I've heard of a Dog's Dinner but...a Dog's Diary!!

I am delighted to welcome Dougal Stephenson to the blog today following the launch on Thursday of his book, Dougal’s Diary.

I wouldn’t want to suggest that you are ever anything less than beautifully turned out, but some are saying this is the ultimate in shaggy stories. Are you offended by these comments?

I am quite delighted by the expression. It’s good to know someone gets my dress sense. Now, the perfect season for what I call ‘my dinner and dance’ or ‘booted and suited-look’; black mud stuck to face, neck, feet and legs.

What prompted you to write your diary? Don’t tell me you were bored because the boss wouldn’t take you for a walk!

Boredom no! Desperation, yes! No satin cushions to sleep on, no Xmas stocking filled with sugar mice. Thin as a whistle and not one single fry-up in a transport café. Writing my diary saved my sanity.

Speaking of the boss, can you tell us, discreetly of course, something about your relationship with her?

Oh you mean the forgotten meal times. The hours enduring London transport.  Even baths without aromatherapy oils or hair dryer, so the smell of wet fur lingers for days.  Despite all, we are one, each other’s constant companion. I can read her mind. I often wish I couldn’t. Have I become more human? Has she turned more dog?

Do you feel you landed on your paws when you moved from Margate to London?

On good day yes. On bad days, such as having the snip, or going to puppy classes. No with a capital N.

Truly, and you know you can be honest with me, how did you feel when you had another four-legged friend foisted upon you?

That green-eyed monster struck. I hit rock bottom, tried contacting the Queen to see if she had space on her bed for another. Never heard a dickie bird. Perhaps I got the post code wrong. Maybe the Corgis ate my letter.

And, finally, do you plan to continue with your diary or are you moving on to other things?

Dogs are creatures of habit, so I shall do it privately. I considered moving to poetry. But after

“To jump or not to jump.”

I wandered lonesome as a lemming

fearful dreams of clifftops stemming

I realised my talents lay in prose, not verse.
Right now I'm in communication with the One Show. Since Chris Evan's departure they've  been searching for a charismatic presenter. Paws crossed

It may be tactful if you could supply some information here about the boss – just so she doesn’t feel left out

Okay, if I have to…

Sarah Stephenson joined the Bristol School of Dancing aged seven. She spent much of her childhood performing in prisons, theatres, old people’s homes and the Grand Palais, in Paris. Later she trained as an actress, working with Mike Leigh and other distinguished directors. When the children arrived she trained as a Chef, and when they’d finally flown the nest, catered in Europe, Britain and the United States, giving private dinner parties. When she’s not writing, Sarah still works as a cook.

She looks perfectly normal to me. Guess you didn’t do so badly after all.

Links:
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Sarah:    
email

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Twitter: @SvsStephenson

Dougal:  
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Twitter: @DougalDiary
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Life is a Beach - well, sometimes anyway

I make no apology for posting the same image here as I did last week. I do love Whitstable. It has character, personality and a house to let which enabled four of us to lose ourselves in our writing. There were times when I was almost unware of the others, so involved was I in my own story. It was obviously the same for them too. A pin could have been heard to drop if anyone had been moving around to do so but we weren’t. While the intensity of our endeavours was beyond question, it also was obvious that at some time we would need to take a break. Not just an hour or two but a whole day. Would this be counter-productive? Not a bit of it. With renewed enthusiasm we returned from our day out to attack our work again. Where did we go?

We went to Margate. It’s many years since I visited this seaside town and with all the talk of regeneration I had expected to find a run-down place that was just a shadow of its former self. Not a bit of it. We followed the wall which curved around the edge of a honey-coloured sandy beach to where we stopped for elevenses and from where this picture was taken. The architecture is varied and some of it very beautiful. I wish I could say the same for the Turner Gallery. Talk about blot on the landscape. No way did it fit in with its surroundings – but then we went inside. Firstly it was bigger than I’d expected. There was much of interest but not too much. We spent some considerable time there and left, if not wanting more then well satisfied with what we had seen.

Lunch turned out to be a late affair after which, passing some beautifully inscribed standing stones, we returned to Margate Station and thence to Whitstable. Though we arrived at our ‘holiday’ home by 6.30pm, we were so full that the most I could manage was half a cup of tea. I don’t think anyone ate anything for the rest of the evening.

Work continued apace until it was time to return home to reality. We had eaten out (several times) in the comfort you find with companionable friends with whom don’t need to make conversation. Goals were achieved. New plans made. Would I do it again? You bet!