Wellies on the ground floor

And so it is that we move house once again. This will be the 15^th house I have lived in. Most people live in two or possibly three all their lives. I suppose that classes me as some sort of nomad. It’s 3am. A cup of tea has calmed my nerves after waking in a cold sweat.

This is a tiny cottage by the river, idyllic you could say, nice and cozy for us two and the dogs. Walkies by the river, no less than 16 friendly pubs to drop into, a few nice bistros and a couple of Indian restaurants. It is also handy for the hospital where my poor sister still lies, allowing me continue my daily visits.

But here is the trap. The dogs are not allowed above the ground floor, we have signed a contract on their behalf to ensure this. I say we signed it, Wendy and I signed it, they didn’t. So poor Louis cannot understand why, after four years of access all areas, he is confined to the kitchen.

And the problem doesn’t stop there. You see this little cottage is in a small town called Bewdley and the little river outside the door is none other than the notorious River Severn. I say notorious, as many will recognise the name because every time we have a period of prolonged rain in middle England, the river Severn (to coin a cliché from the journalists here) bursts its banks, right outside our door. Fortunately, for the good people of Bewdley, flood defences were installed in this town a few years ago which now protect it from the worst of the carnage that flood water can bring. But that still relies on the council getting them in place, in time. My biggest worry is where do they get their weather forecast from? For instance, do they sit and watch “hopeless the weathergirl” blather on in her dimwit way on channel 4 each evening? Or do they get their information from the met-office, you know that over paid bunch of tossers who occasionally look out of the window to tell us its raining. The ones who couldn’t forecast a barn door banging in a gale. Possibly the council use a crystal ball or a time machine to make their predictions? It is all a worry.

Thankfully, this is a three story cottage, so we would expect to be reasonably safe were it that Noah was summoned to the fore at a moments notice. But what about those poor dogs, the ones we signed a contract for?

Let the nightmares begin. All last night I endured that recurring one where I wake up and see two defenceless pooches floating down the high street still asleep in their beds. Perhaps I should complain to the RSPCA? Or at least buy them some wellies and waterwings.