Today
My brother David is in the process of de-cluttering, to use a current bit of jargon. This is taking him a good long way down memory lane. Today he shared with us a picture of an ancient Black Magic tin - "in the days when they were magic" enthused David. Izzie commented that it was the old button box and David pointed out that an earlier label said it was his "Bike Box". (Blimey, it's like Time Team at David's place!)
In My Day
"Bike Box" can only mean one thing: it's the essential box you take with you in case you have a puncture.
While I have never learnt to change a car tyre, preferring to rely on my husband or the AA, I did have to learn how to repair a bicycle puncture. I don't think that tyres were as robust in those days - nowadays, what with off-roading bikes and high-tech design, it doesn't seem to be a problem.
The puncture would, of course, occur at the point of no return. Often I didn't have brothers to help me and was impossibly far away from anywhere I could walk to for help.
Let's see if I can remember what I had to do. First make sure that the "bike box" isn't actually still resting on the hall table at home. Next, with the help of a lever (I seem to remember using spoons on occasions) peel off the tyre. The actual puncture would be in the inner tube which was nestling inside the tyre.
Now look hopefully at the inner tube. On very rare occasions you could see the gaping great hole. More often you had to pump up the tube to locate that nasty hissy hole. Was the bicycle pump attached to the bike? Oh good. Now, the most efficient way of locating the actual puncture was to hold the partly pumped inner tube in some water and watch for bubbles. This often meant a fruitless search for puddles; sometime you just had to spit and hope for the best.
Having found the bubble, you marked it with some chalk (essential part of the Bike Box) so that you wouldn't lose the place.
Then you dried the place and smeared some evil-smelling glue over it, followed by a suitably-sized patch cut from some rubberised canvas in your box.
Finally the whole thing was reassembled onto the wheel. Somehow getting the tyre back on was far harder than getting it off and you went round and round, ruining several spoons until the tyre was back. Now to pump it up! Has the valve got lost in the undergrowth? Oh, here it is.
All pumped up and ready to go? If you were lucky there had only been one puncture and you could carry on, now about two hours late, on your way. If not, the tyre deflated as soon as you put any weight on it and the whole process had to be repeated.
You needed to be made of stern stuff to go out on your bike back in those days!
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Hedge
Today
The survey reports on Spencer House have come back and they show that the property is in a conservation area and that there are at least two trees, a beech and a red cypress, with preservation orders in the garden. Well I wasn't planning to hack them down anyway; just a little pruning, maybe?
The bit I do want to hack down is a thick hedge of Cupressocyparis Leylandii, that obstructs where I want to build the conservatory.
"I'll probably win an award if I cut that down," I joked to Lizzie.
In My Day
How exciting it was, back in 1975, to move into our first proper own house. The fact that it was so newly built that everything reeked of damp plaster and the garden was a sea (a very small sea, admittedly) of mud, didn't matter at all.
I had no idea about gardening and neither did Paul. (In, fact he still proudly knows nothing about gardening.) But the space was small and easy to manage, surely? And the faster things grew and the more "instant" they were, so much the better.
In one way, I was better off than Beverley and John, who'd bought the house on the end. In addition to the pocket handkerchief at the back and grass verge at front, they had a strip that bordered the corner.
Privacy and safety being top priorities, John went out to find what plant he could use to achieve this end and so discovered the Leylandii. He planted about ten, close together. "They grow to about forty feet," he said happily. Never mind that they would obscure the sunlight, put roots out dangerously close to the house's foundations and require acrobatic skills to carry out the pruning, here was privacy that grew almost in an instant.
We only lived at Rowan Avenue (what happened to the rowans? they probably all died under the influence of the Leylandii) for seven years and the hedge was already a rather formidable object, threatening to engulf the pavement totally and consuming much of John's time in attempts to keep it cut back and tidy.
The trouble was, John wasn't the only person to think that these quick-growing conifers were the gardener's dream, All over Britain, Leylandii became ubiquitous, even appearing as hedges in the rural landscape and imparting an incongruous air to our otherwise pleasantly mixed greenery.
Having had our flirtation with instant hedging, we are now busily grubbing up these monstrous plantations as unmanageable eyesores.
I wonder what John's view of Leylandii hedges is now and whether the one he planted at Rowan avenue still survives.
The survey reports on Spencer House have come back and they show that the property is in a conservation area and that there are at least two trees, a beech and a red cypress, with preservation orders in the garden. Well I wasn't planning to hack them down anyway; just a little pruning, maybe?
