The world from my window

The dog and I both have colds. She's listless and lethargic and has a runny nose. It hurts my head when I cough. What a pair we make. I'm fed up with this darned virus. I had it for three weeks before Christmas and then for five days a few weeks ago when I should have been enjoying the Caribbean sunshine. And now I've got it again. I had to Google 'can dogs catch cold?' And yes, they can. I'm reluctant to take her to the vet because I've spent so much money lately on pills and potions for her sore skin and gunky ears that I'm in danger of becoming the Imelda Marcos of animal medication. So I'm following the advice I've found on the internet about treating dogs with colds. And it seems to be working.  I've been keeping her warm and dry and limited the time spent outside during cold weather, which actually suits me fine because I'm doing the same. But we ventured out into the sunshine today, me with my new, red wellies on af

I've long been a fan of Coronation Street .  According to my mother, the first music I ever hummed along to was the theme from this long running soap, which came to life in 1960, a good year before I was born. I'd forgotten this, as I always thought ITV was banned in the household of my childhood. But apparently, I was brought up with Corrie. A self-confessed telly addict, I've dipped in and out of it over the years - watching it with my parents in the 60s and 70s and then gorging on it with my flatmate in the early 80s. In those early days, the sharp comedy provided by characters like Stan and Hilda Ogden and then, latterly, Jack and Vera Duckworth, were what I enjoyed the most.  That regular delving into an 'Oop North'  lifestyle seemed,  to me in the rural West Country,  as comfortable - and funny - as an old coat with tricks up its sleeve. Mr Grigg and I used to watch Corrie religiously. But then the humour diminished and the writing became flabbi

Picture: Dave Doe, Flickr It's not the Supermoon (and a blue one at that) everyone is talking about around these parts today. No, Supermoons are ten-a-penny. You only have to turn on the telly or tune into the radio to hear that this or that planet can be currently seen in conjunction with Elvis going into the pub for a pint of Palmers  Tally Ho! or that  Cassiopeia has been spotted, romping hand-in-hand through the meadows with Shergar . But I like to think that perhaps the magic of the Supermoon has rubbed off on mobile phone coverage in the village. Because I can suddenly get four, wonderful bars inside my thick-walled house. Previously, I had to balance on a chair, breathe in deeply, stand on tiptoes and hold my mobile phone up as high as I could in the corner of the conservatory to get a chance of any signal at all. This means I can now receive texts at home. Which would account for Arty chasing her tail today - I'd forgotten that my text notification on my