. Not because its remote and difficult to get through. Its just around the corner so to speak, if you allow for a little bit of down the valley and over the hill. Rabbits are the problem. There are lots of rabbits in Monks Dale and Lilly, a normally sensible, well mannered, considerate Collie, just can't help herself. She goes mad dog and runs around here and there in a seemingly aimless fashion, deaf to my commands. It normally takes ten minutes to get it out of her system and then we have a proper walk, with lots of ball chasing and hide and seek and all the other things that people do with their dogs.

So this afternoon I braved Monks Dale again. I could sense the excitement as we left the car and headed for the stile. No sooner was she off the lead then she was off. We didn't see any rabbits, but their scent must have been all around. Several times she disappeared into the woods only to emerge, tongue lolling, ears pricked leaping and racing across the hillside, searching for the elusive rabbits. Of course she calmed down after a while and then it was back to the ball. An hour later a happy but knackered Collie trotted by my side as we walked back to the car. What a good dog.

What a tackle, What a decision!

First let me make a confession. I am an Englishman who has never supported Wales before nor wanted them to win before. Well okay I did once support Cardiff when they were playing Leicester Tigers but I mean that was the Tigers! This morning I got up and wanted the Welsh to win. Its simple. They have been the best side in the tournament to date, entertaining, inventive, a credit to their nation and people. An All Black Wales final would be a mouth watering prospect.

And for the first seventeen minutes it looked as if the Welsh were going to win. They were starting to dominate the set piece and their runners looked dangerous and sharp. Until that tackle and that decision.

Warburton's tackle on Le Clerk which ever way you view it, was a spear tackle. Spear tackles are dangerous and the only sanction the referee has is to give is a red card to the tackler if he deems the tackle to be a spear tackle. It does not matter that it was a semi-final, it does not matter that it was in the eighteenth minute, it does not matter that there may have been no intent. It does not matter that other referees have given different decisions during the tournament. And for the record Alain Roland is an excellent referee. It was dangerous and it was a red card.

It was tough on Wales. They responded magnificently. They could have won, they should have won, perhaps if they had taken the drop goal option? Les Bleus looked ordinary, with little real idea how to beat 14 men. They scraped through. But they are in the final, and as we know in finals anything can happen. I am gutted for my Welsh friends and for the distant relatives we have in Monmouthshire. But be proud of the way you played and as importantly the way you accepted the referees decision. I can think of other sports that would have treated the official differently, but you showed true sportsmanship and got on with it.

And spare a thought for Les Bleu. They won the game, they probably didn't expect to, it was not their fault that Warburton got sent off. Lets hope that they find that special something next weekend and make the final a memorable one for the right reasons.

Merde! You fool.

For several months since they moved in, I have greeted our new neighbours with a Bonjour here and an au revoir there. I think I even ventured to comment on the weather in my clumsy school boy french.I have always kept it light and happy, wanting them to feel welcome and part of the little community that we have here. You know the sort. We exchange Christmas cards, vow to see more of each other during the year and then don't. Anyway our neighbours have always smiled at me, and replied in English. They wave when ever they see us out and about, and were very understanding when Lilly the Collie decided to try out their front lawn as a toilet. Well they smiled and waved from their window as I went about the business of collecting Lilly's offering. So I was a bit disappointed as you can imagine when a few days ago during an increasingly rare conversation with Mrs BW, I explained to her how nice I thought our French neighbours were, only for Mrs BW to look at me with that quizzical, slightly patronising look that she has, and reply, "You mean the Polish ones?"