Sports and Sabotage

I was concerned to learn what a festive sports bout was planned for Christmas this year. True, the Christmas Day Run with Daddy Mason (DM) has long been a fixture in Kate in the Countryside festivities, but I could not have known that Mother Dearest (MD) would be adding to the sporting burden. The rents, it seems, cared little that such dashing about would interrupt the murder mystery watching and compulsive eating that really ought to characterise Christmas. 

Footie: days of yore

Of late a rabidly enthusiastic football fan, MD has taken her support for 'The Wolves' to the level of kick-about participation. So I was surprised to learn on my return home that Boxing Day was to be football day in The Countryside. Some public-spirited teacher had arranged a scurry of teams (largely composed of tiny children and old-ish women) for a high-stakes tournament. 

Team MD was a motley crew. Though Mother Dearest had cannily kidnapped two chaps to uphold our footballing honour, Dogface the dog was not allowed to participate. As a result, these almost adolescent ringers were fairly vital: the rest of the team comprised a non-moving man in goal as well as three tiny children. Though enthusiastic, the children frequently disappeared off the pitch whenever Dogface (mascot) was being particularly entertaining. 

'I shall be captain,' announced the younger of the two kidnapped children, Harry, adorned in full Premiership football fan attire. 

'But, Ced, I want to be captain!'
Tale as old as time itself

'No you won't!' said MD, ruffling his hair so as not to appear patronising. 

The captaincy was to go to our other ringer: blonder, charming and older. The Cedric to our Harry. Harry became sullen. So much for team bonding. 

The first match began. It wasn't long before all such tiffs were forgotten at the sight of MD moving with miraculous speed towards one of our (tiny) opponents. There was a clash that drew gasps and - seconds later - a yowling infant hit the deck. Amazed at the (for her) unusual experience of being the taller, MD raced on triumphantly, ball in possession.

Our second game saw Team MD extend our dominance. MD's assassination tactics on those half her size continued contentious. When a girl with pigtails scuttled towards me - her body almost concealed behind the ball, so small was she - I was terrified of going anywhere near her. Not so MD. 

Another child was floored, and the ref had had enough: 'Yellow Card! MD! If I see that again - you'll be off.' 

That was the end of MD's star footballing career I'm afraid. Fearful of the Red Card, she managed to stay out of trouble, but the aggressive flair was gone. However, Team MD won the tournament, so a managerial career might be more her style.

For Late Adopters

Late adopters of Kate in the Countryside have observed that - for the uninitiated - such an acronym-dense landscape can sometimes be tricky to navigate. 

It is for them, and for those whose knowledge of Kate in the Countryside is not as exhaustive as they might hope, that the crib sheet below came to pass. Diligent members of the readership would be advised to print out what follows and keep it in a handy place for reference. Perhaps an opportunity to familiarise oneself with laminating machine? 

Laminated items do keep better.
Just a suggestion

Kate in the Countryside began a year ago after the demise of my Carefree University Life at Cambridge. Returning from a month at the Edinburgh Festival, I found myself unemployed in The Countryside living with MD (Mother Dearest - of whom more later). The curious folk I found there proved an excellent source of solace and fascination. So the blog was born. When someone generously gave me a job months later, the blog travelled with me to London, where I found that the oddballs of Oundle were no stranger than those of Pimlico who now populate these pages.

KITC: Acronym of the name of This Blog. Also represents Kate the character at moments of dramatic importance.

Kate in the Countryside: name of This Blog. A misnomer (as is often observed) since I am no longer domiciled in The Countryside. Knowledge for the in-crowd, that. Like Magdalene being pronounced Maudlin. 

Pimlico: where Kate in the Countryside now lives with flatmate and co-star, BOF.

BOF: Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate. Formerly Belligerently Optimistic Future-Flatmate. This sobriquet refers to a sad time a year ago when we were both yet to be homed. But BOF's unflagging - if occasionally a little manic - optimism eventually secured us The Pad. A place with no graffitied doors and good-looking neighbours thrown in.

Pretty Neighbour (PN): Apple of BOF's eye. Attempts to seduce her / convince her to come over have as yet gone unrewarded. Though we did meet her once. Recently waking up to the fact that she may not be interested in boys. Bit galling, hence KITC's silence on the subject in recent months.

Spinning: one of London's gifts to the blog. I find myself being shouted and sworn at on a bike in a small room at the local gym with more regularity than I imagined possible. Run by...

