Once upon a time there was a very nice man. He had a fairly uneventful childhood and grew up to be kind to children and animals - you know the sort of thing. And then, lo! The Nice Man married a Nice Girl and they had two children and took out a mortgage on a Nice House in the country and got a kitten and it all looked very idyllic.

And then the drinking started.

For a long time, nobody knew about the drinking. The Nice Girl always looked pretty and happy and bright and normal, but the Nice Man started to refuse social engagements to the point where his family would invite him to weddings and parties but they knew that he wouldn’t turn up, and neither would the Nice Girl.

So time went on, and still nobody but their very closest friends knew about the problem. Actually, I doubt that even they - no, not even his family - knew the true extent of the problem, because things had got very bad indeed. We are not talking about ordinary social drinking, let me make that clear. We are talking about wheelie bins full of White Lightning empties from a single evening because nothing else was available. We are talking about people having things thrown at their head, punched, kicked and slandered in public because of the ravings of an alcoholic. We are talking about someone dancing barefoot on broken glass and not feeling a thing because they were so, so out-of their-head drunk. We are talking about a real, honest-to-goodness alcoholic. Who wouldn’t admit that there was anything wrong with her behaviour at all.

Oh, yes, dear readers. It may come as a surprise to you, but it was the Nice Girl who had the problem.

For years, the Nice Man did what he could. He smiled and gritted his teeth and cooked and cleaned and shopped and took the children to the doctor and made sure they did their homework and attended school concerts when work allowed. In short, he did a damn fine job of being a single parent, within his dysfunctional marriage. And he had quiet words with the Nice Girl’s friends and asked them to please watch out for her when she went out without him, and he made sure not to keep any alcohol in the house, which of course did absolutely no good at all, because alcoholics are very good at finding supplies.

So why am I telling you this now? Because last week, she - the alcoholic, but still possibly nice-underneath-it-all, girl, moved out. She upped and left home.

The children chose to stay with their father, who breathed a sigh of relief and changed the locks. He would never have left her, but now he can have his life back, and the children can come home without wondering what they’re going to find when they open the door.

It is a very sad fact that no-one can help an alcoholic until they face the fact that they have a problem.

So far, this woman, once so pretty and bright, has not done that.

The robin paid us a visit again today. Here he is perched on one of the empty rings of the dogs’ feeding stand. Does he look a little disappointed to you? I think he does. See, we used to feed the dogs outside because of the Pirate being practically toothless and the Princess being … um .. not perhaps as dainty an eater as a Princess ought to be. So when the dogs had finished eating and come back indoors the robin, and occasionally a blackbird, would fly down to see what they’d left, and dine on scraps of dog food - which isn’t actually that bad for them, as I understand it.

Sadly, since the mice have discovered that same buffet option, we’ve had to stop letting the dogs eat out there - or if we do, we clean up pretty quickly and pretty thoroughly when they’re done. It leaves nothing to attract the mice, but sadly nothing for the birds either.

Still, I did clean out and refill the bird feeder with seed mix today. They’ll have to make do with that.

And my little robin friend will have to refine his acrobatic skills.

You know how greyhounds are one of the fastest breeds of dog in the world? If not THE fastest?

It’s true - Top Gear did a test race between a greyhound and a car and the dog won! So they’re pretty fast, then, huh? Most will clock in the region of 35 mph, some reaching a high of 40mph in short bursts. Some will be slower. Some - it has to be said - a whole lot slower. And of course, these are the dogs that end up getting the sack from the track, and adopted into homes as pets, so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised that my dogs are never going to see that kind of speed again.

It doesn’t help that the Princess is one of the laziest dogs on the planet, and the Pirate is nearly thirteen years old, but you know what? When we take the dogs out into the fields and let them off the lead, it’s the Pirate who goes nuts in his rickety old-dog way. He’s the one who bounces through the long grass kicking up his heels to come running back panting and hoping for a treat from my pocket. The Princess, who is only nine, trots along so closely at my heels that if I turn suddenly, I’m likely to trip over her, whereupon she’ll blink mildly at me as if to say ‘I wish you monkeys would learn to look where you’re going, but don’t mind me … ‘

Anyway, like most dogs, they’ll get interested in things that squeal, or bark, or yap, or yodel. The Princess is our watchdog - a rare thing in a greyhound - and she’ll go tearing up the garden if a dog so much as whimpers out there after dark. She needs to tell it to stop, desist, and what’s more, shut the fuck up. In other words, she sounds very much as if she’s joining in, to the untrained (read ‘human’) ear.

So let me tell you what happened this evening. I was reading Greytalk. Browsing through the Cute and Funny forum, I came across a post that said ‘click here and turn your speakers up‘. Naturally I couldn’t resist. Keeping one eye on the hounds, sleeping the sleep of the terminally comatose about five feet from my chair, I did just that, and the manic barking of five or six dogs erupted into the room.

My two dogs, my perfectly evolved sleek and slender racing machines, slumbered on. Well, to be fair, the Pirate did open one eye a fraction and roll it in my direction, and his head did lift momentarily from the fluffy pillow on which it rested, but only for a second and then he was dead asleep again.

I think my dogs are broken!

And yes, I did say fluffy pillow. Wanna make something of it?

Driving back from a shopping trip, we were discussing the wind-up torch I’d just bought at a discount store. Other Half was not convinced it was any good.

‘It won’t be very bright, you know’ he said disparagingly.

Me: It might be! You just have to wind the handle very very fast … and you have to do it for long enough! *Furiously winds handle, producing a distressing whine.*

OH: Well, it might be OK, but it won’t be powerful enough to light up much of the garden. I shouldn’t think you’ll be able to see the dogs..

Me: There. See? It’s quite bright … *More furious winding*

OH: You know what it needs, don’t you?’

Me: No, what?

OH: Someone needs to invent a little electrical device to wind the handle for you.

Sometimes I think I deserve a medal. I really do. A nice, bright, shiny medal for restraint under severe provocation.