My Chains Fell Off ...

Dear Chroniclers,

I have to report that, with some marvellous synchronicity, Mollie the Sprollie (favoured hound to the Master of the House) has also fallen prey to injured foot syndrome. The photographic evidence appears above.

Ripped and torn

Yet another frenzied pursuit of a low-scudding canine search'n'return missile has resulted in a doubly painful tear to the nail of her ill-fated dew claw. Doubly painful in the sense it sees both Mollie similarly encased in restrictive foot-protection and our own faltering bank balance depleted by the ravages of yet more veterinary billaging.

Mollie has sulked much of the last week or two, taking refuge beneath the electrofried four-poster only to emerge at infrequent intervals to claim her rations for the day, accompanied by yet another tablet of anti-biotic treatment, the price for which far exceeds its weight in gold.

The Scent of Freedom

There is, however, some good news to report - my own bindings have now been removed. The cast that has dogged my every step these last four weeks has been cut off.

I have to say that it had it stayed in its unwashed condition much longer, chances are it would have slinked off of its own accord bearing its rank odour proudly before it. Frankly, it has quite put me off Stilton, and I now take my nightly glass of port cheese-less.

Return to Horology

I would like to say there is new skip to my step, but I fear this must wait just a little while longer. My first two days back at the Horology Factory have seen me adopting the gait of a septuagenarian. Be warned, however, my pace has quickened such that I am now within touching distance of the odd arthritic tortoise.

I have no doubt my self-imposed diet of good British stout and freshly-pickled autumnal onions will soon restore the muscular wastage of the last month. So watch out for further news as I step out in style accompanied by a tawdry mongrel in blue bandagery.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)