The Shouter: Australian Spinning Trainer Man. He shouts. Suspect he may be in league with PG, who first introduced me to the local Pimlico hang outs and Spinning class.

PG: Pimlico Guru. Collaborator in Spinning sessions. Resident of Pimlico. Advisor in all things local. Word on the grapevine is that she may be leaving the gym. Updates impending.

Tactful Friend (TF): Non-Pimlico resident and regular facilitator of Nights Out. I have recently realised that such evenings always lead to encounters with London's Gits, for which this blog is very grateful.

Dogface: My dog. Interestingly, this is his real name.

Mother Dearest (MD): Mother of KITC. Teacher. Resident of Oundle. Recent adopter of Twitter. Follow her in real life (@msoundle) for the full metafictional KITC experience.

DM: Daddy Mason. Not to be confused with MD, DM lives in the Bahamas where he keeps swimming pigs. This may or may not be true.

Mysterious L: Most significant external contributor to KITC. True identity a mystery. Some say she exists only within the confines of the KITC world. 

Mother Dearest in Morocco

To Morocco with MD this week. A chance to observe her in an alien habitat (away from Oundle and The Countryside), it has already been an inspiring sight.

It was five minutes into the Departures area at Heathrow Terminal 1 when I remembered that MD-on-Holiday is a different creature to the one familiar to readers of Kate in the Countryside. 

We walked past Curry's (looting activity limited thanks to airport security).

She's got one (probably)

'I really need a laptop,' she observed, 'or something to carry around anyway - all I've got is that monster desktop thing.'

'How about an iPad 2?' I mooted, without much commitment. Technology and MD usually spend most of their time fighting.

'Are they good then?' she asked, stopping to look at a particularly shiny one.

'Yes! So much fun - and think how cool you'd look clutching one of those under your arm at school.' [MD is a teacher. A good teacher. Ignore the picture.] 

'OK. I think I'll get one. If you think it's a good idea?'

Amazed, I fell silent as MD proceeded to checkout, completing her purchase in thirty casual seconds, before scurrying out looking as though she might have done something rather daring. 

MD is someone who would normally rather eat Dogface [our dog] than listen to my opinions on which type of ham to buy from the Co-op, let alone be advised on the purchase of a frivolous piece of gadgetry.

It didn't stop there. Since our arrival in Morocco, she has killed four mighty cockroaches with her flip-flop of doom, haggled some poor bloke in the Djemaa el-Fna half to death for suntan lotion and - most impressively - learnt to use said iPad with such ease that she's now conducting witty exchanges from beside the pool, and plans to graduate to Facetime tomorrow.

MD?

Yesterday we took a bus into the centre of Marrakech. As we loitered, waiting to get on, the bus driver looked as though he was tempted to pull off. No chance with MD the roach-splatter about. She dived forward and bashed relentlessly on his window while he looked on in awe. He won't be doing that again, I can tell you.

For my part, I have befriended a cat (largely in hopes that he will eat the squashed cockroaches with which MD has littered the room) and spent much of the rest of the time cowering from beasts behind MD's mighty frame. Incidentally, she recently revealed that she has now achieved the dizzy heights of 5 foot 1, leaving her (as far as I can tell real size) of 5ft for dust. 

Forget Green Giant dear reader. What you need is couscous. 

Bugs' Life

Back in The Countryside, it is quarter past 12 at night when I discover the cockroach scuttling towards my toilet.



Who needs carpets anyway?

It's my first night in the non-Childhood Home back in Oundle. It would be difficult to imagine anything less likely to make me a fan of the New Place Down The Road (NPDTR). The place is quite short on carpets. And curtains. Also kitchen comforts, food, floorboards and doors. One thing we do have is - to MD's delight - one of those 'futuristic' [MD] ice-and-water dispensing fridges. 

But something else we seem to have acquired  is a pet cockroach. The house is dark and sinister. I retreat from the loo, feigning casual indifference lest it senses my fear. Dogface is in bed and, in any case, would be no use in the face of such a monster. The room is pretty short of useful bug-trapping accoutrements, crammed instead with boxes of childhood tat.

Eventually, tin in hand, I face the nonchalant bug. Cramming it inside, I lop off a couple of legs in haste. I assure you, dear Kate in the Countryside reader, the beast could hardly fit, so large was he. 

The following morning, leaving the bug beneath its box (with an additional bowl over that, for reinforcement), I tell MD: 'There's a cockroach in my bathroom MD.' 'No there isn't,' she says.

The good end. Fact.

