One goes mad in a storm

I was battling across the dunes in a full Force 9, balancing a two-year-old child on my hip, when it dawned on me that my dog had vanished.

He never does that. He's one of those clingy labs that walks to heel almost all the time and stares accusingly at you when you stop to chat for a second as if to say, 'Er, hello? We're supposed to be walking here. Clue's in the title.' The clingy thing is the reason that I was out in this storm in the first place. My house backs onto open fields and I'd spent a good half an hour shooing him out of the door in the hope he might just go for a wander on his own, but he was having none of it. Just lay on the floor, watching me and the baby playing in the warmth of home, with his huge beseeching, hard-done-by eyes, until I gave in.

Now, having dragged us out in a howling gale, he seemed to have got over his neediness and buggered off. Muttering evil curses (under my breath so the baby wouldn’t hear) I turned our streaming eyes back into the wind and headed off to search for the dog. I discovered him, nose rammed up the back of a dalmation who turned and looked at me with his eyebrows raised (Yes, his. Male. Everytime). Luckily his old owner thought it was cute.

‘Such fun!’ she shrieked madly. Enid Blyton on A class. I tried to explain that normally I wouldn’t bring a runny-nosed child out in this kind of weather, but dogs must be walked, and there was no-where to leave her.

‘I TOTALLY understand, it's a complete nightmare’, screamed Acid Enid. Unlikely, as she had to be at least eighty. But it turned out she meant about the dog walking problem. She spends most days working in London, can’t possibly take the dog with her and her current dog walker is emigrating.

‘I could do it for you,’ I heard myself say. Whaaaaaaaaat??? Again! Why can’t I ever, EVER keep my trap shut? I haven’t even got time to trot round the block with my own poor fat lab these days, what the hell was I thinking?

But she was so grateful (and had me pinned down to walkies times, feeding details and key hidey holes so fast) that I didn't have the heart to back out. And then she asked my name and my fate was sealed.

One problem with moving back to the little village where I grew up, is that my husband's family are big news around these parts. I've never - seriously, never - introduced myself to someone without them saying, ‘You’re not one of THE Pines, are you?’ I know it’s childish and I shouldn’t mind but sometimes I can’t help replying petulantly, ‘No, I’m actually one of THE Campbells who, I think you’ll find, historically speaking, are slightly more significant than the local ironmongers.’ At which point everyone loses interest and wanders off.

Back home, I consoled Baby that her hypothermia hadn't been totally in vain as it turns out this is a paid thing. And later, warily, I mentioned my new dog walking job to my own particular member of the big-shot local dynasty, thinking he may (like me) think I’d lost my marbles. Should have known better. As soon as he hears there’s cash involved he’s all for it. Even offers to do the school run so I can be off earlier.

It’s the filthy lucre. Gets them every time.