Bavers, by Sir Rat

I am slumped in my armchair, suffering from Viral Plague. Possibly. I am markedly improved on yesterday, which eventually saw me gulping desperately at a bottle of whiskey in search of Blessed Oblivion. I have mucus that you could carve – if the mood took you that way. My armchair is hard back against the wall because that’s where the violence of my sneezes has sent it. (I am probably not ill nearly so much as a peruse of this blog might imply; merely that these are the times that I am confined to the laptop; limp, querulous, running out of people to bleat at…)

I have been watching the Six Nations with a most uncharacteristic lack of interest in burly chaps with Little Shorts, particularly now Wales have just handed us our arse in some fashion. I was at Twickenham for England’s glorious trampling of the All Blacks last December, and, frankly, the boot hurts quite a bit more on this foot.

Earlier this evening, Harry slightly surprised John & I by telling us that the capital of France was Paris, and that the River running through the middle was the Seine. We told him we were impressed with his excellent learning, and how had he known? He replied that the school have a painting that all the classes are doing some project work on. I duly invoked Google, and asked the painting title.




‘Can you spell it for me?’


‘B A V E R S’

*Ann Googles: finds Iranian village of Bāvers*

‘Lovey, do you know the artist?’

‘Sir Rat!’


‘Sir Rat! It IS, Mummy!’

‘Ummm. ‘kay.’

*Ann Googles: finds various pugilistic rodents, but instinctively senses a Wrong Turn has been taken*

*stops to put her Harry-speak hat on*


*Googles again*

‘Lovey, is this it?’

‘Yes! Yes it is!’

Anyhoo! I just thought I’d say Hi. How’ve you been?

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