Pooing in the shrubbery

I am still here, I should say. I went on holiday camping for a week and felt remarkably disinclined to spend any time jabbing at my phone to relate the experience. It was camping. For a week. I think you can guess at the experience.

Then it was back to work, but a sudden slip, trip or fall by my sister-in-law saw her enjoying an extended stay as the guest of a rapidly revolving cast of either completely disinterested or massively overworked nursing staff and the odd doctor who would swish in unannounced and bark things.

It meant I got to spend a lovely pleasant week with my niece, who suffers a little from anxiety but enjoyed the company. She took to sleeping on the landing just by my door, which was very cute.

There was a bit of fuss hunting round the garden to see where she’d pooed in the shrubbery and a few issues just getting her to muster up the courage to leave the house and go for a stroll, but we got there in the end.

She’s a dog, I suppose I should clarify, but I was enjoying stringing that out.