Author: anneethompson

Dog World

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We took Meg to Instow, Devon. This is as close to dog-world as it’s possible to find in England. There are no signs, but I think it’s possible there is a rule somewhere which specifies that people are only allowed to visit Instow if accompanied by a dog. Most people seem to have two or three. There are dogs everywhere—straining against leads on the path along the waterfront, under tables in pubs and cafes, running along the disused railway cycle-route, charging across the beach. Dog Heaven. If you want to introduce a child or puppy to dogs, this is the place to come. (At night, under cover of darkness, when most people are inside, you can spot all the people with unsociable dogs—mostly the owners of German shepherd dogs—walking along the beach, avoiding snarly encounters with other more friendly dogs.)

Meg is great on trips to Instow. She travels really well in the car—no barking because she’s bored (which my previous dog did), she simply curls up in her crate and goes to sleep. At service stations there is lots to see and smell, so she walks next to me, does not chase cars (no idea why, maybe because they’re all moving slowly) and toilets when instructed. She is on full-alert, but also obedient. A rare combination for Meg.

Alert in Costa services

We stay in a house near the beach which has a fully enclosed garden and hard floors; perfect for a dog. We always take a crate, because although I mostly trust Meg, I would hate for her to chew something structural. I also do not attempt to take her into pubs and cafes. She might be good, but she might not, so why risk it? She’s relaxed in her crate.

Meg loves the beach. We throw sticks, and all her attention is on those—she ignores the millions of other dogs on the beach, even when they run up to her. She charges across the sand, rushes into the water—her whole body is happy. A happy dog is beautiful.

Of course, perfection has limits when it comes to Meg, and getting her from the house to the beach was a nightmare. After the first visit, Meg knew that she loved the beach and was desperate to go there. She would sit in the hallway, staring at the door, telling us she was ready. Whenever we left the house Meg was completely overcome with excitement and used all her strength to rush us to the beach. Plus there were cars, which added to the tension. Plus there were other dogs barking–which although Meg doesn’t bark herself she is noticeably tense about. Therefore every time we walked to the beach, we had this leaping, yelping, twisting, tiger on the end of the lead. Other people (with well-behaved dogs) watched in horror and disapproval. It was at this point that Husband lied. We were having a particularly stressful walk to the beach and a couple stopped to watch, their faces full of fear and disapproval. They probably thought we were stealing a dog, or that Meg was a vicious monster. Husband looked at them and said, ‘She’s a rescue dog.’ Their expression changed instantly, they were full of sympathy and admiration for our kindness in taking on such a difficult dog. ‘She’s lovely really,’ I tried to say, ‘She just wants to chase the cars.’ The woman nodded kindly. ‘Obviously she has had a bad experience somewhere,’ she said. I was silent. The only bad experience Meg has had is that we never managed to train her properly–but I decided not to blow Husband’s cover. When we reached the beach, whatever switch in Meg’s brain that makes her uncontrollable turned off. She became a lovely obedient dog, focussed on sticks, obeying my commands.

Instow is on an estuary, so the water is usually calm. We look across the water to Appledore. At night the lights of the town shine on the water. An image of peace.

We stayed for a few days. We both had some work to do, and in between times we wandered across the beach, ate in pubs, went for long walks. It was a chance to recharge batteries, have a break from normal routine. I like visiting costal towns out of season, and we have visited Instow several times now. I love it. Although I’m not sure if I would be allowed to visit unless I had a dog…

Hope you have a good week and do not find it necessary to lie. Thanks for reading.

Love, Anne x

Meg’s Diary

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Before we bought Meg (sweet naive souls that we were) we tried to plan ahead. Our kitchen is open-plan style, which isn’t great for a new puppy, so some friends lent us their ‘puppy pens.’ They had two kinds, both used successfully with their Weimaraner puppies. One pen was fairly solid and not too big—ideal for in the kitchen. The other was lighter and bigger—perfect for the garden.

