I had never watched House until sometime in November last year. Well, that’s not quite true. I remember watching one, once, and wondering what the fuck was going on, but I hadn’t watched it, if you know what I mean.

That changed when we ran out of Battlestar Galactica. I can’t remember what the selection process was, but we wanted a series to replace it with and we chose House MD. And I got so hooked, that when one of our sons asked me what I wanted for Christmas I said ‘the next season of House would be good!’

And lo! He got me not one, but two more seasons of House, and I fell upon them like a woman starved of a decent TV soap to watch. Strictly speaking it’s not a soap, as such, but it’s close. And it’s good.

For those who don’t know, the central character, Greg House, is an extremely damaged individual. He’s a brilliant doctor (apparently), but so abrasive, and so cavalier in both manners and dress, that it’s a wonder he’s still employed. And he has but one friend, who he treats like shit.

In fact, he spreads dissent and unhappiness wherever he goes, except for the few patients he most brilliantly diagnoses and treats when everyone else is getting it way wrong (and also possibly the prostitute community who benefit financially from his continued existence). He provides enough in the way of diagnostic near misses and patient complaints to keep the hospital lawyers on Valium, and is himself a slave to Vicodin, a powerful opiate painkiller which he uses to get through the day. Oh yeah, and he needs this because of a medical mistake made by the very hospital he works in.

What else?

1 – He never seems to bother to shave or brush his hair. He is a tousled individual with stubble which hovers just the wrong side of ‘designer’.

2 – He wears jeans, trainers and grungy tee shirts to work, and refuses to wear the obligatory white coat.

3 – He says – and does – just exactly what he wants to, no matter who it offends.

4 – He lies through his teeth.

5 – He experiments on his patients – and himself – if he thinks it might be a good thing. And that’s ‘a good thing for House’ by the way, not necessarily ‘a good thing for the patient’.

6 – He is manipulative and deceitful.

7 – Like most other addicts he is self-centred and self-serving.

And women all over the world love him. Nay, they drool over him.

Why is this?

OH and I had that very discussion today, and here is what I told him:

Firstly, House recognises no authority – wouldn’t everyone love to be an anarchist? Now, disengage your moral and ethical override, and ditch your common sense, and answer that again.

Secondly, House has a razor sharp intellect, and even sharper wit, both of which are always sexy.

And House is a Cave Man. Now, ever since the women’s liberation movement, there has been a tiny voice deep inside most women which is fighting to be heard. It’s the voice of the biological imperative which says we need a mate who is strong and powerful, and able to protect us and our children, and bring home the bacon – and hold the soft squidgy stuff. We might not really want to go back to those days when the Little Woman sat at home and did as she was told, but in evolutionary terms it was two seconds ago and we felt safe like that. That imperative is still strong in us, and probably also explains why the ‘vampire warrior’ genre is so popular just now.

House isn’t a vampire (one of the few character flaws he doesn’t have, by the way), but he fits the bill if you’re looking for the total opposite of the New Man, aka Warm and Friendly Guy with a Feminine Side. All of which, along with his tall, lean figure, piercing blue eyes and wry grin, contributes to the ’sexy’ label.

OH looked thoughtful at the end of our discussion. And then he said:

‘He’s sexy?’

Me: Yes. He is sexy.

OH: House?

Me: Yes, House.

OH: Not Hugh Laurie?

Me: No. It’s House.

OH: Oh. Well, thank goodness for that!

Me: Why? Why not Hugh Laurie? What’s wrong with Hugh Laurie?

OH (Giggling like a schoolboy): But he’s the Prince Regent*! I’d have a real problem with that. I mean, how could you find the Prince Regent sexy?

*Sigh*

Apart from, you know, the fame and fortune and adulation and so on, I could feel quite sorry for Hugh Laurie at this point, and I feel I should set the record straight.

Not only is he not the Prince Regent, but he isn’t actually Greg House, either!

*Surely everyone must have seen his wonderful ‘Prince Regent’, but if you are one of the few who have not, go here, and prepare to be amazed and entertained.

This morning, I was talking to OH as we walked Sid around the village. The subject was dog training.

