My Toffee

On Wednesday 13th May 2009, my dog died. Toffee Tuppance was 15 years old and very sick and tired. Last night we buried her. S and I went round and helped my Mum. We (well mainly S - turns out I suck at digging actual holes, metaphorical ones, on the other hand, I excel at) dug a very deep hole and buried her.

Despite my hatred of being a wuss, I sobbed. She was my puppy that we got when I was 10 and that I loved so much. And she was so tiny and alone in that huge hole.

So, I thought I would share some Toffee stories.

We got her on Friday 13th January 1995 and she was about 10 months old. I had been begging for a dog for months - literally months and whining and pleading - I had picked out one in a book I had (a fluffy, cute pomerian puppy) and I was desperate but always got a 'No' from my parents. Then one day I got home from school and they told me that we were going to the dog's home and we would 'have a look but not get a dog today'.

So, excitedly we piled in the car. When we got there, my parents decided that my sister and I would wait in the car. So we waited. And waited. And waited. And squabbled about what to call the fluffy puppy we would get.

Suddenly out of the dog's home door came my parents and in front of them this bright orange bundle, bounding towards the car. She leapt in and clambered all over us and licked our faces, going back and forth from my sister and I. She stank and was so excited to see us. My mum later told us that they had considered two dogs but chose her because, after being led out of the room, she stayed sat behind the doors waiting, wagging her tail so it thwacked on the floor in rhythm.

Her name was Trudi. We decided that this wasn't a good name and needed to change it. I don't know who suggested Toffee but it fit. She was toffee-coloured and it fitted with its initial and two syllables.

The next day I was meant to go to dance class but my mum said if I wanted, I could miss it and we could go and buy all the things we needed for her. We went to the massive pet shop in town and spent all morning choosing toys and bowls and beds. The bed in particular was an issue. We chose a green tartan soft one but couldn't decide on the size. We were worried that it wouldn't be big enough for her and ended up buying the second biggest (labelled 'Dalmatian') and fretting all the way home. I will point out that Toffee was the size of a terrier, slightly bigger than a Jack Russell.

She had a pink squeeky ball that she would bite incessantly.

She would tell tales on my sister and I when we gave up throwing the ball for her in the garden.

She would chew through the mail and bark viciously at the postman until we opened the door when she would then proceed to lick his ankles.

She once ran into a river covered in algae, thinking it was grass and then stood there, knee deep in water, whimpering until one of us waded in to carry her out.

When we bathed her she looked like a little rat.

Once my youngest brother was alone in the living room with her while I made tea in the kitchen when suddenly then was a sharp bark. My brother X then wandered through stating very matter-of-factly, 'Toffee does not like having her ears turned inside out'.

She once saw a cat in the garden and hurtled head first into the French windows trying to get it.

She would have mad 5 minutes when she would tear round the house, up and down stairs, hitting anyone or thing in her way.

She thought she was bigger than she was and, when sniffing around other dogs on a walk, would randomly snap at the biggest Labrador who could have taken her so easily.

She ate her food in a matter of seconds and then would scrounge for more.

She was intelligent and bright. My nana is slightly allergic to dogs and my mum would always remark that Toffee must know as whenever my nana was here she would follow her about. Well no, it was because my nana would constantly feed Toffee bits of food from her bag or under the table.

She cuddled lots. Snuggled up to you and licked away your tears when you were sad.

She was so full of fun and special and I will miss her a huge amount.

A Wish

A glimpse into the intricate and deeply philosophical inner workings of Livy and S . . .

The other morning, S is showering while I am applying makeup. He asks me what I would wish for, if I had three wishes.

I tell him it will take me some time, and proceed to think out loud for the next ten minutes before coming up with my list.

My wishes:
1. That my parents live comfortably and happily for a long time without ever working again unless they want to.
2. That all the rapists in the world be gathered onto a deserted island with no hope of getting off (this is my attempt at world peace: I can't wish for all the evil people to stop being evil, because lets face it, that is unrealistic. I figure chucking out the rapists will make a serious difference).
3. That S and I and everyone we love be safe, healthy and happy. Forever.
(Before I came up with this one, I wanted to be able to see my Grandpa and my Grandma again. S told me the wish leprechaun didn't have the capability to cross the boundary of death. Prior to that statement, I was not aware we were getting our wishes from a leprechaun, so I was made to retracte that wish.)