We collected Meg from the breeder, brought her home and placed her in the kitchen. After knocking over a plant, running round, peeing on the floor, etc in about two seconds, we put her into the first puppy pen. For a minute or two, all was calm. But Meg had no intention of staying inside the playpen, she wanted to be with us. When I moved away, Meg used the bars of the pen like a ladder, climbing up to the top. I managed to catch her as she fell backwards (very dangerous). Clearly this was not a safe place to leave her unattended. We assembled the lighter, larger puppy pen—maybe the larger slats would be too wide for Meg to climb. They were. Meg did not scramble up the sides, instead she used all her weight to heave into the corner, which obligingly slid across the kitchen floor. Meg triumphantly reached me, dragging the pen behind her. Not a success. 

We now had nowhere safe for Meg to be left. She had a crate, for sleeping, but it was small, too small to be left in. (The idea of ‘crate training’ in case you have never done it, is that you gradually introduce the puppy to a crate, which then is their safe place, like a den in the wild. When toilet training a young puppy, you have a bed-sized crate so the puppy cannot sleep at one end and toilet at the other which encourages them to form bladder control. Of course for this to not be cruel, the owner has to very frequently, day and night, take them to an appropriate place to toilet. The timing depends on the puppy. For Meg, it took one night, we never had another accident. For my black Labrador puppy it took 10 years and I’m not completely sure she ever fully understood where she was supposed to pee.) We needed somewhere else that was safe to leave hyper-active puppy unattended during the day.

It was a problem, solved by Husband-Fixer-Man, who set off at about 8pm, determined to solve the problem. He spent some time on the internet, then informed me he had found the biggest crate available, it was available in Argos about 10 miles away, they were open until 10pm, he was on it! Off he went. Some time later, he returned with the biggest box ever fitted into a Land Rover. From it emerged a crate, which when assembled took up a sizeable amount of kitchen floor. It was huge. It was also Meg-proof. She could not climb the walls, she could not move it along the floor, and it was big enough that I felt she could safely be contained with her toys when I was unable to be on puppy-duty. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

Over time, Meg moved from the smaller crates, and the huge crate was the only one we kept. It has been useful when we have guests who don’t like dogs, or guests who are fragile, because Meg can be shut inside and everyone is safe. She likes it, and even though the door is rarely shut unless we have visitors, she generally chooses to be in there and sleeps in there every night (with the door wide open). However, the top has become a dumping place for things. Over time old towels have been stored there, toys she no longer uses, odd bits of gardening equipment. I am not naturally tidy, and I stopped ‘seeing’ what was dumped ‘temporarily’ on top of the crate. Plus it took up a huge amount of kitchen floor.

I decided it was time to move it out. Meg rarely needs to be shut away, and when she does she can be put into the utility room. (To be fair, she hates it in there because she can’t see what is happening, so she would much prefer the crate stayed.) I experimented with putting a nice comfy dog bed inside the crate, planning to move the crate when something else had become her bed. She hated the comfy cushion. For a few nights she slept squashed next to it in the crate. Then she abandoned the crate and slept on the doormat. Then she tried to remove the comfy cushion from the crate and when that proved too difficult she tried to eat it.

I removed the partially shredded cushion and put it in the dustbin, replacing it with a towel. Yesterday, we removed the crate. I placed the towel in the same spot on the floor, and told Meg this is her bed. Meg lay on it. Later, while we were eating, I told Meg to go to her bed. She went and sat on the towel. This morning, when I came into the kitchen, Meg was asleep on the towel. Sorted. Very little has been easy with Meg, but being adaptable is one of her strengths. She understands her ‘bed’ is the towel. No crate required. Perfect.

I’m now enjoying my spacious kitchen. Thanks for reading. Have a good week.

Take care.

Love, Anne x

A playpen Meg could climb.
A Gremlin

Meg’s Diary: Life is a Compromise

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24/3/2026

I have ducklings, rescued from the pond, in a crate in the garage. Meg is interested. I take her with me, and hold a duckling for her to sniff. She’s very excited, and tries to lick it. I speak very calmly, praising her, ensuring she stays sitting. It’s not (yet) very calm, and I can tell she’s bursting to leap on them. But I will continue.