Our former neighbours are visiting the NPDTR (see how friendly it was that end of Oundle...). 'There's a cockroach in my bathroom,' I repeat. 'Is it dead?' asks Lovely Neighbour 1 (LN1). MD shoots angry looks behind his back Mrs Bennet-like - don't mention the cockroach -which become frantic when LN1 offers to rescue the beast. 

Moments later, beetle unveiled, we all laugh at my bug-illiteracy: 'That's not a cockroach!' MD - who had been transfixed from fear at thought that The Countryside would know of her cockroach concerns - is nearly crying with relief. LN1 liberates the nonchalant bug onto some rubble, while Dogface skips about awkwardly, uncertain where he fits in the bug hierarchy. I can't concentrate: the rubble is a bit near my room for my liking.

Nearby Dogface is now worrying a wasp - my beetle is too tough. Stoically trying to munch the stingy beast, he gets whimpery and irate each time it fights back. Finally, the frustration is too much. He uses his last and most potent weapon. As MD squawks horrified, Dogface confidently pees on the wasp. In the middle of the new kitchen floor. He smiles his success.

Put outside, he barks at MD's new car. I know how he feels. We neither of us like change. A NPDTR neighbour pops his head around the corner, ostensibly to say hi, but with a virulent glare at noisy Dogface. Meanwhile, a duststorm arises from the building site chaos and I'm instructed to re-move removal boxes.

That night - Easter - the reincarnated beetle finds my room for the second time. A homing cockroach. Frankly, the new place needs to try harder if it's going to ever win me over.

Next episode: Back in the Gym Agane.

Goodbye Childhood Home (the conclusion)

Well, bye then.

This weekend was the last spent in my Childhood Home, whose impending decline was where Kate in the Countryside started last year.

When I was last at home, Dogface was doing his best to be as disconcertingly unfriendly and yappy as possible towards the couple who have bought the house, the Childhood Home Usurpers. This culminated in a notable incident where he tactically crapped in their path and fled. How things have changed. Now, when the CHU turn up (enthusiastic dog-owners themselves), treacherous Dogface starts gambolling about with enthusiasm and delight. They've even been taking him for walks apparently....

At least Childhood Home itself is not so fickle. Strapped for storage space, the CHU asked if they could keep some of their stuff in our - now empty - garage. MD agreed. Clearly unenthused, the garage retaliated in triumphant style when its roof collapsed on the boxes, moments after the CHU had moved in their things.

'Well that's never happened before,' I observed nonchalantly, brushing dust off them.

And packing is dull. The Cupboard of Terror on the top floor of the house in particular took an astonishing amount of time. I was told to extract the things I wanted from within the cavernous pit. Sifting through my childhood hoardings elicited many treasures, including: a small novelty tennis racquet wrapped in a golden cape, seven fake witches nails, half a Polly Pocket (blue), a locked briefcase with an unopenable combination and - bafflingly - three standard pound coins, stuck together to form a small tower.

Even as I boxed these items on a sunny Sunday (in the box marked 'Very Special Things': don't worry - they've been saved) with MD next door to protect me, the Cupboard of Terror seemed as terrible as ever.

Even the door I'd been sure to prop firmly open left me with no certainty that I was safe. Might it not spring shut and lock me in - as it had on that day sixteen years ago when three pals and I had thought it the perfect hiding spot? Sadly the adults (from whom we hid) didn't realise the game. They were not even looking for us and, once locked, the CoT was unopenable from within. That the four of us are still here today is a miracle of initiative and DIY.

Elsewhere, mouldy accessories from the hotel I once started in my bedroom (I was the Manager. Hapless friends were deemed 'Bellboy' or, if they were very lucky, 'Waitress'), fell stickily down from various crannies. Dogface munched the small soaps and flannels as snacks.

Later, we had an impromptu drinks party to say goodbye to the place, where MD's friends asked me whether I was sad to be leaving until I was. Then Dogface and I ran about in the garden one last time and MD drove me back to the station. 

Every memory I have from home seems to have happened in lovely sunlight or snow. To me, the mental image I have of CH looks like a Cambridge University Prospectus drawn by the Wizard of Oz.

If you remember anything from Lorne House that you want to leave at the bottom here that would be tremendous. Thanks chaps.

Next episode: The Women's Institute

Kate in the City?

And while life in London Village feels more friendly every day (with one notable bike-based exception), I fear that Kate in the Countryside might be getting some bad habits from the city in return. Anticipating a brief jaunt to the countryside this weekend, some of my new Londonisms became clear.

Corporate Spice?