The bit I do want to hack down is a thick hedge of Cupressocyparis Leylandii, that obstructs where I want to build the conservatory.
"I'll probably win an award if I cut that down," I joked to Lizzie.
In My Day
How exciting it was, back in 1975, to move into our first proper own house. The fact that it was so newly built that everything reeked of damp plaster and the garden was a sea (a very small sea, admittedly) of mud, didn't matter at all.
I had no idea about gardening and neither did Paul. (In, fact he still proudly knows nothing about gardening.) But the space was small and easy to manage, surely? And the faster things grew and the more "instant" they were, so much the better.
In one way, I was better off than Beverley and John, who'd bought the house on the end. In addition to the pocket handkerchief at the back and grass verge at front, they had a strip that bordered the corner.
Privacy and safety being top priorities, John went out to find what plant he could use to achieve this end and so discovered the Leylandii. He planted about ten, close together. "They grow to about forty feet," he said happily. Never mind that they would obscure the sunlight, put roots out dangerously close to the house's foundations and require acrobatic skills to carry out the pruning, here was privacy that grew almost in an instant.
We only lived at Rowan Avenue (what happened to the rowans? they probably all died under the influence of the Leylandii) for seven years and the hedge was already a rather formidable object, threatening to engulf the pavement totally and consuming much of John's time in attempts to keep it cut back and tidy.
The trouble was, John wasn't the only person to think that these quick-growing conifers were the gardener's dream, All over Britain, Leylandii became ubiquitous, even appearing as hedges in the rural landscape and imparting an incongruous air to our otherwise pleasantly mixed greenery.
Having had our flirtation with instant hedging, we are now busily grubbing up these monstrous plantations as unmanageable eyesores.
I wonder what John's view of Leylandii hedges is now and whether the one he planted at Rowan avenue still survives.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Grammar Geek
Today
This year on Easter Saturday I gave a lunch for assorted family members. I really like planning these lunches and this year thought I'd go for more, smaller, courses so that I could experiment. Purely for the fun of it, I thought I would type up a menu with suggested wines, just like some of the tasting menus we'd had on our South American tour.
"I wouldn't," advised Paul "you're pushed for time and it'll only lead to trouble."
He was right, of course. My family mercilessly pointed out all the discrepancies in my capitalisation and laughed long and loud about a single quail laying all dozen eggs, because of a misplaced apostrophe (actually, a typical quail's clutch is about ten - twelve eggs) and failed to spot the one error that I had noticed. I'm sure this contributed to the general hilarity.
Proof-reading this blog is hard enough and, although I get Paul to help me, errors creep through. Of course, the things I write are mostly not so important that a small error can matter, but I prefer to get things right.
In My Day
One of the more thankless tasks (fortunately not my job) carried out in the Tax Office was the one involving building sub-contractors. These folk had a bad reputation for slipping between employed and self-employed categories, so to avoid PAYE they had to apply for a certificate.
To stop a trade in these documents they carried a photo of the applicant who was told that the photo had to be full-face, bareheaded etc.
The chap who had this job was a rather nerdy, pernickety sort of person and one day as he opened his post he roared with laughter. "What's the matter with these people?" he demanded. He showed me a picture submitted for a certificate showing a rather puzzled-looking chap staring at the camera, wearing on his head what appeared to be a tea-cosy, pulled firmly down.
"We tell them 'without a hat,'" sighed the officer and went to get the file. Next minute he was laughing even harder. Apparently his letter to the sub-contractor had mistakenly said "with a hat". No wonder the guy looked so puzzled.
If even nerds and geeks can get it wrong what hope is there for me?
This year on Easter Saturday I gave a lunch for assorted family members. I really like planning these lunches and this year thought I'd go for more, smaller, courses so that I could experiment. Purely for the fun of it, I thought I would type up a menu with suggested wines, just like some of the tasting menus we'd had on our South American tour.
"I wouldn't," advised Paul "you're pushed for time and it'll only lead to trouble."
He was right, of course. My family mercilessly pointed out all the discrepancies in my capitalisation and laughed long and loud about a single quail laying all dozen eggs, because of a misplaced apostrophe (actually, a typical quail's clutch is about ten - twelve eggs) and failed to spot the one error that I had noticed. I'm sure this contributed to the general hilarity.