I had a nightmare. It was very grim—something evil was hovering over the bed and I knew I needed to wake-up but I couldn’t. I screamed (which did wake me). Husband came running. The point of this, is that Meg was asleep on the floor next to me, and her reaction was…zero. I screamed a full-panic, real fear, scream. Meg did not move. I do not find this reassuring in terms of guard-dog duty. I suspect if a burglar came she might join him if he looked more fun than me. She scores 100% for resilience, 0 for empathy, 0 for security. Sometimes I wonder why I keep her.

Considering options


18/4/2026

Walking Meg in the woods is delightful. She is very obedient, especially when off-lead, and will come and walk beside me on command. She still grabs at sticks occasionally, so I wear tough gardening gloves to avoid losing a finger. But other than risk of losing a limb, she is great! I’m especially proud of her when other dogs invade her space, as she will always ignore them and come to me when called.

On a less good note, I still do not feel she likes me much. When no one else is here, she will faithfully follow me wherever I go, and will sleep on the floor beside my bed. But anyone more exciting (which seems to include everyone) Meg is off, looking for better company. This annoys me. I feed her, walk her, pick up her mess—but it is Husband who she greets enthusiastically. This morning, I opened her cage, bent to fuss her—Husband walked into the kitchen—she rushed off to bounce him happily and take him gifts of dirty towels. I was ignored, of no interest whatsoever. I find this odd. All my other animals like me, so I feel the fault is hers. It makes me less tolerant of her bad points (which is perhaps not rational, but I feel she should love me best!)

By the way, introducing Meg to the hatchlings has not changed her behaviour at all. She still views them as things to chase/bark at. I will continue to keep them separate unless she is extremely closely monitored.

2/4/2026

Meg has been fairly good this week. We have a nice routine in the morning, when she comes into the field with me and I water the new plants. Goose and Maverick are out, but behind a flimsy fence (it wouldn’t keep Meg out if she decided to join them, but it’s a psychological barrier, and it keeps the birds contained, even Maverick the fighty cockerel). If I am holding a stick, and I concentrate on directing her, then Meg stays with me, and doesn’t bark at the birds. She walks to the middle of the field with me, then stops and watches me walk the rest of the way. If I call her, she will join me (just to check whether I have anything interesting, then she returns to the middle of the field).

When I need to refill the waterings cans, at the tap right next to the birds, Meg is almost good. I tell her to ‘stop’ and to ‘wait’ in a place about a 100 yards from the bird enclosure. Meg stands still. I turn to walk towards the tap, Meg creeps forward a step. I turn, make unhappy noises, she stops. Every time I move towards the tap, Meg moves closer. It’s like one of those ‘creeping up’ games you played as a child. It’s very disobedient, and as a GSD, Meg should be completely obedient. But she’s busy concentrating on moving without me noticing, which means she is ignoring the birds, so I don’t really care. Life with Meg is all about compromise. She rarely does exactly what I want, but ‘close enough’ is okay.

August 2026

Meg is being hard work. I think this is due to lack of routine—we have been away a few times, there have been visitors in the house and I have been distracted by work and ill family. This means Meg has not been my focus, and she has started to ignore me when I tell her to do something. This week she even refused to come to be put on the lead in the woods, and then almost refused to jump into the car—problems I thought we had cured years ago. She makes me cross, because life has been disrupted for me too, and I don’t have any patience for her naughtiness.

