...why I shouldn't buy Smidgen this jumper for her birthday.

I mean, LOOK AT IT. And you know Smidgen would wear it better than some terrier.


Whatever, Buster. You're no sighthound, and you know it.

There are, actually, a few good reasons why I shouldn't buy Smidgen this jumper for her birthday. 1) It's £46. 2) It's £46. 3) She will almost definitely roll around in the rotting carcass of a seagull within minutes of putting it on. Even if we're inside. She ALWAYS FINDS A WAY. 4) It's £46.

But hey, a girl can dream. And anyway, it had been far too long since we had a dog wearing clothes around here.

Did anyone see any good doggy Halloween costumes this year? Remember these guys? Never not funny.

SEE ALSO:

The second most middle-class moment of my life occurred last night.

My pregnancy yoga instructor, in attempting to help us to calm our swirling thoughts, encouraged us to picture ourselves as "coffee grounds slowly settling to the bottom of a cafetière."

PREGNANCY YOGA. CAFETIÈRE METAPHORS. Good grief.


In case you were wondering, the number one most middle-class moment of my life was the time I googled "Can dogs eat quinoa?"

(They can.)


Karolina Kurkova shot by Norman Jean Roy for Tatler Russia May 2014. Title inspired by this post of yore, which I really should repost over here sometime.

The first thing I ever knitted was a pink scarf. It was a long, straggly mess, full of holes and imperfections. I was so proud.

One day last year, a Monday, I put my pink scarf in a bag with some circular needles and carried it with me. In a quiet waiting room, I slowly and deliberately pulled it apart. Line by line, stitch by stitch, I dismantled everything I'd made. The wool lay in scrawled loops across my lap, like a child's scribble.

Then I wound it back up into a fat, pink ball and began to knit again.

I knitted and I waited. Round and round my needles clicked, building row upon row of neat stitches. No holes. No imperfections. Not this time.

I knitted under the sympathetic gaze of the heavily pregnant nurse who checked me in.

I knitted with Fin beside me, his arm resting on the back of my seat. His fingers played a restless rhythm on the NHS regulation fabric.

I knitted as the woman sitting across from me began, quietly, to cry.

I knitted right up until the moment they came for me. Then they took me along a corridor, put me to sleep, and helped my body finish what it had started, in waves of pain and despair, five days before.

It had been nothing, really. Just a faint line, an outline on a screen. Except that it was everything. And it was over.

In the days that followed, I kept knitting. In tears, in silence, in mourning for the future that wasn't coming, I kept knitting. It gave me something to do. It gave me comfort. It gave me, eventually, a perfect, hole-free pink snood.

Then Smidgen ate it.


I'm trying not to place too much store in the little grey hat I'm knitting now. I try not to leave it lying around the flat for the dog to chew on, but I try not to worry about the holes, either. It will be what it will be. The little person who's going to wear it won't mind, and I won't mind either, because that little person will be here. This time, we'll have made it.

Just five more months of knitting, and waiting, to go.


Let's hope Smidgen doesn't eat the baby.




Images: 1. The ill-fated snood. 2. Hat pattern by Purlbee, washi tape download by Pugly Pixel. 3. More successful snood, more successful bump. Touch wood.

Gorgeous photography! Great design! DOGS WEARING CLOTHES!

It's like they invented it just for me.

Meet Houndworthy, for all your quality hipster dog goods. Need an on-trend geometric collar and matching lead? Of course you do. Need a distressed canvas vintage French postal dog bed? Mais oui. Need a white 100% cotton doggie bandana decorated with painted fish flies? Um, yes, you do. IS THAT EVEN A QUESTION?

I'm not joking with this. I know it can be hard to tell.

Smidgen, if you weren't getting a disgusting chunk of meat for your Christmas, and I had a spare several hundred pounds, you would be getting everything that Houndworthy has to offer. I declare it officially worthy of my hound.

SEE ALSO:

→ A dog wearing antlers looking happy
→ Dogs dressed as Santa looking miserable
→ Smidgen totally needs a new jacket. I mean, she only has two.

All images via Houndworthy. Not a sponsored post, I just like to imagine I have the kind of life where I can spend all my money making Smidgen look even cooler than she already does.

1. She only has one name.

Most racing greyhounds have two names, a racing name and a pet name (I met one recently whose pet name is Steve, which is probably the best name for a dog I've ever heard in my life), but Smidgen has just been Smidgen her whole life. I think they knew from the start that competitive racing would never be her strong point. Of course, as an international greyhound of mystery, she has many aliases, including Smidgers, Little Smidge, Smidger McGidger, Smidgeroo, Smidgester, McGidge and Midgen (this last one coined by my adorable Chinese sister-in-law and only ever said in a Mandarin accent).

2. She has the sleep pattern of a pubescent boy. 

She sleeps all the time. ALL THE TIME. On the couch, on the rug, in her bed, in Isla's bed, on our bed, in the car, on a person, on a pile of dirty washing, on a pile of books, lying down, sitting up, on her side, on her back, legs curled up, legs sticking up like prongs, eyes open, mouth open, perfectly still, twitching madly after dream rabbits, barking, puffing, whining, always completely, 100% asleep.

3. She has a bald bum.

4. She's not well-trained.

5. She's a cold-blooded killer.

6. But she's also a big softy.

7. She's picky.

8. She is, however, surprisingly comforting.

9. She isn't really a rescue dog.

10. Today is a very special day.

Exactly four years ago today, Smidgen was born. Exactly two years ago - on her second birthday - she came to live with us.

Happy birthday, Smidgers. I'm honoured that you've decided I'm worthy of your affection, even if you mostly like me because I let you sneak into our bed in the morning and leave expensive chocolates lying around for you to eat. I promise not to make you wear a hat this year.

SEE ALSO:

All images by me for Daily Smidgen

But alas, I am no longer in France. It's time to say au revoir to delicious meaty salads, and bonjour to being a végétarienne. Sort of.

Fin and I have decided to try and eat meat-free from Monday to Friday. We'll still eat fish, and we'll still eat meat at the weekend if we feel like it, or if we're eating out (which doesn't happen as often as we'd like, thanks to a certain small, hairy member of our household who really cramps our style when it comes to dining in restaurants). So, not really vegetarian at all. More part-time-pescatarian. But at least we're trying.

I haven't been sure what to say about Mull. In all honesty, I find other people's holidays excruciatingly dull, and I'm always reluctant to inflict the full details of my own on anyone who hasn't asked about it, or who isn't directly related to me and therefore has no choice. "Oh, you went somewhere beautiful and had a wonderful time? How nice for you. I was at home, cutting my toenails and watching three-year-old episodes of Don't Tell The Bride. Want to see five hundred pictures of my week?" I try to stick to the highlights reel; a few snaps, a couple of pithy remarks, and leave it at that.
We sat outside in sunshine, plucking plump flesh out of little pink shells. Sweet mussels, squat lobsters, salty haddock, all freshly caught and landed just yards away. We breathed deeply, laughed freely, ate constantly.