You see, we haven’t really had Sid that long, and he’s still not very reliable off lead, because it’s much harder to train an adult dog who’s already had two homes. We’ve got to the point where we can safely let him off for a run in a fairly limited space like a field or a footpath bounded by hedges when there are no distractions, but there really aren’t that many suitable places around here and we’ve just lost one of them. Today, Sid desperately wanted to turn left out of our gate toward the fields where he used to be allowed a run, but they’ve ‘fixed’ the stile and now he can’t get through.

So we walked him on his lead through the village streets, and this was how the conversation went.

Me: I was reading on Greytalk today how someone trains their dog using two people with a whistle each and a ton of high-value treats. You start off about three yards apart and call the dog between you, and he gets a treat each time he turns towards the whistle.

OH: Oh yeah?

Me: He says he’s called his greyhounds back from chasing rabbits using the whistle.

OH: Sounds good!

Me: Yes. He uses hot dog, but I don’t think it would work with Sid.

OH: Hmm. No, he’d need something better, wouldn’t he? Like cheese.

Me: Yes, that would probably do it. Hey, we could use Cornish Quartz! You know how he always turns up at the fridge when you get that one out! It’s the only time he barks for a bit of our food! Yep, Cornish Quartz would work really well for Sid.

*Pause*

Me: But it would probably break your hear …

I looked around at that point, because I suddenly got the impression that I was talking to myself, and there was OH, standing stock still, caught in mid-stride almost, on the other side of the road which Sid and I had just crossed. His whole being suggested that he’d been stunned into immobility.

I laughed, and it seemed to break the spell. He started moving again, but as he crossed the road towards me, I could hear:

‘What? What did you say? I don’t think I could have heard you right!’

And then he caught up and looked at me with a puzzled expression before saying:

‘Oh! Oh, I get it. You mean me!! I’m running between you and Sid! Yes, that makes sense! That would work!’

You see, OH is a serious cheese fan, and Cornish Quartz is one of his very favourite, ultra-strong cheddars, only available from one semi-local supermarket. He hates it when I eat any, let alone the thought of giving it to the dog.

The elderly lady we met a few minutes later looked a little wary of us as she passed by. Maybe it was because I was laughing like a drain, and OH was following on a few steps behind with a trace of shock and bewilderment still on his face. I bet she wondered what I’d done to him and with whom, and when the divorce was coming though.

You know, just for a second, I thought I heard muttering in the background as I type. Something along the lines of ‘Feed my Cornish Quartz to the dog and divorce might not be entirely out of the question’?

No. Of course not. Silly me. It was probably just the rustle of waxed cheese paper.

I’ve just put my feet up with a nice cup of tea after bringing Sid back home from his hotel – otherwise known his former home at the racing kennel, where he spends his holidays curled up at his ex-trainer’s feet in her lounge with upwards of six other dogs. And yes, he thanks you for asking, he did enjoy his two nights away. He always has fun with the other dogs, but he’s glad to be home now with his nose buried in his sheepskin and his mouth watering at the prospect of pigs’ kidneys for tea.

And where have we been, you may ask? Well, we popped down to London to see Eddie Izzard at the O2 arena! My goodness, he was funny! Well worth the trip and the hassle of two round trips over bad fen roads to deliver and collect Sid!

While we were in London, we took the opportunity to visit Harrods. It’s a fun place to spend a day, though it can be awfully disorienting when, not being insanely rich or famous, you aren’t followed around by an obsequious personal shopper to make sure you don’t get lost between silverware and the pet boutique and later deliver you to your chauffeur-driven limo.

Harrods has at least one eating place on each of its six gigantic floors, with about ten or so at ground level. So when we were exhausted from all the orienteering (not to mention the walking), we slumped down in Mo’s Diner (fourth floor) for a bite to eat. I ordered a Philly cheese steak sandwich and OH ordered a tuna melt, and we got a side of bacon and cheese fries to share.

Oh. My. Goodness. Those fries were out of this world. OH would have preferred them crisper, but to me they were just about perfect, dripping with – not just melted cheese, but a flavourful thick cheese sauce too, and plenty of crispy bacon pieces and chopped spring onion on top. YumYumYUMYumYum!

Once I’d finished about half of my sandwich and about two thirds of my share of the fries, I’d really had enough and I knew it, but I kept on eating. And the conversation went something like this:

Me: Do you want some more of these fries?

OH: Nah, you can have them.

Me: Mmmmm. You know how fond I am of potato … (shovelling another forkful into my mouth)

OH: You can’t resist them, can you? If it came to a choice between me, Johnny Depp and potatoes, there’s no telling who’d win!