And S's wishes (contrived in a matter of seconds, the man knows what he wants):
1. To have all of Superman's powers (this is his attempt at world peace. He says he could easily and singlehandedly take care of all world conflict if he were Superman).
2. To have all of Superman's powers and not be vulnerable to Kryptonite (I try to tell him there's no such thing as Kryptonite; he replies that "there's no such thing as Superman either", and what can I say in the face of such logic?).
3. To have a billion pounds (which he will then use to get everyone out of debt, and probably have a little left over, at least enough to play football - a LOT).

What would YOU wish for?

I quit the internet, cold turkey

It was not good.

The first day: I read a book in the evening. Yes, an entire one. Usually I keep my email open and toggle back and forth while I write. Today, I open a book and prop it up. I "toggle" with my eyes - write a few paragraphs, read a few pages, write a few paragraphs, read a few pages. Four hours later, I have another book to log in my Goodreads.

The second day: Instead of flipping open the laptop, I turn on the morning news while I eat my kiwi and chocolate buttons breakfast. I feel furtive, almost guilty, trying to stay updated on world happenings while shunning the Internet - as if I'm somehow having my cake and eating it too.

The third day: Going crazy because I don't know Kid Rock's real name. Also, I swear I saw a bearded squirrel.

The fourth day: I manage to watch the rerun of a 2-hour Super Sweet Sixteen marathon, make dinner, bake a cake and homemade stew for tomorrow, go food shopping, clean the flat, and model for S the new clothes Bravissimo has delivered.

The fifth day: I begin to horribilise, imagining my political enemies sabotaging my Facebook.

The sixth day: Here I am.

Headline: Woman Maims Boyfriend with Plastic Spoon in Cinema

The other night, we went to the cinema. We bought our tickets. Fine. We decide we definitely need snacks, I want a double cookie dough sundae which is two scoops of cookie dough ice cream and two scoops of vanilla but I ask for a scoop of strawberry instead of one of the vanillas. I pop to the bathroom when S ordered. While I'm in there washing my hands, my phone rings, it is S:

S: "What did you want again?"

Me: "I want a double cookie dough sundae with one scoop of strawberry ice cream instead of vanilla."

S: "Ok, (to server) can I have a cookie dough sundae with strawberries."

Me (still on the phone): "No - with one scoop of strawberry ice cream instead of one of the vanillas."

S (to server): "A cookie dough sundae and one scoop of strawberry ice cream."

Server: "One cookie dough sundae and one strawberry single-scoop?"

Me (yelling down the phone): "NO. A sundae with ONE SCOOP of strawberry ice cream instead of one of the vanillas."

S (to server): "No, a sundae with strawberry ice cream."

Server: "One cookie dough sundae with no cookie dough ice cream just strawberry ice cream?"

F: "A COOKIE DOUGH SUNDAE WITH ONE SCOOP OF VANILLA ICE CREAM AND ONE SCOOP OF STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM, SO HELP ME--"

S (to server): "Sorry, no, a cookie dough sundae with one scoop of vanilla and one scoop of strawberry."

Server: "Right, a cookie dough sundae with an extra scoop of vanilla and an extra scoop of strawberry"

Me: "I WILL KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS."

You must think things through....

On Saturday S and I went to the football. It was very stressful for many reasons. Firstly, they lost. Badly. And unfairly I might add. Secondly, on the way there I lost my favourite bracelet, I will not blog about that as you will find it dull but I wanted it said in case my bracelet is out there and reads this blog and thinks I don't miss it.

Anyway, the match. At this point I will explain that next to our seats is a very fat man (not just there obviously, he has a seat), he is an idiot. Firstly he overlaps onto my seat and constantly elbows me in the boob. Secondly he thinks he is the best footballer ever even though he can't walk up the stairs to his seat unassisted, I'm not actually sure how he gets into the stadium although my guess would be airlifted.

