I’m back after two weeks away. And I’m grumpy.

Hello loyal, lovely (and HIGHLY ATTRACTIVE) readers who I have callously neglected for the last two weeks. “Where have you been?” I hear you ask. “What have you been doing?” You plead. “PLEASE fill us in with all the minute details of your illustrious life!” I hear you cry (er… in my head… as I watch the tumbleweeds roll softly by).

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It might as well be a tumbleweed. AKA The innards of one of Tiggy’s toys. There is fluff EVERYWHERE. I am going to have to teach her to use the vacuum cleaner.

In truth, I’ve had ten glorious days off work. I’ve been the very personification of the Spanish proverb that goes, “Isn’t it beautiful to do nothing and then rest afterwards.” And it is, I tell you. It really, truly is.

For the first five days of my holiday, Matty, Tutti, the Guru, Tiggy and I went to Sky Cottage in Jervis Bay, a gorgeous, simple, two-bedroom cottage, just a five minute drive from Hyams Beach, which according to the Guinness Book of Records has the whitest sand in the world. It was glorious. We lazed by the sea, watched movies, had barbecues at night by the bonfire and played an epic game of Monopoly that spanned three days and ended predictably with The Guru making appalling deals, and Matty monopolising the board until he owned everything and had mercilessly bankrupted everyone with his exorbitant rents.

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Tiggy, contemplating some of life’s big questions at Hyams Beach, Jervis Bay

I just realised I didn’t take any photos of anyone except Tiggy, so you will have to look to her to see how much we enjoyed ourselves.

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“Nothing to see here,” says Tiggy. “Move along please.”

Then we drove back to Sydney, and I spent another couple of days mooching about, and yet another couple, having succumbed to a boring cold that saw me lying in bed listlessly and coughing pathetically.

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Just imagine this is my face, I’m coughing persistently, and being incredibly self-pitying.

Then Sunday night (when I’m writing this post) rolled around, and I had all these grand plans about the fun I would have, and yet somehow, the hours ticked past, I ate a couple of sandwiches, tidied the bedroom, ate some cheese toast and fell down an appalling internet rabbit hole while trying to help Matty change his Apple ID region from UK to Australia. I went round and round in frustrating circles, unable to solve the problem and yet I persisted in vain for over an hour until I started weeping pitifully and declared my Sunday RUINED. And then I made plenty of these faces, a few of which I have captured for you here.

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So there you have it. I may be whinging and whining like a dog in the rain, but I’m back, good people of the internet, and I look forward to seeing all your lovely faces back here again. Now THAT will cheer me up.

Love ya!

Ceci xx

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A most unusual day

Yes, I know last week I said I was going to tell you about my birthday. But the moment has passed. It’s over. Gone. Done and dusted. Kaput. I am well and truly 33 years old now – so let’s just forget about the day it happened. Let’s also forget about how I only blogged once last week. I was TIRED you guys. I mean, I’m 33. No spring chicken – whatever a spring chicken is. (At least it’s probably slimmer than a winter chicken, those lazy, pie-and-mash-eating bastards). Instead, I shall swiftly move on from this appallingly rambling introduction to Monday’s blog post, and tell you in eloquent and articulate detail about my mother-daughter day with Tiggy last week (Tiggy being my daughter. By which I mean, my dog.) Just don’t hold me to the eloquent and articulate bit, ok?

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Here I am with Matty and Tiggy, blowing out my birthday candles.

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The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do…

There’s no other way to say this: Yesterday, I felt completely wretched. Not a little bit discombobulated, or run-of the mill unhappy or mildly depressed, but truly wretched, in the most conspicuous-wailing, red-eyed-and-sodden-faced kind of way.

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A Jewish Mother’s Lament

Morning loyal followers (er, hi Mum, hi Dad!)

You may have noticed I gave myself a week-long blog-break last week, mostly because I was HYSTERICAL and beside myself after adopting another staffy (now I’m mother to Tiggy and Sherman – so named because he’s built like a tank).

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Sherman and Tiggy, my devil-children.

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What Tutti Wore….

… To look after her granddogter

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About 6 months ago, Matty finally caved in to my nagging for a little furry friend and we went to the RSPCA to rescue a doggie. For about a year, I’d been brainwashing Matty to let me have a fluffy pooch, that I could possibly dress in a stylish little jacket (the thought of which horrified Matty to his very core).

ANYWAY, upon spending about three hours meeting every fluffy dog the shelter had to offer, (none of whom seemed to like us terribly much) Matty asked (with pleading in his eyes) if we could please, please, pleeeeeaaaaaaassssseeeee have a look at something slightly bigger.

Our RSPCA volunteer had one suggestion and one suggestion only for our living situation: Tiggy – a 14 month old Staffy X who’d been abandoned and had lived in the shelter for six months already. The second Matty clapped eyes on her adorable friendly face he was sold, and I knew my fluffy dog dreams had just evaporated forever.

Now six months down the track, I couldn’t imagine loving any other doggie more. She is the sweetest, funniest, quirkiest little (or not so little at 20kg) hound – and while she may not be fluffy, her fur is like velvet, impossibly soft, and very chic.

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Tutti and the Guru absolutely lovely their Granddogter Tiggy, and regularly step forward for granddoggy duties. This picture was taken on one such day. And Tiggy loves them so much, that I when I tell her she’s going to spend some time with her grandparents, she makes a face like this:

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Considering how much fun Tutti and the Guru are, it is hardly surprising that she can barely contain her excitement. Saying that, she makes the same face when I offer her a piece of raw chicken.

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