Curious Reflections

I’d just settled down with my cup of tea when Kester came into the house with his dog Sophie. There was a lot of scuffling and muted shouting, and when I went to discover what the commotion was all about I found that Kester had decided that now (just before I prepared the evening meal) would be the perfect time for him to clip his dog’s hair. I did remonstrate with him and ask why he couldn’t do it in his room instead of over here, but all I got was a lot of sighing and eye rolling He then launched into a very lengthy and complicated explanation, using a loud, carefully enunciating tone, but I didn’t really understand what the explanation was. To give him his due, Kester did sweep the kitchen floor after the clipping, but it was left to me to tackle the white dog hair that found its way into the living room, onto cushions (how??) and onto my clothes. I then had to bandage Kester’s hand as he had discovered during the clipping operation that Sophie did not like having her ears touched, and in fact resented the whole grooming process itself. I then had to mop up the bloody drips he’d made as he went to the bathroom to wash the wound, and wipe blood off various other unexpected places. And then there were the puddles and wet towels discarded after her bath. These were also left to me as Kester decided that his hand hurt and that he needed to go and have a lie down after all that hard work. Went to check my e-mails this evening and found one from my Dad, or Rugg as we affectionately call him. It is a picture of him in a hat. I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to read into that. Perhaps nothing. It is just Rugg. He is one of those vaguely dithering individuals who are such fun when they’re not yours. When they are yours you spend your time worrying about them and making sure they don’t get into trouble, and failing miserably. There was that memorable time when we went shopping with him in a big department store in town. After wandering about the counters I came face to face with Ann, alone. She looked at me with as much surprise as I looked at her. “Where’s Rugg?” she asked. “I thought he was with you,” I said. At that moment we both spotted him, strolling casually down one of the aisles. He was wearing a rucksack and it was evident that he had taken a stroll (heaven alone knows why. We weren’t going to ask) through the ladies’ lingerie department because hooked onto his rucksack was a pair of bright red ladies’ knickers. They must have kept fluttering so that he would catch sight of them out of the corner of his eye and whirl round to see what was signalling him. But of course the knickers moved as he moved and so were out of sight by the time he turned. So we watched in bemusement as Rugg continued his stroll, every now and again suddenly turning to left or right, trying to catch sight of whatever the elusive thing was that was following him. Ann and I were both extremely relieved when Rugg, a widower, re-married five years ago. His new wife, Marie, was quite baffled by our unbridled enthusiasm at the announcement of their marriage and the unreserved way we instantly welcomed her into the bosom of our family. Don’t get me wrong, Marie in her own right is a lovely person. But by far her best feature is that she now looks after Rugg. And both Ann and I wish her all the luck in the world. I’m sure we’ll miss Rugg when he’s gone. Except that he probably won’t go. If there is such a thing as the after life Rugg on his death bed would see the beckoning bright light, but wouldn’t trust it. Or he’d get lost on the way to it. Or he’d take so long faffing about getting his things together (I know we wouldn’t be able to take any “things” with us, but Rugg wouldn’t know that and would faff anyway, convinced that there must to something he had to pack) that St Peter would get fed up and switch off the light and go to bed. And so Rugg would be doomed to roam the Earth like a lost soul, a sigh on the wind, a strange, vague message on the ether and an interference on the television screen. Haunting us. So, not much change there then. Got the briefest of e-mails from Ann today. “Greetings Grot Bag!” (Why do I look forward to these missives so much? All I get is verbal abuse and rubbish) “Just had a thought (as you do): If fratricide is abridging one’s brother, what is the word for bundling one’s sister into the canal with her trendy concrete stilettos? - Soeicide? Sounds too much like suicide to me. In which case, should I commit it, or encourage you to commit it? Such a quandary. Seeya swoon Mowl” Now what are these sudden thoughts about having me fitted for concrete stilettos, or possibly boots? Have I upset her in some way? And should I be worried? I shalll have to think about this.