Proof-reading this blog is hard enough and, although I get Paul to help me, errors creep through. Of course, the things I write are mostly not so important that a small error can matter, but I prefer to get things right.
In My Day
One of the more thankless tasks (fortunately not my job) carried out in the Tax Office was the one involving building sub-contractors. These folk had a bad reputation for slipping between employed and self-employed categories, so to avoid PAYE they had to apply for a certificate.
To stop a trade in these documents they carried a photo of the applicant who was told that the photo had to be full-face, bareheaded etc.
The chap who had this job was a rather nerdy, pernickety sort of person and one day as he opened his post he roared with laughter. "What's the matter with these people?" he demanded. He showed me a picture submitted for a certificate showing a rather puzzled-looking chap staring at the camera, wearing on his head what appeared to be a tea-cosy, pulled firmly down.
"We tell them 'without a hat,'" sighed the officer and went to get the file. Next minute he was laughing even harder. Apparently his letter to the sub-contractor had mistakenly said "with a hat". No wonder the guy looked so puzzled.
If even nerds and geeks can get it wrong what hope is there for me?
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Roots
Today
This week the survey was carried out on Spencer House. I talked to the surveyor about the trees and shrubs in the garden. "Well, it's a conservation area", he said "so you'll need permission to do any pruning." The garden was once part of the estate of Oakhill Manor and has some very majestic and mature trees.
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I still have to learn what they all are and how to deal with them. And I'm sure that that will involve tree surgeons and the like, of which the local council publishes a list.
There isn't a single plant in my little garden (always excepting the ever-encroaching brambles) that I haven't planted myself during the past twenty-five years - the lovely Elaeagnus that grows as fast as the brambles but gives beautiful green and gold foliage all year round, the fragrant Viburnum and my gorgeous Dublin Bay rose.
And, of course, the apple tree.
In My Day
At the tail end of 1986 we moved into our new home. Once we'd got the central heating more or less sorted, found a way of fitting Becky and her toys into her tiny bedroom and finally got the cooker wedged into place, it was time to explore the rest of our property.
The property boasted an integral garage, a joy previously untasted. It had an ancient up-and-over door which was unlocked, the key probably having been missing for years. We peered into the depths. There was some of our stuff in there, dumped by the removal firm and that general air of dust and spiders that pervades most outbuildings.
Near the front was something unexpected. Sitting lopsidedly in a Safeway's carrier bag was a diminutive apple tree. The label announced that it was a Worcester and was self-germinating. Nothing, however, announced how it had got there. Still there it was and I carefully planted it at the top of the garden, much to the delight of my neighbour who also had a Worcester apple tree.
Later the whole story emerged. The new house was only a matter of about three miles from my brother David's home. Thinking to welcome us festively they turned up, mob-handed, on December 23rd, our moving-in day. They had all the musical instruments they could muster and the apple tree. Lustily they sang and played carols outside our front door. We, however, were at the time feasting on cauliflower cheese at Cousin's restaurant in Shepton (see 28 March 2012 entry). Eventually they became aware of the deafening silence that surrounded them. They packed up their instruments and carol books and tiptoed away, leaving the apple tree in the garage.
That first year the tree produced four apples, which I made into a tarte tatin to share with my loving brother's family.
Unfortunately, I fear that uprooting the tree to take it to Oakhill will just kill it, so it will have to stay as a symbol of welcome and hope to the future inhabitants of no 7.
.jpg)
I still have to learn what they all are and how to deal with them. And I'm sure that that will involve tree surgeons and the like, of which the local council publishes a list.There isn't a single plant in my little garden (always excepting the ever-encroaching brambles) that I haven't planted myself during the past twenty-five years - the lovely Elaeagnus that grows as fast as the brambles but gives beautiful green and gold foliage all year round, the fragrant Viburnum and my gorgeous Dublin Bay rose.
And, of course, the apple tree.
In My Day
At the tail end of 1986 we moved into our new home. Once we'd got the central heating more or less sorted, found a way of fitting Becky and her toys into her tiny bedroom and finally got the cooker wedged into place, it was time to explore the rest of our property.
The property boasted an integral garage, a joy previously untasted. It had an ancient up-and-over door which was unlocked, the key probably having been missing for years. We peered into the depths. There was some of our stuff in there, dumped by the removal firm and that general air of dust and spiders that pervades most outbuildings.
