Today, ostensibly on my way to buy bread, I found a hedgehog lying gasping on our lawn. I manoeuvred him (as usual, I can’t actually tell, I just assume it’s a ‘he’ because I prefer to) into a box with a ladle, took him into the kitchen, and put a saucer of water in for him. He put his nose in it, blew a bubble and then shuffled into the corner with his head tucked in and sulked. Needless to say, the bread was never bought, though I have discovered that he likes dried apricots (NOT raisins, under any circumstances), small bits of Quorn, going to sleep on a pile of lavender springs (these being my rather feeble attempt to make the cardboard box less depressing), having Life Is A Pigsty sung to him very softly, and being gently stroked on the head with a forefinger. This causes him to go to sleep. All would be quite well, but I gave him a bath in the kitchen sink to try and remove what I thought was muck clogged between his spines. It came off, but the spines in that area fell off with it, and the skin underneath seems infected. He seemed to be in no pain and to actually rather enjoy being bathed, but I will take him to the vet tomorrow, because having a big bald patch can’t be very pleasant. He does, though, seem much better than he did when I found him, though I never learn: I carefully fill tiny saucers full of the desired foodstuffs and water, and place them in a row where he can see them. I return half an hour later to find that he has trodden on each in turn and upset the water all over his bed:

http://i29.photobucket.com/albums/c262/Poppycocteau_/Barbecutie2.jpg

http://i29.photobucket.com/albums/c262/Poppycocteau_/Barbecutie.jpg

(The small pink cat was another effort to brighten the place up, but it didn’t really work because he later bit her on the ear, dragged her into the water dish, and left her for dead).

Sadly, not everything everywhere is quite so tranquil. My father’s ‘boss’ (whom we shall refer to as Sandy, because I've always thought he looks exactly like a Sandy) intends to sue my father for having burnt his thumb with malice, no less, by handing him a scalding hot tray on purpose. My father’s response has been to fling himself from his desk chair onto the floor with a dreadful cry and claim that the castor had snapped off, a direct result of Sandy’s negligence and unwillingness to buy decent equipment. I can’t even remember what they were arguing about in the first place now.