Once, I would have been fascinated by the hooded hordes thronging the pavements outside Victoria - now they are an irritating impediment. This morning, a politely chattering crocodile of charmingly uniformed schoolchildren seemed only an obstacle. Even the hardened BOF could only look on in terror as I concussed the nearest two with my bag before toppling the wheeliebag stack of an errant tourist.

But there's worse. Seeking speed for my walk to work last week, I panicked. I admit it. Reasoning I'd gain minutes, I adopted the trainers-work clothes look beloved of businesswomen in transit across the city. Attired in the twenty-something's equivalent of white socks and Jesus sandals, I looked like Sue Sylvester on her way to a party.

I could look no one in the eye. All around me I saw the glinty white trainers shining off reflective surfaces, and when I bumped into a big cheese from the office I could only nod curtly and flee in the opposite direction. The catastrophic combo rendered me incapable of speech.

This horror of human contact teamed with the trainers' super-speed made a post-work trip to buy food hazardous. I braved Giant Sainsbury’s (GS) - a shop so-called to distinguish it from the Small Sainsburg (SS) in Victoria Station, which frankly has nothing in it except manky flowers, 4 Muffins for £1 and copies of Heat.

GS adopts the policy that as long as you're trapped inside, you might conceivably buy. So it arrays items with abandon - draping garlic amongst the catfood, and milk by mustard. The only response is to curl up in a corner rocking backwards and forwards until it closes.

Worth it.

Empowered by trainer super-speed however, I used my trolley to bash through aisles and grannies, grabbed the first twenty things I saw, pushed to the front of two queues, attacked a man for the last of the half price prawns, and legged it. It's not me - it’s GS.

Trainer-free, I was back to restful Oundle to see MD and Dogface. MD fills me in on all the big local news: dog-training is still closed, there's a film on at the local theatre this Sunday and (the best saved to last) ... the Co-op has been refurbished! ‘They’ve moved everything around, it’s really rather good,’ she assures me.

So in we go. A combination of SS’s emptiness with GS’s design flaws greets me. Told they have 'the best cookies - better than Waitrose', I try to stay positive. But it's not long before I'm hiding in the rocking-and-crying corner. No bashing or wrestling allowed here in The Countryside. How do I escape?

Escape to the Countryside (Festive Episode)

Mutual adoration

At Christmas, Oundle is riddled with festivities. I trekked back to my Kate in the Countryside homestead on a snowy eve, dug out some glittery clothing (first outfit Mother Dearest vetoed 'not Christmassy enough') and scurried out.

Dogface has not had much of a time over the festive period. In such demand is MD that she's been attending bashes by the dozen. I'm told that Dogface is not an eligible enough escort, so has been left at home with only our Angry Cat (whom he fears) for company.

The first bash we discover, too late, is dog-friendly. A competitor to Dogface's village mascot status skips jauntily about the room, reaping adorers, young Dogface all but forgotten. Moments in, this pretender is defined 'the loveliest dog ever' by some ill-informed enthusiast. At this point, the little chap chose to relieve himself in the corner, dance excitedly at the sight of so many witnesses, then pass out (from booze?) beside his stool. Now I know that house-training isn't competitive, but still....

Later that week, over a glutton of meat joints (MD's vegetarianism fortunately forgotten), small-town tensions surface.

MD - making polite dog conversation - finds herself thronged by wronged locals. Scandalously, a local dog-training venue has been shut down by the council. It has asbestos. They say.

Paul the Trainer isn't so sure. He has the dogs' best interests at heart. He smells conspiracy:

'They say it's because of (inverted commas) "health and safety". Health and Safety gone mad, I say. The dogs don't care do they, eh ... eh, they don't care about forms do they? (Reflective pause.) They're dogs.

(Wisely, the room is unwilling to offer an opinion. Paul seems encouraged.)

'My dad was the head trainer of the queen's dogs. Of the corgis, yes. So I do know what I'm talking about actually. All I want (mournfully) is to be able to train dogs. I know what they're up to ... (whispers) The Council ... they're gonna sell it off. Make a mint.'

In the facing corner is a man who will fight for the council: for the right of authority to form whatever toxic material-based decisions it deems fit. Cracking knuckles, shifting, frowning, rubbing his brow: this is a man suffering from all the pangs of righteous indignation. For he is on the council. Or knows someone who was once on the council, same thing. Point is - he has the inside track. How dare this dog-trainer's son cast aspersions?

