Last night and this morning's T8 was one of the sorriest storm warnings in memory, not that I am complaining. I was appreciative of my four hour reprieve from the office. I enjoyed answering emails from home with a pup licking my feet while the other was trying to help me type despite knowing that she isn't allowed on the sofa. SB is so mean; even his sister, the dog whisperer, lets her dog onto furniture but at our household I have to crawl onto the floor to get my cuddles. It's not like we're sitting on an original Chippendale, we own a simple Muji design in forgiving and sturdy wool. Anyway, it's a losing battle since the pups stage multiple invasion attempts over the course of a day.
We went for a walk last night when the T8 was hoisted and it was like a ghost town in the valley. The wind was the only thing moving out there. Around the racecourse I could see that the Jockey Club had attempted to batten down the hatches by tying plywood around siding and other finish work that risked being banged up if a tree branch hit. Whoever did the tie down job clearly failed the scout knot tying course and instead of creating a barrier, had created a series of soon to be flying missiles. Sure enough, on our morning walk we stepped over shards of plywood boards that were strewn all over the entrance area and as far as 150 meters away. By 10:00 am there was a disposal crew collecting the evidence.
On our way home I noticed pieces of a Valley rugby kit lying about on the street. From the size of it and the location near a certain second floor balcony, I surmised that B was missing the laundry that he had hung out. I wasn't in a hurry to touch it since I didn't know if it was hung clean or simply left out after training to dry so I didn't object when Elsie sniffed at the shorts and picked them up. I let her drag part of the sopping clothing back inside our building. I had to carry the jersey and socks since Tippy rejected my entreaty for her to help out. Ingrate.
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