The Twenty First Century Hits Lann Georges.

A very nice lady knocked on my door today and asked how long I had lived here.  Its been a long time.  And then she inquired as to whether or not I am a permanent resident.  Yes I am.  My first thought was Brexit, but it wasn’t that.

She then explained about the new recycling bins and gave me a swipe card which you need to open the bins.  Yes, I do recycle but only because I have to put it somewhere.

You are allowed 50 Litres Free on any one occasion.  Any more and you have to pay.  This was getting better by the minute.  Robin Dominic will no longer be able to put off getting rid of his beer bottles for weeks on end because he has something better to do, like drinking beer.  And I won’t have to negotiate my way around them.  Besides, three or four large plastic bags full of beer bottles does absolutely nothing for my OCD.  It isn’t possible to make then look tidy.  I have tried.

Paper and Plastic are another thing, and they don’t help my equilibrium either, although we don’t accumulate quite so much of those.

So do me a favour.  Bring on The Twenty First Century.  There is nothing else even remotely modern around here.  For which I am largely thankful.

 

The Rotten Little Swine.

Three Rubber Door Mats in pieces, all over the garden.  I don’t care about The Mats, only about the pieces that The Rotten Little Swine might have ingested.  And I seriously cannot afford another Vet’s Bill for 460 Euros.  It took me bloody ages to pick up the bits while O’Connor thought that this was another game, and ran off with whatever he could grab.

Something has gone wrong here.  I have inadvertently turned his wrecking into a game.  So now I am back to my fail safe.  If he pukes up, starve him for 24 hours and then feed him soggy bread.

It worked on Romulus who once consumed eight plastic covered Bird Balls.  Rom threw up the lot.  Although it wasn’t much fun counting the plastic covers in amongst the vomit.  Don’t ask me how it works because I don’t know.

Rom’s foray into Rat Poison was a bit more difficult.  He got into a cupboard.  I don’t actually leave Rat Poison lying around.   That cost me 99 Euros, but he did survive, Vitamin E injections not withstanding.  And it was a long time ago, in so far as the cost was concerned.  The Rat Poison is on the top shelf these days.  And No, I don’t have a lot of Rats.  The Cat takes care of those.

So I suppose that O’Connor isn’t alone in this.

O’Connor is now an even longer streak of Pelican Shit, with a Snake Head and beautiful Snake Eyes.  He is fully grown now with lovely markings.  The only Short Haired Dachshund from the entire litter.  So there’s a throw back.

My garden is like a cratered Luna Landscape.  The Septique Tank is already half dug up, should Brussels decide to give me a really hard time over their Directives.  And all is well in The Land of Nod, to where I retire when I don’t want to know.

O’Connor hasn’t found any Badgers yet.  Only one very small Hedgehog, which is no doubt perfectly capable of defending itself.