So when me and The husb got for a walk around the village, most nights, me pointing out the gossip I've gleaned from rightmove.co.uk about the houses for sale ("ooh that one's dropped their price by ten thousand...well they have been on the market for 9 months..."), and him tellign me how many cars he's seen that day that looked like Kitt from Knight Rider, we always, always go past a house with a fenced garden and a wrought iron gate behind which lives a lovely old sheepdog.
Well I say lovely; every time we walk past the gate he barks. Loudly. And I jump out of my skin and scream. Every time. But now, even though I know the dog is going to bark when we pass him, and you'd think I'd be prepared for it, I still jump and scream. Like a great big girl. The neighbours must think there's some kind of ritual sacrifice every night around 7pm. I can't stop myself. There's probably some deep psychological issues here. "Pavlov's dogs." Paul said to me last night, knowingly when I did it again. But what've dogs got to do with meringues and cream?
Ah, that wasn't funny was it? No.
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