He interrupts (stiffly). And treats us to an extended and deeply boring monologue about the benefits of health and safety and the trauma and soul-searching each and every member of the council went through before deciding to close down the training and so forth. And so on. Strictly speaking. He uses such phrases to imply a wealth of knowledge behind his words that we would struggle to properly understand. We're enthralled. Such a showdown has not been seen in Oundle since the great pub quiz debate of 2001.

Sun-reading superstar Paul submits with unprecedented speed. Deferring to pomposity with feudal inevitability - 'But hey what do I know? You know all about it mate - of course.' - he returns to his meat.

The Council celebrates 'HAWhawhaw' and order in Oundle is preserved. 

Goodbye Childhood Home

Desperate Dan the Estate Agent Man is back. He's showing people around my house. Here they are, pointing out the flaws, weighing up whether or not they'd deign to live here. I don't want them to want to live here, you understand, but equally I don't want them making snide comments about the place. We don't need your opinion thanks, it's not Escape to the Country.

I asked Dan if I could do anything to help with the viewings. I know a small amount about the house, after all. 

Aggie:
Looks good in an apron

'No dear,' he replied. 'Perhaps you could just drape yourself somewhere artistically and make the place look more attractive. And don't say anything about the house to the viewers, OK?' 

Presumably Aunt Aggie puts up with this kind of chat, but since I don't have a flowery apron stitched to the front of my dress, or spend my life in pursuit of cow pie perfection, it did grate rather. 

Anyway, to be balanced about this, not all potential house buyers are vile. However when they were terrible, I at least didn't feel guilty about hating them and the thought of their snotty little faces living in my childhood home. 

The worst lot flounced in early on a Monday morning. Not ideal.

'Hello,' I said, struggling to restrain Dogface from manic destructive prancing, 'nice to meet you! Sorry, we've got a new puppy - bit hard to control!' [This is Jovial Winning Kate by the way - she speaks with exclamation marks.] 

Vile-and-Bald's loose change

'I can see that,' responded Vile-and-Bald, looking out of the window. 'Don't let it get on my wife's coat.'

Tough crowd. Dan tried to warm them up a bit with some of his best lines, including 'so what brings you to Oundle' and 'where are you from then?'

Vile-and-Bald glanced about disdainfully. 'We're from London actually. We're looking to downsize, we've got several properties worth in the millions. And four acres near London. Not really sure about "Oundle" to be honest, you know….' He tails off, to ponder his fat piles of cash.

If only MD were here, I found myself thinking, she could wow him with the microclimate. Or kill him. One of the two.

'Er right yes, lovely,' Dan mumbled. 'Garden next?'

An acceptable view

'No,' said Vile-and-Bald, 'I've seen gardens before. And - as I say - we've already got four acres, not really looking for more green space. HAR.' (That last bit was his laugh - like one of those robotic text readers interpreting emotion.)

With an awkward glance at me, Dan shepherded them into the cellar. A wiser man than I'd thought. 

But some normal people are apparently buying our house. I'm not sure they know exactly how great the place is, as I wasn't allowed to tell them. But they're keen for it at the moment, or will be until I write and tell them fictitious tales about dead bodies in the attic.

In fact the normal people must be alright as they weren't even put off by Dogface crapping decisively in their path as they arrived. MD tried to distract them with observations about Oundle's numerous hairdressers, microclimates, that kind of thing, but they just stepped delicately past it and admired the garden. 

I've trained him well, dear old Dogface. Just a shame I controlled him so successfully when the Baldy Bunch were round.

Suffering from the Cuts

Could this be Oundle?

Oundle is a quaint little place certainly. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in the multiplicity of its hairdressing establishments. And its microclimate apparently. ('It's always sunny here isn't it Kate?' MD regularly exclaims, through sheets of rain. 'Lovely Oundle.')

The other day, MD decided to take me along to a drinks party with some of her chums. This agreed, she started shooting me sceptical looks. She had realised she didn't like my hair: 'Do you think we've got time to do something about your hair before tonight?' she probed. Note the cunningly inclusive use of the word 'we' there.

I quite liked my hair. I've been growing it ever since MD stopped forcibly imposing regular trips to the hairdresser when I was sixteen. 'But you look so sweet!' she would croon of my painfully uncool bob. That, MD, was exactly the problem. 'Sweet' is not the ideal look for a teenager.

Oundle boasts no fewer than four hairdressers. One caters for grannies, one for the cool kids, one is closing down and one has nice premises in the middle of town. To that one I was sent. The uberstylist - we'll call him Bryan - does my mum's hair, and once gave her free highlights. Clever man. Now he is feted all around town, and MD thinks nothing of sacrificing her daughter's head to his whims.

