Biohazard

Our bin is biohazardous.

I very glad our garbage truck is automated or else, like Hyacinth Bucket ("it's pronounced bouquet") I would be ashamed to own our rubbish.

Mr A left again on Monday for another short stint away (not "away" away, just out of state). Peanut took it hard. She worked herself into a tremedous state at dinner, after a tiring day of play school and quite possibly with a cheeky stomach bug on the side.

It ended with an epic projectile vomit from my lap. While it mostly missed me, the vertical blinds were not so fortunate. And it just kept coming. It was like that scene from Team America, crossed with the Exorcist.

Poor Peanut. Poor bin.

Panzer has decided the world is her toilet. Except the outside bit of the world - that's too cold. I send her outside regularly (in a doggy coat!) but she spends the whole time trying to get back in rather than getting about her business.

So, since the outside part of her world won't do, that leaves my floor.... I have put down paper and tried to train her onto it, but she is a sneaky leaker and is very hard to catch in the act. I usually find her puddles in the dark with my feet.

Poor feet. Poor bin.

Panzer is also an incorrigible chewer. This was totally expected and she is well supplied with toys (Mr A spoils her rotten!) but it doesn't seem to help. She prefers the lure of the forbidden. Including shoes, pencils, my iPad case, my phone, books, chair legs.... *sigh*

Her greatest act of rebellion occurred this morning, when she thoroughly ripped up her completely unsullied wee-paper then shat in the middle of the kitchen. (At least it wasn't a big steamer on a library book, like last week.)

Poor floor. Poor bin.

I need to take out shares in the paper towel industry.

And possibly buy apology flowers for the bin man.

I do know I need more newspaper.

Off to the shops!