Today is a Daddy does the dog day. Yesterday was too. Well, we are moving into winter and this weekend the rain has barely stopped long enough to get to the shed and find wellies that 1) fit and 2) don’t have nails through the sole (don’t ask). So I haven’t tried.
I don’t like the rain. I don’t find it beautiful or calming and because I’m not overly garden proud its life giving qualities leave me cold. And wet. As a child I was infamous for missing the school bus if it rained simply because I couldn’t force myself off the front porch and into the deluge.
Mr Carmichael on the other hand adores the rain. He tells me frequently and often when I’m least disposed to hear this particular panegyric. The precipitation is spoiling my anticipated activity. Sunbathing, Wimbledon (watching not playing), café lunch with a girlfriend and of course walking the dog.
Nothing is better under a grey sky. Go on, try and tell me I’m wrong.
Yesterday I battled with pre pre Christmas food shoppers in my local Waitrose car park, bought supplies for the whole clan, packed it, the shopping, into the trolley, out of the trolley at the till, into ‘bags for life’ and back into the trolley. You know what happens next, don’t you? I unloaded the trolley into the boot of my car, de-misted the windscreen again, fought with pre pre christmas drivers in the car park on the way to the exit and drove home in the pissing rain.
Helpful Notes for Americans: wellies = gumboots, rain boots; clan = large family of Scottish heritage. I use this very loosely; trolley = shopping cart; till = check out; boot = trunk and I was going to mention my lucky escape in the lift (= elevator) but consider it too much of a diversion.
Anyway, when I got home I unloaded the shopping into the hallway and yelled for daughters various to transport and unload said shopping. One materialised in her PJs (well it was only 2.00 pm) and did lend assistance. We unpacked the shopping bags into fridge, freezer, larder and fruit bowl. Phew.
The one remaining dog got in our way and begged with pleading pools of brown (his eyes not poo) to be taken for a walk.
“It’s a Daddy does the dog day today,” I explained to him. A number of times. But he knew, and I knew that Mr Carmichael was not available to man up to the inclement dog walk because he was otherwise occupied. His occupation? Winning his golf game in the rain. Wet and waterlogged golf courses for most are purgatory but not for Mr C. It’s like a chicken and egg thing. Does he win because he loves the rain or does he love the rain because he wins?
Whatever, it was a Daddy does the dog day and Daddy wasn’t there to do the dog.
Fast forward 24 hours and, as I mentioned, it’s raining today too which makes it another Daddy does the dog day.
But Chelsea are playing Manchester City and Mr Carmichael is shouting at the television. He will soon, I promise, be kneeling in front of it cajoling the Blues on to victory. Well fingers crossed. It’s always a more tranquil affair at Casa Carmichael when Chelsea wins.
I do not like football for reasons too numerous to count. The dog doesn’t like football either. Not only has he four left feet but his atavistic senses have detected that it’s rarely called off because of the rain.
Mr C loves both football and the rain. I could have a conniption about all this or,
“Come on, Boy. It’s you, me and the rain. Let’s get wet.”