He is very opinionated about the match, gems from Saturday include:

'I could get it to the other end faster' 'Well done ref, you twat' 'Pass it mate, I could do a pass like that before I was born' and 'Get up you wanker, I thought this was a man's game. You woman.'

All loud and in my ear. I did not say anything for fear he would sit on me so I bit my tongue and confined him to the people-I-will-banish-when-I-am-Queen-of-the-World box in my head.

Until he said this:

"Ref you complete twunt - I hope you die in a car crash on the way home"

Now while I commend him on his excellent usage of the word 'twunt', hoping someone dies categorises him as BAD in my book.

So, bored with the dismal game, I set myself to teach him a lesson (comparing myself to a righteous Enid Blyton). I noticed his phone hanging out of the pocket of his jogger bottoms on my side. I carefully slipped the phone out and placed it on the floor. I will point out now that this was not a clever or sensible plan and I am not proud of it.

I settled back smugly and focused on the game. After 10 minutes I decided that it was too wrong, that even though he was blatantly evil, I should not lower myself to his level, I am not a twunt after all.

So operation-return-phone started. Under the guise of scratching my ankle I cleverly picked up the phone, I then stuck it up my left sleeve ready to drop it in his open pocket.

I positioned my hand just right but damn it! the phone was caught up my sleeve, so I moved the entire sleeve into the pocket and jiggled it about.

At that moment there was an almighty cheer as the home side scored and the man stood up in rapture.

With my hand still in his pocket.

There was a pause. Then, loud and clear,

'Alright love, you don't have to beg for it, there's enough of me to go round'.

S is moving our seats next season.

In which I get electrocuted

. . . willingly. Since my '57' post, I have been asked when on earth I was electrocuted twice.

Let's start from the beginning.

Once, a very long time ago, I signed up to participate in a research study at university. What can I say, I was looking for interesting things to do, and what's more interesting than being a human guinea pig? Nothing, that's what.

So I signed up, and the study turned out to be on female reactions to pain. Yeah. Pain. The main show was the session. 'Session' came to be a dreaded word.

Basically, it went like this: I went into the lab. They decorated me with various sensor patches to measure my physiological reactions. They also taped a little shocker to my ankle, and plugged all the cords into a fancy machine. When I was all plugged in, we got started. The machine to which I was hooked sent little electrical pulses, one at a time, to the shocker on my leg. They started really weak, barely noticeable, and gradually increased in intensity. After each pulse, I rated the sensation on a scale that spanned from 'Uncomfortable' to 'Mildly Painful' to 'Very Painful' to 'Maximum Tolerable'.

Once we reached shocks that I was consistently rating between 'Very Painful' and 'Maximum Tolerable', the next phase started. In that phase, I was shown a slideshow of pictures designed to get me emotionally stimulated (negatively and positively). Without going into details, I'll tell you that some were ummm... suggestive and some were quite disturbing. All the while I'm watching this weird slideshow, the machine is sending random shocks to my leg - all of them at the level between 'Very Painful' and 'Maximum Tolerable' - and I am continuing to rate the sensations.

Then we went back to the gradually-intensifying pulses. This time, I got shocked until I rated a pulse 'Maximum Tolerable'. That took a really long time, or at least it seemed long. You try waiting for an agonizing electrical shock every ten seconds, counting down until it hits, and trying to convince yourself to (1) get through one more, just one more, and (2) just rate it 'Maximum Tolerable' so you can be done. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it.

Anyway. I had to do two of those sessions. At the end of one of them, I got a nosebleed. At the ends of BOTH of them, my ankle was bruised and carried an indentation from the shocker for quite a while. GOOD FREAKING TIMES.

(You may be wondering, like many people did, why I went back for the second session after the first one was so hideous. It's because there is nothing worse to me than having anyone call me a 'wuss', or think I'm a pansy. A PANSY I AM NOT. This crazy machismo complex has driven me to do some really weird things - go without eating for four days, for instance. Run barefoot in the snow and evidently, get electrocuted, twice.)

