Here I am, today, cashing in on a two-year-old offer.
Now, you obviously don’t know what I’m talking about so here’s a summary to put everything into context.
In February 2011, Piers and I had been online friends for two years when, one day, I announced to all my online friends that I was shopping for a holiday destination. And who should make an offer to come to sunny England but Piers.
(In case you didn’t realise, I was trying to be ironic with my use of the word “sunny”. Ironically, it was actually very sunny today.)
At that time, Piers’ parents had planned to go on a long holiday and needed a house and dog sitter. Piers asked if I was interested. I said yes. Then he went to talk to his parents and found out that they’d already found someone for the job. So, apologetically, Piers offered up his own little flat. Coincidentally, he was also going away on a holiday at the same time (but not with his parents).
Here’s a diagram to explain the movement in case you’re a lazy reader:
So I came to England for the first time in my life, lured by the bait of free accommodation. I was slightly disappointed at not getting to stay in a real English house with a garden (and a chimney!) but at the same time relieved because I would probably have been scared shitless during the night being in a big old house all by myself.
Moving on. All went well. Piers and I fell in love shortly after he came back from his holiday. I extended my stay. We spent two months together. Etc.
Fast forward 28 months later, I am realising the unrealised dream of staying in a big old English house in sunny ole England. Piers and I have been tasked to house and dog sit while his parents are away on holiday for five days.
I have the whole house to myself in the day (not counting Basil the dog) while Piers is at work. At night when it’s scary, Piers is here to be a human shield should anything scary happen, for example spiders or alien abductions.
My job here includes feeding Basil, taking him for long walks and giving him a tummy rub when he does this:
If I don’t rub his tummy, he threatens to stalk me all day with his evil eye.
He got a bit impatient today because I was too busy camwhoring when I was supposed to be taking him out for a walk. He started giving me the eye and then went on to lick my jeans hungrily. So, it was either take him out NOW or end up with very wet jeans.
Trying to look nice for the camera while Basil licks away. You can see the how the smile is cracking at the edges.
I gave in to the eye. I could always continue with the camwhoring while walking his highness, during which time his highness would be so distracted with all his amazing travel discoveries (discarded fast food bag, someone else’s front gate, a fire hydrant) that I would be able to do anything I want without fear of repercussions.
But I think that’s enough photos of me. I get embarrassed when I camwhore too much.
We spent an hour walking, Basil totally calling the shots, dictating the route and speed of walking. But I did put my foot down whenever he wanted to trespass on private property, which was effectively all the time.
When it was time to go home (which was when my feet started hurting because I was wearing not very good shoes for walking, I realised belatedly), I had to turn on Google Maps and sat-nav my way home. I had no idea where we were and I wasn’t about to depend on Basil to take us home since he was obviously more interested in chasing cats in other people’s gardens than going home.
So we went home and I parked him in his own garden where he spent the rest of the afternoon sunbathing in contentment. Thanks to the sun today, I managed to get time off to write this blog, but not before being taxed a minute’s worth of tummy rubs.
It’s very nice having such an important job to do, in such an idyllic environment.
Basil, whose job is to act cute and wrangle as many treats and tummy rubs as is caninely possibly, agrees.
Basil, King of the Lawn