Did a bit of old school shopping today, as I went to Reading town centre while P took A to work with her. It started off well enough as the shops were quiet and it was quite pleasant to be able around taking my time over the shopping without the crowds. To be honest, part of the ambling was down to trying to remember what it was I was there to buy. Unfortunately for me my brain didn’t really kick into gear until the shops got much busier but I did manage to grab what I needed.
One of the reasons I went old school instead of buying online was my fast diet-induced weight loss leading to a change in measurements, meaning I had to try jeans and trousers on. I also wanted a pair of new desert boots (seeing as A vomited all over my previous pair when we landed in Lapland) and Clarks’ own website had a note on their site about the sizing of them that meant I wanted to try an actual pair on. The real life experience, predictably, was horrible compared to buying online, and to cut a long story short, after 20 minutes of faffing around, I failed to get a pair of desert boots and ended up coming home and ordering a pair online, with the added bonus that by visiting the site via Quidco ((that’s a referral link, for which I’ll get a kickback if you sign up to Quidco and earn at least £5 in cashback yourself)), I’m getting more than a fiver back as cashback. No reason to visit ye olde Clarks high street shoppe again, thankfully.
I’m fortunate enough (actually, when you think about it, it’s not down to fortune) that I haven’t yet seen the awful meme doing the rounds on Facebook that Chuck Wendig refers to in Spanking Your Children Is Hitting Your Children. What he says is spot on. Every. Single. Word.
What I know is this: you spank your kid, you’re demonstrating that you’re a lazy, impatient, frustrated bully. You’re a brute who can’t handle his own child, who can’t actually teach anything or help your child understand the vagaries of life. Your intelligence level is equal only to the smacks you give, whether they’re to a kid’s ass or across his face or with a belt or a paint stirrer or a wooden spoon or whatever your weapon — because, that’s right, it’s a weapon.
This is the song I’ve been trying to learn on the ukulele that I mentioned yesterday. I’ve been driving A crazy singing it. To be fair, I’m far from polished at the song right now so it’s probably quite painful to listen to my version.
Tiger’s breath absolutely reeked last night. It was so bad that A actually requested we remove him from her bed. This morning, he was in his basket at the top of the house when I checked on him again. No sign of any improvement – on the contrary, he smelt worse and he was licking his gammy leg profusely. A quick examination of the paw revealed a lot of swelling, leading to a hurried phone call to the vet and, 10 minutes later, Tiger was on the vet’s table being examined. (Very useful having a vet so close by.) We had to leave Tiger at the vet for a couple of hours so they could clean up the infection. The long and short of it is that he’s fine but we need to keep him in for a few days and give him antibiotics. He may end up finally losing that leg of his, but we’ll see how the conversation with the vet goes on Tuesday when Tiger goes back in for a check.