Ellen had a few people round for a barbecue on Friday night and invited QEII and I along. So we had a lovely evening (thanks, Ellen!) and then on the way home QEII was talking about her plans to get a dog. I pointed out that owning a dog entailed walking a dog which would lead, inevitably, to the horror of picking up dog poo. To my consternation, QEII plans to shirk her obligations and claims that she won't be doing any picking up. We got into a rather vigorous debate which morphed into a debate about what music we'd listen to as we drove along and ended only when I nearly drove into someone stopped at some lights. QEII looked a little stunned.
"Did I give you a fright? Are you okay?"
"Oh I'm fine. My undies aren't so crash hot though."
"Sliding around in them a bit, are you?"
"Yeah - wanna pick it up?"
"Soooo...you're saying you're my dog?"
"Yep, I'm your bitch."
It was a very kind offer. But I'm just not in the market. I'm looking for a bastard.