Near the front was something unexpected. Sitting lopsidedly in a Safeway's carrier bag was a diminutive apple tree. The label announced that it was a Worcester and was self-germinating. Nothing, however, announced how it had got there. Still there it was and I carefully planted it at the top of the garden, much to the delight of my neighbour who also had a Worcester apple tree.
Later the whole story emerged. The new house was only a matter of about three miles from my brother David's home. Thinking to welcome us festively they turned up, mob-handed, on December 23rd, our moving-in day. They had all the musical instruments they could muster and the apple tree. Lustily they sang and played carols outside our front door. We, however, were at the time feasting on cauliflower cheese at Cousin's restaurant in Shepton (see 28 March 2012 entry). Eventually they became aware of the deafening silence that surrounded them. They packed up their instruments and carol books and tiptoed away, leaving the apple tree in the garage.
That first year the tree produced four apples, which I made into a tarte tatin to share with my loving brother's family.
Unfortunately, I fear that uprooting the tree to take it to Oakhill will just kill it, so it will have to stay as a symbol of welcome and hope to the future inhabitants of no 7.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Grubby
Today
Maybe it's because I cleaned my specs today or maybe it's the spring sunshine, but I've been noticing griminess today. The shower head was clogged with lime that had become rather grubby-looking, there was old tea ingrained into the teapot stand and the microwave plate looked far from clean. The morning sunshine revealed how smeared the windows are.
So I rubbed away, reflecting on just how much dirt we don't really notice.
In My Day
Growing up in London, I think I believed that dirt was actually simply a result of age. It didn't really occur to me to think that all dirt is caused by something.
The blackened buildings in London were just old, as was our ceiling at 4BH with its yellowy-brown stains. Dust also just appeared; it was made of nothing specific. This was quite a comfortable way of looking at things; the bottoms of saucepans weren't black from repeated exposure to flames and spilt food, they were just old.
As I grew up I began to see things differently. For one thing, the clean air act of 1963 relegated the London Smogs to the history books and I began to understand that the "age" on buildings was actually ingrained soot from millions of coal fires, couple with rain. Buildings were cleaned up, often revealing their full beauty for the first time in a hundred and fifty years. When I visited Mdina in Malta a few years ago the buildings, which are mostly much older than London's, were a lovely golden, never having had to deal with soot or much rain.
But still sometimes dirt builds up so slowly that we are not aware. Mamma was a forty Craven A a day smoker and I truly think she was unaware of how dirty this made everything. When she lived at Dorking she had a problem with foundations that meant that all her furniture had to be stored. Paul and I helped to put it all back.
"This TV's pretty grubby, Mamma", I said. Mamma protested that she'd dusted it before it had gone into store. "Well", I said, demonstrating with a soapy cloth "it's covered in a brown sticky film, I'm surprised you could watch TV; it must have been sepia!" Her books, too, all had yellowed spines. In vain for her to protest that that was the effect of age. "I have books that are much older", I said, exasperated "and they're not yellowed. It's tar from your cigarettes." But she wasn't convinced.
What is true is that no amount of scrubbing will ever remove all the grubbiness of living, although I presently have a very shiny bathroom.
Maybe it's because I cleaned my specs today or maybe it's the spring sunshine, but I've been noticing griminess today. The shower head was clogged with lime that had become rather grubby-looking, there was old tea ingrained into the teapot stand and the microwave plate looked far from clean. The morning sunshine revealed how smeared the windows are.
So I rubbed away, reflecting on just how much dirt we don't really notice.
In My Day
Growing up in London, I think I believed that dirt was actually simply a result of age. It didn't really occur to me to think that all dirt is caused by something.
The blackened buildings in London were just old, as was our ceiling at 4BH with its yellowy-brown stains. Dust also just appeared; it was made of nothing specific. This was quite a comfortable way of looking at things; the bottoms of saucepans weren't black from repeated exposure to flames and spilt food, they were just old.
As I grew up I began to see things differently. For one thing, the clean air act of 1963 relegated the London Smogs to the history books and I began to understand that the "age" on buildings was actually ingrained soot from millions of coal fires, couple with rain. Buildings were cleaned up, often revealing their full beauty for the first time in a hundred and fifty years. When I visited Mdina in Malta a few years ago the buildings, which are mostly much older than London's, were a lovely golden, never having had to deal with soot or much rain.
