Barring My Sole.

For those of you who were a little confused by my behaviour in the Belgian Bar on Friday night, I should point out that it was...
a) The anniversary of my dear dog Syndrome's death.
b)A very powerful Full Moon.
c)The Belgian Bar.
d)After an awful lot to drink!

But to clarify for those who were wondering why I was dragging my handbag around and saying "come on boy, heel", his ashes were in my bag and that's something I could never get him to do while he was alive (heel, that is, not incinerate and then climb into my bag).
He'd always be jumping up at people, too. And I'd get the queerest looks from them when I yelled "Down Syndrome!" at him.
But, as they say, you can't teach and old dog new tricks, and that appears to apply to dead ones too (again, dogs, not tricks)!

And for those who were puzzled as to why I was talking to my shoe, and I must confess that that could've looked like I was pretending it was a phone, I was merely comforting my sole, which, yet again, I'd managed to get plastered with shit!

Does that all really seem so odd now?