SATIRE: Dog House Blues
By Dilyn
Frankly it’s all rather disconcerting. I have no idea where I’ll be living from now on. Mind you I wasn’t that keen on the flat in Downing Street. A dog like me needs a bit of space to roam around. The scruff-haired one generally takes me for a stroll round the garden of a morning, and the lovely lady Carrie, my mistress (can one still say that in these days of woke?) gives me a run in St James’s Park later on. She’s generally accompanied by one of those funny tall men in suits with a bulge under their arm who always refer to her as ‘Marm’. Sometimes, if she’s too busy, the funny men themselves take me out (no, not in that sense!) which is rather more fun. But it’s not really enough exercise for a lively Jack Russell. Anyway, the point is, I know I am only a dog but no one has bothered to ask me where I would like to live.
One does overhear things though. I understood that there was a choice between a pad in Camberwell and a farmhouse ‘cottage’ in Oxfordshire. Somehow the Scruff (who likes to call himself Big Dog but frankly doesn’t smell like one to me) managed to rake together £1.2 million to buy a four-bedroom Victorian terraced house. A couple of months ago they put it on the market for £1.6 million – which would net them a cool £400k in just three years. Not bad, eh? But assuming it gets a buyer, we won’t be moving there. So, then there’s the Old Farm House in Thame. According to the estate agent’s blurb it was: “a Grade II-listed four-bedroom home, a chocolate-box cottage, with a grand fireplace, wooden beams and views across open Oxfordshire countryside and a separate stone annexe, a tennis court and swimming pool”. This was surely a snip at just £640,000. Though that was back in 2003 when the Scruff was still married to his ex – Marina Wheeler. And for some reason the Lady Carrie isn’t too keen on the place. Can’t think why not. Sounds ideal to me. Of course, it is bit close to that funny house we used to visit of a weekend. What was it called? Draughts or something like that. Anyway, I loved it there. So many good old fashioned wooden table legs to chew. Though the Scruff did get a bit shirty about that once and shouted “please shoot that f****** dog” after I bit off more Chippendale than I could chew. It looked as if it could be rather dicey for a moment though. Several of the tall men in suits immediately reached under their arms with a nasty gleam in their eye.
Apparently, the Thame house had to have something called a mortgage put on it to pay for some wallpaper in the Downers street gaff. Between you and me, the Scruff and Lady C seem a bit put out not only that they had to cough up for the decorations, but it seems they can’t take them with them as they go.
Oh, there was one other option mooted. Apparently, the father of the Scruff has a fairly extensive estate in Greece. There was talk of us all decanting out there while he writes his memoirs. However, it was pointed out that ‘Boris’s Brexit’ put paid to the Pet Passport scheme and the Lady C said if I couldn’t go, then she wasn’t going either. Bless her cotton socks (still unchewed). But it does leave us all a bit kennel-less.
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