But still sometimes dirt builds up so slowly that we are not aware. Mamma was a forty Craven A a day smoker and I truly think she was unaware of how dirty this made everything. When she lived at Dorking she had a problem with foundations that meant that all her furniture had to be stored. Paul and I helped to put it all back.
"This TV's pretty grubby, Mamma", I said. Mamma protested that she'd dusted it before it had gone into store. "Well", I said, demonstrating with a soapy cloth "it's covered in a brown sticky film, I'm surprised you could watch TV; it must have been sepia!" Her books, too, all had yellowed spines. In vain for her to protest that that was the effect of age. "I have books that are much older", I said, exasperated "and they're not yellowed. It's tar from your cigarettes." But she wasn't convinced.
What is true is that no amount of scrubbing will ever remove all the grubbiness of living, although I presently have a very shiny bathroom.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Potty
Today
I had what can only be described as a "funny turn" last Sunday. The borders between reality and imagination seemed to be blurred and I wasn't at all sure whether things that were so important to remember had really happened or only been in a dream.
This strange sensation was followed by a night in which closing my eyes brought forth a series of bizarre, unconnected and sometimes unpleasant images that crowded the backs of my eyelids.
The sensible thing seemed to be to keep them open which I did until about three AM when at last closing my eyes brought merely greyness followed by sleep.
I feel fine now and can only assume that it was as a result of recent overload. I decided to try to get my life into better balance.
But the truth is, when you're in your 60s, episodes like this can trigger the fear that, actually, you're showing the first signs of going into old-age pottiness.
In My Day
Paul's mother and grandmother lived well into their 90s and both were pretty demented towards the end.
With Nan this was fairly clearly Alzheimer's with episodes of confusion, forgetfulness and rage. This was not helped by a liking for more than a little tipple. More than once Paul had to help Mum and Dad as they struggled to heave the resisting Nan into a chair or out of a cold bath.
Eventually, Nan reached the tipping point when Mum and Dad felt they had to have a break and arranged for respite care for Nan. I don't think she ever came home after that and the last few years of her life were spent in a clouded twilight.
Although Mum did slide into dementia in the last couple of years of her life there was none of the anger, incontinence, inability to eat etc that mark out proper Alzheimer's. Instead she allowed herself a gradual giving up of responsibilities. Paul's sister was always on hand and Paul called her daily to check she was OK and she had help in the way of cleaners and carers who visited.
It was only about a year before she died when her grandson was shocked to find her wandering about her flat with the gas grill on full, but not lit and her with a box of matches. It was clear that Mum had reached the point when she needed expert help.
Did she know this? She was pretty accepting of anything Paul told her was a Good Thing and she didn't seem to mind the residential care home. I am of the opinion that Mum was not just preparing herself for the slide out of life but also her children. It's easier to say goodbye when your mother no longer seems to recognise you and only shows a fondness for strawberries and chocolate buttons. She's not seen as losing anything and you are losing less than if she'd still been feisty with everything to live for.
I'm not ready for any kind of slide just yet and feel sure that, at the moment at least, I'm not at all potty.
I had what can only be described as a "funny turn" last Sunday. The borders between reality and imagination seemed to be blurred and I wasn't at all sure whether things that were so important to remember had really happened or only been in a dream.
This strange sensation was followed by a night in which closing my eyes brought forth a series of bizarre, unconnected and sometimes unpleasant images that crowded the backs of my eyelids.
The sensible thing seemed to be to keep them open which I did until about three AM when at last closing my eyes brought merely greyness followed by sleep.
I feel fine now and can only assume that it was as a result of recent overload. I decided to try to get my life into better balance.
But the truth is, when you're in your 60s, episodes like this can trigger the fear that, actually, you're showing the first signs of going into old-age pottiness.
In My Day
Paul's mother and grandmother lived well into their 90s and both were pretty demented towards the end.
With Nan this was fairly clearly Alzheimer's with episodes of confusion, forgetfulness and rage. This was not helped by a liking for more than a little tipple. More than once Paul had to help Mum and Dad as they struggled to heave the resisting Nan into a chair or out of a cold bath.
Eventually, Nan reached the tipping point when Mum and Dad felt they had to have a break and arranged for respite care for Nan. I don't think she ever came home after that and the last few years of her life were spent in a clouded twilight.
Although Mum did slide into dementia in the last couple of years of her life there was none of the anger, incontinence, inability to eat etc that mark out proper Alzheimer's. Instead she allowed herself a gradual giving up of responsibilities. Paul's sister was always on hand and Paul called her daily to check she was OK and she had help in the way of cleaners and carers who visited.
