Mission from God

Having resisted the urge to bury Connie in a shallow grave last night, the purpose of our trip to Douglas last night was to pick up Noah.

Noah, is a baby Pomeranian, age nine weeks, who looks a lot like a small bundle of fox cub fur ball. I have to confess that he is gorgeous, but aren't all puppies at this age. I wonder if Connie will feel the same way when he eats her new sofa.

He was also considerably cheaper than the last one Connie was considering, thanks again to my superior ability to Google stuff.

When we get home Abbie names it Noah, it is her Christmas present after all, well sort of, under the guise of a gift Connie really wanted for herself. It's a bit like me buying the bairn a Porsche.

I think that Noah is a nice name, a bit biblical but it's Christmas time after all.

However, while googling Pomeranians today, I discover that only three dogs on board the Titanic survived, two of which, surprisingly, were Pomeranians.

Now, just follow my train of thought here, Connie moans I bought a boat, she buys the dog, We get home, Abbie names it Noah, following day I find out it's the Titanic survivor dog.

For anybody unable to process this information, I will simplify.

Boat, Noah, Survives major disaster.

It's a sign from God, I'm going to grow a beard, round up the animals two by two and ferry them to the Kingdom (of Fife) in search for higher ground.

In a previous update, we have established that lightning bolts come from my finger tips and here was me thinking that I was the next generation of X-Men, where in actual fact I am on a Blues Brothers style mission from God. Get in the wee man.

I get home and while typing today's journal the new Lynx deodarant comes on the telly, it features the Ark, seriously this has to be devine intervention.

Connie has text the weirdo Pomeranian web of deceit lady to advise that she has purchased a puppy elswhere and gets a barrage of abuse.

I have therefore struck her off the animals came on two by two list.