Tripe

Only a few hours after I caught the first daughter putting the second daughter’s head into a plastic bag, I found her feeding her little sister dog biscuits. The youngest clearly thought these delicious, if a little chewy, and I don’t know how many made it down her throat before I put a stop to it. Of course it will do her no harm at all. In fact, I am tempted to start feeding them canned dog meat, since the sort I was forced to buy recently (no time to get to Tuckers) comes in various flavours, including beef stew with vegetables and potatoes, and lamb hotpot with beans and potatoes in gravy. Well. On closer inspection, one can easily see the juicy chunks of beef and tenderly sliced carrot, the diced potatoes. It looks just like the remains of something I might have cooked. It probably tastes even better. I can only hope the dog appreciates it. I fear she does not. There is something ludicrous about serving a dog such food. It doesn’t think, ‘Mmm, Lancashire hotpot. I’m so glad it’s not smoked salmon again.’ It just thinks, ‘Mmm. Food.’ It wouldn’t care what I fed it, as long as it filled the hole. These are animals that roll in fox mess, lick cowpats and eat things I couldn’t even begin to mention here. There are children all over the planet – and even in this country – that live on food far less nutritious and certainly less plentiful. What is the world coming to when we feed our dogs better than our children?

Credit crunch casualty

Last week I joined the ranks of the redundant. I was a newspaper columnist. Now I’m an aspiring novelist. Again.  The column was the only thing keeping my brain from slowly pouring out of my ears after having had two children in quick succession with another one on the way. In order to keep myself alive I had to do something drastic. So here I am. If the paper doesn’t want to listen to my banal ramblings, I shall talk to myself.