Bistro Girl

It's going to be a bit of a weird weekend because I don't have any events on, dog or human. Although my legs have recovered so well that, I'm half-tempted by the East Leake Tri on Sunday, worryingly they are accepting entries on the day, but the price is a bit exorbitant.

I also been having third thoughts about the Leicester & Rutland CTC bike ride on Sunday; the organiser keeps emailing me. I’ve had five from him this week but I'm still reluctant. Having to follow a complex route on a map, in the rain, doesn't really sound much fun. Much prefer to have arrows to follow and cake stops.

So at least we get a lie-in, at least until it's time for the vets. So enough time for some recreation before I have to coerce Doggo into the vet's surgery. L bottles it and leaves me to go it alone. Doggo is as unkeen as I expected, in fact even more so. The fact it's the same female vet who put her fingers up his bottom doesn't seem to help. After a thorough inspection, an eye watering £25 worth, she seems to agree with L that he's a fraud and can find nothing wrong with him which I suppose is good news. The only solution she says is rest. No activity for at least two weeks. Even doing his wees must be on the lead. Nice idea but totally impractical.

Doggo mopes around the house for the rest of Saturday, as I refuse to take him out or play ball with him. L says she knows how he feels, having been told to rest injuries herself. Some kind of compromise is required. We have no events for a fortnight and he can skip Wednesday training for a while but he’s still going to Monday training, those sessions are bloody expensive and paid for in advance. Even if he’d been put in plaster he may have had to have limped round. Football is banned, as is walks on a short lead because he pulls so much.

We meat shop at Farm Shop and then smash up Sons old bed and take it to the tip.

Derby have at long last signed a player. Robert Earnshaw for £3.5M. Quite pleased with that, at least fits my main criteria that he’s British. Pricey, but a lot cheaper than Darren Bent, but then isn't everybody.

In the evening walk we into town. L persuades me to try a bistro called Le Mistral. It's ok, quite pleasant in fact. Like a grown up version of the Ropewalk but without the killer music. We have a bottle of Italian wine. My Bistro Girl looks dead sexy in a skirt slit to her thigh. She's made the wrong choice of shoes though; she wears a pair of daughters that are way too big for her. How is it, that no matter how many pairs of shoes a woman has, they never have a pair that are suitable.

Then we move on to try a new curry house, which is totally empty. So it should be shut within a few weeks. We have another bottle of wine, French Merlot this time. The curry is above average but nothing worth returning for, so we won't be too distraught when the restaurant becomes another vertical drinking house.

The waiter fancies L, although she sceptically thinks he's trying to increase his profits. Maybe but there's no women sexier than L out on the town tonight. I'm very proud to be seen out with her. Naturally she doesn't believe me. So I start to point out the women we pass as we walk through town, none are anywhere near as abundant-in-sex-appeal as she is. For once she doesn't disagree, although I'm actually appalled at how poor the competition is; it's like OMD all over again.

We have a nightcap of a Leffe at Scruffys and then stagger home. It's nearly 1am by now and we face the prospect of being hung, drawn and quartered by Daughter for being so late. Our stagger home may have been to do with alcohol but could have been L's shoes. When she takes them off, they seem to have trashed her feet as her heels are bleeding.

Overall it's a first-rate night out although L was looking a bit worse for wear by the end of it. Still having had such a mouth-wateringly desirable girl with me all night, I could just not resist some very late indulgence. It could even be described as a bit of an upturned wheelbarrow.