Me: Add chocolate into the mix and I would have a hard time.

OH: On the potato?

Me: No. Potato and chocolate do not go well together.

OH: (Unsure) Not on the potato?

Me: (Smiles innocently)

OH: Oh. On Johnny. (Sighs) Ooookay .. time to leave. *Signals to waitress*

*Waitress comes along with the bill, OH pays, waitress walks off*

OH: (Consideringly) You could put chocolate on her.

Me: Hahahaha! Yeah, pretty, wasn’t she?

The waitress was a charming (and, yes, pretty) young Polish girl. But stick thin. She was wearing an official ‘Mo’s Diner’ white tee shirt, and what looked like black leggings, but could well have been stretch drainpipe jeans. Stick. Thin. Did I mention that? And the thing about ’stick thin’ is that I’m not even remotely ‘thin’, let alone ’stick’. So I’m swearing off potato, and cheese, and bacon, and Philly cheese steak sandwiches.

But not chocolate.

OR Johnny.

I mean .. let’s not get silly.

I’m all for charitable ventures. It simply isn’t possible for the various ‘authorities’ to provide all the cash and facilities that are needed in all areas so I support my favourites with donations, and in the case of greyhound rescue, my time and a few saleable items like hand made earrings and notecards.

Today, Sid and I spent the best part of the day standing out in the rain and wind on the coldest day of the year so far, supporting my local greyhound re-homing charity at a Meet and Greet in the Rivergate Centre of our nearest city. It was so cold that Sid wore two coats and still shivered.

Now, the Rivergate Centre is a pleasant little area with a covered arcade, an open shopping square, and an Asda supermarket bordered by a very large car park, which has the laudable policy of charging for parking but giving you cash back on the ticket if you spend a tenner in Asda. But they charge very heavily for allowing charities to make collections on the property – to the tune of £80 per day (which at current exchange rates is about $132 USD). And I was incensed to find that as a volunteer bringing a dog with all the trappings that he needs on a cold day out (bed, water supply, treats, coats, etc), I was expected to pay for the parking and then spend £10 on shopping if I wanted to see my money again. That applied to the organisers as well, by the way. They were the ones who had to pay the £80 to for us to be there, and they too had to pay the parking charges.

Last time I volunteered for this one, I collected my parking tickets (£6 worth) and went into Asda and explained the situation and they said oh, that’s fine, we’ll refund the vouchers since you are officially here with the charity, but next time you need to go to the office and get a permit first. This time, I went round to the office and they said they’d stopped doing the vouchers, so I should just save my tickets and go for a refund afterwards.

So I stood in the biting wind and shivered for four hours, walking Sid from time to time to warm him up and feed the parking machine, or sitting on the ground hugging him, and chatting to people about greyhounds and racing and rescue and no, you can’t have Sid, he’s mine, but you can have that one over there, he needs a home, etc etc., and at the end of my time there, I went into Asda and asked for my refund.

Customer Service Lady: ‘No, sorry, I can’t refund that, you have to spend ten pounds first .. and you can only exchange one ticket voucher. That’s the limit’.

Me: ‘But I’m with the greyhound charity. The lady in the office told me I could get a refund for the parking here!’

Customer Service Lady: ‘Did she? Hang on, I’ll ring through’.

Pause while CSL rings through.

Customer Service Lady: ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t do a refund. You have to go and spend ten pounds.’

Me: ‘But .. .hang on, we’ve paid £80 for the day just to stand outside, and you’re telling me parking isn’t included?’

Customer Service Lady: ‘Yes. See, it’s not Asda, it’s Rivergate that gets the money. You need to go talk to them.’

She pointed the way to the Rivergate Office and I walked over.

And basically, what they said was this: Yep, you paid us £80 for the day to stand out there collecting for charity, but no, you can’t have a refund, we don’t include parking. He did say (to be fair) that there were a couple of free slots ’round the back’ for now and since they weren’t busy we could have those, but since we’d already paid the parking fee that didn’t help much.

So tell me. Is it unreasonable to think that having paid such a very large amount of money just to be allowed use the spot, parking should be included, since we need to bring so much personal stuff with us – plus the table and saleable items to set up AND handle the dogs too?

The Rivergate Centre thinks so. How about you?