On a brighter note, we used ‘Rover’ and no one died. Rover is an online site, a little like Airbnb for dog-sitters. You upload details about your dog (like whether they can cope with other dogs, or cats, or children) and then you look for a suitable host on the website. They can then ask further questions before agreeing to take your dog. We were going to Cambridge for the weekend, and it was holiday time so all the kennels were completely full, and several friends have recommended Rover. I was nervous. I worried about whether Meg would be safe (although we specified an enclosed garden and no walks, but people might interpret that loosely). I also worried whether the host would be safe—Meg has a lot of enthusiasm and is incredibly strong. There wasn’t a tick-box for ‘Is your dog like an excitable tiger?’ but we did our best. We found a host conveniently near Cambridge, and delivered Meg. I worried a lot. The host seemed very nice, and I felt a cross ‘sergeant-major figure’ may fare better with Meg. She also had a very nice house, with lots of pretty things that a tail might sweep to the floor. I did my best to explain that one of them needed to be the boss and it should not be Meg, and that it was probably best to contain her in the kitchen and garden rather than having free access to her very tidy house. But I still worried. We left.

Later that evening, we messaged (to make sure the host wasn’t weeping). We received a happy message in reply, and a photo of Meg, looking very pleased with herself, sitting in the lounge (though not on a sofa, thankfully). I tried to relax. When we collected Meg, the house was full of visitors, all of them said goodbye to Meg and seemed to genuinely like her. Meg (of course) was completely fine. She is bomb-proof (probably why her siblings are used in the police/army). It would take a lot to shatter her happy confidence (which is one reason why I was willing to risk leaving her—I would not have left my other slightly less robust GSD). After we were home, Meg received a review from the host on Rover. It said she was a happy affectionate dog, and the host had enjoyed having her to stay. That was nice.

Ruth is staying with us again. Meg loves this (and it’s one reason why she has been difficult, because Meg feels she now has options as to whether to obey me). Meg will be asleep in the kitchen, and will suddenly sit up, then race upstairs. Seconds later I hear Ruth’s bedroom door open. Meg enjoys leaning against Ruth, going into her bedroom (which is not allowed) and licking Ruth’s feet (I think Ruth is less keen on this). I will attempt to reinstate some discipline after Ruth has left. Meg sees her as backup in her quest to ignore me.

A Baby Shower

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I have a grandchild (my first) growing ever bigger inside their mother. This is extremely exciting. I shall be called Granny Anne, and I am so looking forward to meeting them. As the prospective parents were visiting, I offered to host a baby shower. Such fun!

Several friends (and my hairdresser) gave me tips about what to do. Baby showers were not really a thing when I had my babies, so I was a little unsure of expectations. I learnt there should be cake, and games, and hopefully people would brings gifts. It’s a fun way to involve other people in the prospective birth, and to celebrate together (before the reality of sleepless nights and dirty nappies dominate). As the party was after our trip to NY, I also visited shops there, searching for baby tat (although they only had balloons and napkins). I baked lots of cake. I found all sorts of wonderful useless things online, and merrily made little chocolate shapes in baby themes, and gingerbread biscuits with cutters shaped like rattles, bibs, bottles and baby vests. (I tell you this, as the resultant biscuits looked decidedly dodgier shapes!)

The afternoon was fun. I am always worried when hosting a party, in case nobody wants to come, but people came and seemed to enjoy themselves. We scattered baby balloons in the hallway. I made a ‘nappy cake’ (which is nappies rolled up and tied with ribbons so they look like a tiered cake, and you hide little gifts inside). I found instructions online, and was pleased with the result (you never know with these things). I wanted some silk flowers to decorate it, ordered some from John Lewis, and was rather worried when huge boxes arrived. (Note to self: check dimensions before buying online.) I bought some terry nappies, because they made useful cloths for my own sicky babies, and one game was to practise folding one and putting it on a toy ape. We also listed all the things people say during labour, deleted the inappropriate ones, then listed the first letters to see if people could guess. (IAB: ‘It’s a boy!’ IANDTA: ‘I am never doing this again!’ ITN: ‘Is this normal?’) We also had some baby trivia (Day most babies are born: Wednesday. Bone babies don’t have: kneecap.)

I set the table with cloths, cups and saucers, plates of cakes, baby confetti, napkins. It looked pretty. Then we sat and watched the gifts being opened, which is always fun. People were very generous, and there were baby books, toys, and the cutest socks, lots of nappies, various outfits—everything that will make it easier for the parents to be ready for when the baby arrives.

