Perhaps it’s sheer vanity, but when there’s a special event coming up….one where you know there will be cameras about….the temptation is there to plan beautification around that special event. Sometimes it means delaying a hair appointment or manicure beyond the usual timeframe so that said cameras are presented with immaculate magnificence. Sometimes it means that the last week or two before said event are spent looking a bit…..well…..ropey.
And that is generally when Fate seizes her chance. Swooping in, she’ll mercilessly throw in a car malfunction, an illness, a sudden unavoidable catastrophe that means it’s utterly impossible to keep the appointment for said titivation, and cackle with glee whilst you frantically attempt to make alternative arrangements before fretfully coming to the tearful conclusion that you have no alternative but to back out of the occasion, or go out….looking……like…..this:
I had meticulously planned Max’s grooming appointment months before the Race for Life (I hastily point out that I am not usually that shockingly organised, but Max’s fabulous groomer Julia is so very fabulous that I have to book his next two grooms in, otherwise she is booked up) so that my little man was looking his most gorgeous for his starring role. It is quite clearly at this moment, frowning upon my smugness at being so uncharacteristically prepared, that Fate laid her plans.
On the day of the grooming appointment I received a phonecall letting me know that Julia’s young son had been rushed into hospital with suspected meningitis. I tried two other groomers that I know of and both were on holiday (Oh well played Fate, well played!) which left me with the dilemma of taking Max to the Race looking like a right Raggedy Andy, or…trimming him myself (dum dum DUM!).
You’re thinking of that time your Mum cut your fringe, and picturing that on my dog aren’t you? I’ll have you know that I used to trim Max myself when he was a pup, and I didn’t make too shabby a job of it thank you very much! The trouble is of course, that once you’ve found yourself a fabulous groomer, gazing upon your beloved hound after you’ve let yourself loose with the pinking shears is never quite going to cut the mustard. I decided I was probably going to have to walk the Race alongside Raggedy Andy.
At this point Fate took pity – on both myself and Julia in fact – as after 12 hours in hospital her little boy was finally pronounced not to have meningitis, but to have shingles in his ear (bad enough the poor mite) and she phoned to say she could fit Max in on the Saturday morning as a special thank you for being understanding about the cancellation. My mother further saved the day by taking Max to Julia whilst I was working out of town the following morning, and collecting him post-beautification, so that I arrived home from work to find the handsomest Westie you ever did see, quite clearly thinking “Damn I look fine!” positively strutting round the room. Farewell Raggedy Andy, the bitch (well, dog) is back!