It was only about a year before she died when her grandson was shocked to find her wandering about her flat with the gas grill on full, but not lit and her with a box of matches. It was clear that Mum had reached the point when she needed expert help.
Did she know this? She was pretty accepting of anything Paul told her was a Good Thing and she didn't seem to mind the residential care home. I am of the opinion that Mum was not just preparing herself for the slide out of life but also her children. It's easier to say goodbye when your mother no longer seems to recognise you and only shows a fondness for strawberries and chocolate buttons. She's not seen as losing anything and you are losing less than if she'd still been feisty with everything to live for.
I'm not ready for any kind of slide just yet and feel sure that, at the moment at least, I'm not at all potty.
Friday, April 06, 2012
Hello, Kitty
Today
My niece, who openly regards herself as "mother" to her spaniels has rather fallen in love with some cats she's caring for. She wondered if she could ensure that her dogs wouldn't eat the kittens if she got any.
"The only dogs," I informed her, knowledgeably "that eat cats are Jack Russells and Lurchers."
In My Day
Caspian the dog had been taught early on to treat cats with the greatest of respect and caution. In 1993 the old cats died and we acquired Amadeus and Arietty.
I spoke sternly to Cas. "We're getting some kittens; you harm them and it's back to the RSPCA where you came from!" He laid his head on my lap and gave me that "don't you love me any more?" gaze that dogs do so well.
He was used to cats ignoring him and slapping him; what he didn't expect was a cat who adored him. Amadeus was a smart little black-and-white who had been reared in a farm cottage where dogs ran in and out all the time.
As soon as he saw Cas he ran over to him. Cas braced for impact. Instead Amadeus got onto his hind legs and wrapped his paws around Cas's nose, pulling it down to his level so that he could kiss him. Caspian was dumbfounded and just let him do this. On one occasion, Cas gave a huge yawn and Amadeus put his head inside the dog's mouth to have a look around. Cas simply stood there with his jaw uncomfortably locked open until the kitten withdrew his head.
Later, he allowed the kitten to eat his food (Amadeus would dart between his paws as he stood over his food bowl and just tuck in) and to use him as a sofa. Many a morning we would find Cas hunched up in the corner of his kennel while the cat sprawled luxuriously in the bed.
Once or twice he growled slightly when the kitten's playing with his tail threatened to become actually painful. I think that was more a call to us to remove the kitty, rather than a threat to Amadeus, because he never once hurt or attacked the kittens.
And I think Spaniels are in general a good tempered breed; so why don't you go for it, Sarah?
My niece, who openly regards herself as "mother" to her spaniels has rather fallen in love with some cats she's caring for. She wondered if she could ensure that her dogs wouldn't eat the kittens if she got any.
"The only dogs," I informed her, knowledgeably "that eat cats are Jack Russells and Lurchers."
In My Day
Caspian the dog had been taught early on to treat cats with the greatest of respect and caution. In 1993 the old cats died and we acquired Amadeus and Arietty.
I spoke sternly to Cas. "We're getting some kittens; you harm them and it's back to the RSPCA where you came from!" He laid his head on my lap and gave me that "don't you love me any more?" gaze that dogs do so well.
He was used to cats ignoring him and slapping him; what he didn't expect was a cat who adored him. Amadeus was a smart little black-and-white who had been reared in a farm cottage where dogs ran in and out all the time.
As soon as he saw Cas he ran over to him. Cas braced for impact. Instead Amadeus got onto his hind legs and wrapped his paws around Cas's nose, pulling it down to his level so that he could kiss him. Caspian was dumbfounded and just let him do this. On one occasion, Cas gave a huge yawn and Amadeus put his head inside the dog's mouth to have a look around. Cas simply stood there with his jaw uncomfortably locked open until the kitten withdrew his head.
Later, he allowed the kitten to eat his food (Amadeus would dart between his paws as he stood over his food bowl and just tuck in) and to use him as a sofa. Many a morning we would find Cas hunched up in the corner of his kennel while the cat sprawled luxuriously in the bed.
Once or twice he growled slightly when the kitten's playing with his tail threatened to become actually painful. I think that was more a call to us to remove the kitty, rather than a threat to Amadeus, because he never once hurt or attacked the kittens.
And I think Spaniels are in general a good tempered breed; so why don't you go for it, Sarah?
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