Blanket

Bitch don't piss on my parka

Hello Dear Reader

First, let me start with an apology, because all I seem to do at the moment is apologise. To you, I apologise for neglecting to write to you for over a month which in this day and age is the equivalent of the gap between Kate Bush albums. I have - and one hates to be crude here but sometimes the truth is crude - been working like a bastard behind the scenes. If you are unfortunate enough to be in possession of my telephone number, and have tried to call or text me, or attempted to email me and have joined the ranks of the 165, 745 unread emails in my inbox: I APOLOGISE.

Here, once more with feeling:

SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY

I owe so many people so many texts and emails that it’s been keeping me up at night. Last night I woke up in a cold sweat thinking about an email someone very dear sent me about two years ago which I never replied to even though I was ecstatic to be back in touch with them after thirty years and now I can’t find that email and what a day ruiner that has been, let me tell you.

Yesterday, after dashing into London, searching for a parking space on a day when not one but two major marches and the FA Cup Final were taking place in the capital, and nipping into the BBC to do the Robert Elms show, I dashed home to the shire to take Clive to his first puppy training class.

I knew the time and the place it was happening. I knew to take a dog. I knew to take poo bags - or as I call them, shitbags. I knew also to take the husband.

So, dog, husband and shitbags in tow, I arrived at the community centre in a neighbouring village and found the class in the same room as Slimming World (Thursdays with Elaine), an art class where all the drawings looked to be of William Hague (no idea) and free Zumba for anyone in receipt of pension credit. (Is that such a good idea, though, I wonder? I am decades away from collecting the state pension that won’t exist by the time I’m old enough and only last Wednesday I went to my Les Mills Body Step class, got over-excited during my favourite Liberty X song, missed the step and fell arse over tit and nearly totalled a very unimpressed Carol who always stands right in front of the instructor and never misses a beat.)

Had I read the welcome email that was nestled somewhere deep in the bosom of my 165, 745 unread emails, I would have also arrived with a vaccination certificate, treats, a bowl of water and a dog blanket.

I looked in vain in my inbox of 165,745 unread emails for proof of Clive’s fully vaccinated status. Now not only did I have to swear to the trainer that he wasn’t the canine equivalent of a birdwatcher from Bognor fresh off a Hantavirus ridden cruise ship, but suddenly I felt the heavy, judging eyes of the more responsible and organised dog owners bidding their hounds to recline upon cosy blankets while filling their bowls with freshly uncorked Evian water.

I despatched my husband to the car to look for something that might work as a blanket. He duly obliged and returned with the detachable fur lining of my very expensive parka, and before I could object, laid it on the floor, the satin inner lining now conjugating with institutional linoleum. Clive - thrilled at this new upgrade in his lounging options - settled himself with unseemly haste.

The class proceeded. The trainer, who reminded me of Sally Fields in Steel Magnolias - if Steel Magnolias was set in a greenbelt village where people get very upset about mowing the lawn too early on a Sunday - kept remarking on how fancy Clive’s blanket was. How beautiful. How luxurious.

I smiled, wishing I wasn’t so English and so ashamed of my poor organisational skills that I would sacrifice an item of clothing that costs me forty quid every time I have it dry-cleaned.

The climax of the class was an exercise in socialisation: each puppy would be introduced to the other puppies through the wonders of scent from their blankets. All blankets to be placed on the floor in the middle of the room. All puppies to inspect.

We laid our blankets in a group on the spot where the trainer had just mopped up the result of dear little Poppy’s over-excited bladder.

Clive was to go first. He immediately pissed on Bingo the spaniel’s personalised fleece rug.

I watched this happen with the peculiar detachment of someone who knows they are next. Then I watched as twelve weeks’ worth of puppy after puppy pressed their nose into the detachable lining of my £400 parka, and I prayed harder than I have prayed for anything except for how hard I will be praying when Arsenal play Crystal Palace on Sunday 24th May 2026.

Truly, you do not know how dark your soul is until you have watched an adorable, teddy bear like three month old labradoodle nestle into the folds of your favourite coat and the only way you can will it not to urinate is by writing a rap in your head.

Bitch don’t piss on my parka

Bitch don’t piss on my parka

You can shit in the corner

Like little jack horner

But bitch don’t piss on my parka

By some miracle - maybe my incredible powers of bad rapping - that coat of mine escaped unscathed. Which is handy now that summer is already over.

And so now, friends, I must bid you adieu and return to THE PREPARATIONS. Just today alone, there are string arrangements to be finished, guitar department meetings to be had and all manner of angsting over wardrobe options. With a mere two weeks to go until the Royal Albert Hall, it’s all feeling incredibly real. Which means terrifying.

I shall endeavour to pop into your inbox one more time before the big day, but in the meantime I wish you a wonderful couple of weeks ahead, and maybe I shall see a few of you next Saturday when I play a solo set at my favourite festival, How The Light Gets In in beautiful Hay-on-Wye.

With love as ever,

Nerina xxxx