In we go, Dogface in tow. 'What a beautiful doggy,' squeals Bryan, retreating behind the counter to prevent Dogface's beautiful paws from getting on his black Armani skinny jeans. MD says, 'Hi Bry, can you do something about my daughter?' They laugh gregariously. I am not going to like it here. 

My hair, innocent of the horror awaiting it, is at the emergency stage preceding wash-time. Bry looks at it; he looks at MD. They chuckle roguishly. 

A preferable hairdresser

'I just would like…'

Bry: 'That is a mess isn't it?'

'Yes,' chips in MD helpfully, though - for the record - I suspect it was a rhetorical question. 

Bry takes me delicately by the shoulders. 'OK, why don't we just shorten it up and take it back to your natural colour?' 

['Oh God no,' I think.] 'Er, I don't know,' I reply, 'I would just like…'

MD: Bry that's a great idea!

Kate: But

Bry: Thing is, I'm the hairdresser, so let's just trust me yeah? OK?

MD nods vigorously. MD is paying. K submits. 

Of this there will be no photos. Here are some more swimming pigs to take our minds off the horror that ensued:

Happy

Have you been injured in a hairdressing accident that wasn't your fault? Let me know.

A Dog With No Name

Snuggles?

The naming of a dog round here is a dangerous business. Because, firstly, the Oundle community takes a very active interest in new local dogs. Secondly, our puppy (hereafter known as 'Dogface') isn't even a proper dog yet. How are we to know what will suit? Over the last few days I've heard endless dog names. Plenty are catastrophic. Turns out many monstrous beasts are called things like 'Snuggles', because the proud puppy-owners spoke too soon.

A trivial issue, you'd think. 

One day, pre-puppy, MD popped round to see Dogface's original family and take him to visit his future home and meet our cat Spikey. On MD's return, Mrs Dog-Owner asked MD what she was thinking of calling young Dogface. MD, poor fool, flippantly told Mrs Dog-Owner some of our thoughts. The puppy is an Irish Terrier, so most of our ideas were names like 'Paddy', 'Seamus' and … 'Beckett'. But of course. Mrs Dog-Owner nodded vaguely:

'It's very important to have a name early, you know - vital for training.'

'Oh yes, well we'll think of something soon,' laughed dogless MD, 'but at the moment he's just little Dogface.'

Mrs Dog-Owner (instantly insane): 'How can you insult him like that? I knew you weren't dog people! He doesn't deserve it - it's just appalling. I've a good mind not to let you have our little baby now.'

MD (sheltering from spit and clods of dog-poo that Mrs Dog-Owner secretes in her jeans to throw at the inept dogless): 'Ah, OK. Sorry, er. Bye. Bye Dogface.'

MD Flees, as motherdog of Dogface chomps her ankles vengefully.

Happily, Mr Dog-Owner later tranquillised Mrs Dog-Owner, and we took young Dogface while she slept.

Poor Nameless Dogface

My contribution to the Name Game was 'Baldrick'. I, uniquely, find it an endearing and dog-friendly name. MD not so sure. I'm told it's supposed to be the ugliest word in the English language. Soon after we took Dogface home, I snuck the name 'Baldrick' onto the Vet's records and tried to convince MD that Dogface looked so much like a 'Baldrick' that the Vet had just guessed this was his name. She wasn't fooled. 

As we trotted through the Market Place yesterday, Dogface and I, he was the most admired chap in the village. Top Dog. Little old couples stopped us to enquire after his health. We were nearly home when we were stopped by a Smiling Elderly Lady.

SEL: Oh what a beautiful little chap. Ahh. What's he called then?

Kate in the Countryside (still convinced by 'Baldrick'): He's called Baldrick.

SEL: Sorry dear?

KitC: Baldrick.

SEL (loudly): What?? (Angrily, to Dogface - who is, recall, a dog) What are they doing to you? How could they call you that? You're a beautiful dog. 

Dogface: er.

KitC: er.

SEL (to me again, voice raised): What a horrible thing to say. He's a nice dog - how could you do that to him? What a disgusting thing to call him. (Lunging forward grabbing me hard by the wrist) Don't you dare call him that. (To Dogface again) If I were you I'd run away.

KitC: OK, sorry. Have a nice day. Bye then.

We managed to outrun her, but it was a close thing. So that's the end of Baldrick. Poor Nameless Dogface. How long until schizophrenia sets in?