As you may have guessed, I was compensated for my participation in the study. They paid me a lovely sum which I immediately spent on shoes. Which I then couldn't wear for a month until the bruising subsided.

'The long awaited wedding post' or 'A day out with my grandad'

OK, apologies for the lack of wedding post before now. I am rubbish. In my defence I have been very busy with... stuff. Important stuff like people's birthdays and sick boyfriends ('I'm too ill to eat... well, I could probably manage something if you cooked...') and umm.. watching Lost and Heroes.

Anyway. The Wedding.

Let me start by saying that there have not been many weddings in my family of late, therefore when they do happen they are VERY exciting. The most recent family weddings have both been concerning relatives on my Dad's side.

Around 18 months ago my cousin Becky was married in Inverness, myself, S and my father all attended, it was a fab day and night and a great chance to catch up with relatives we don't see that often (the previous time being a funeral, which lets face it, is never going to be a laugh a minute), this time it was my cousin Amy's wedding in Durham.

Amy, Becky, myself and my sister Alex were very close growing up, there are three years in between each of us and we had countless holidays where we invented languages, put on plays and teased our families. Then we grew up (as apparently everyone does) and gone were the family holidays and we were left with the occasional phone call and the family grapevine (you know, when you hear from a parent what a relation has done, not an actual grapevine. That would be weird).

Anyway, Amy and Gary's wedding... this time there was going to be full Kerridge family attendance, my 90 year old grandfather declared that he would come to this wedding having missed Becky's. Indeed for Becky's he wrote a letter entitled 'Reason's why I can't go to Becky's Wedding', number 2 was 'I may die on the way and that would spoil the day for everyone'.

The morning of the wedding arrived and S and I ate and dressed in our best (with only 3 changes I might add) and waited for the frantic phone call from my Dad to say he was here. He arrives and we pack ourselves into the car, have all our music selections vetoed by him in favour of a track entitled 'Two Margarines on the Go' and we are on our way.

We pick up my Grandad (who by the way, is refusing to wear a suit, rather a 'sports jacket') and immediately calls S 'Scott' which is not his name, rather the first name of Becky's husband and the surname of Amy's. The journey continues in a barrel of fun with a story from my grandad about how he built the cogs for some sort of bridge in Middlesborough.

We arrive, the place is gorgeous, the weather holding out and we settle in the lounge area before the ceremony. My dad, sister and S decide to go to the bar. I am left with grandad. There is an awkward silence. I say that it is a lovely day. Silence. I ask what he and my grandma's wedding was like. He mentions a double decker bus. I decide to move on.

The ceremony is beautiful, Amy looks stunning, all lit up and happy. As is often the case in wedding ceremonies, you have to stand and sit and certain times, it is all going beautifully when during the ACTUAL marriage my grandad declares loudly 'It's no use, I have to sit down, I can't hear what they're saying anyway'.

We come to the line up, we all shake hands and greet each other. My auntie Mary mentions to S that she only sees him at weddings and wouldn't it be nice if there was another one soon. S nearly faints.

The meal, it is all going swimmingly until my grandad decides to examine his fork and discovers that it is NOT 0.10 steel as is usual in cutlery but 0.18! He tells everyone on the table and then shouts over to my Auntie Mary on the top table to inform her.

There is a lull between the main course and the dessert. My grandad takes this opportunity to stand in front of the top table and sing. People look confused.

We mingle with guests, my dad says we should get going. I persuade one more drink and we get to talk with the happy couple. My grandad offers to sing again.

We leave far too early and I sulk as I wanted to dance (mentality of a 4 year old me). As we drop my grandad off, he offers cold potatoes and corned beef to me, my sister and Scott. I remind him that that is not my boyfriend's name, we are living together and have been for three years, I wish he could get it right. There is a pause. I say that I hope he will one day come to mine and S's wedding. Another pause and then,

'Oh Livy, no-one will buy the cow when you are giving away the milk for free.'