I am so looking forward to the baby. It’s interesting how one baby affects everything—we (the older generation) all shuffle back a step, the parents’ siblings become the aunts and uncles, their grandparents become great grandparents. I know they are just labels, but they also represent roles, and family position, and they seem surprisingly significant. As the wider world seems to be on a mission to self-destruct, it is lovely to have something positive to focus on. A little optimism is good for us all.

I hope you have something to look forward to this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

NYC 2026

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Monday 14th September

We went to the gym early, then walked to The Flame diner for breakfast. No rain today. But there seemed to be more crazy people on the streets—not sure I would feel safe walking alone. Husband told me his work schedule for the next two days. Felt stressed. Although it will be good to have a couple of days to study, it will be lonely, and we will be on different time zones most of the time (actually, Husband will be on two time zones, because he has early UK meetings online and late US meetings in person). I will switch my clock back to UK time, and plan to get up at 2am I think.

We walked down the island. The first part is busy, needed to watch where we were walking, avoiding people, waiting for traffic, not much space for looking around. We dipped into Grand Central Station, just because we haven’t been inside since we lived here nearly 30 years ago, mingled with the commuters, saw the central clock, the shiny floor, the staircase from a Mafia shootout in The Untouchables. There is something exciting, busy, intense about the city. I was also very aware that NYC has very few public washrooms, so I was keen to arrive in a quieter part, where there would be nice cafes and facilities. We passed some parks, but I don’t find these to be pleasant, they tend to be grubby squares with litter and homeless people—not somewhere that’s nice to sit.

Gradually the mood of the city changes as you walk further south. There are fewer people, more homes and fewer shops (not as many flashing signs). The buildings are mostly red brick, less high. It feels quieter, cleaner, less stressful. Our walking slowed too, we stopped rushing, looked at the streets we were passing. As we arrived on the edge of Little Italy we looked for somewhere to stop. Went into a cafe, Bakery in Lafayette and ordered coffee and pastries. It was clean and comfortable and cool. Little Italy was busy with workmen preparing for a festival, lots of temporary structures being assembled. We avoided planks of wood and reversing trucks and made it unscathed into China Town. Saw the red Chinese lanterns hanging across the street, the photographs of bright food on the menus, the shops full of lucky waving cats and oriental tat. I was tired now, it felt like we had been walking for a long time. We ordered an Uber and went back to the hotel.

My next two days were more lonely. Husband was working on both time zones—so waking early for 5am meetings online with UK boards, then attending meetings and dinners in person with US boards. I tried to work, and went for walks round the city on my own, but it’s less fun without company, and I worried about walking in front of traffic and getting lost. I ate a lot of rubbish and felt lonely—the whole city seemed to be full of couples and people rushing to important meetings and I was detached, wandering on my own, not quite daring to sit in a cafe or pause in a park. Probably being tired didn’t help. Flew home overnight on Wednesday. Fun few days.

Thanks for reading. Take care.
Love, Anne

PS. Completely unconnected, but do you know what the two-hands emoji means? Some people use it to mean ‘praying’ but saw on Insta that it means ‘high five’. Or ‘thanks.’ Seems to mean different things to different people. An online search was no help at all! What do you use it for?

Screenshot

Exposed in New York City

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We arrived at The Knickerbocker Hotel, New York. Husband is working here next week, and I have tagged along for a weekend of tourism, and then I will study in the hotel room while he goes off to his client. Today has been very long—I woke at 5am, and it’s now midnight, bright and sunny in NYC. I am tired and feeling old. I remember the days when I could fly out to meet him when he was working here, and we’d go out for steak and red wine, and wander through the city before going to sleep. Now I can barely manage to order a room service pizza. It’s still a fun place to visit though.

The hotel is modern, and minimalist. There are very few drawers, or coat hangers, or walls, The wall bit is inconvenient. There is a sliding glass wall to close off the bathroom area, with glass-walled cubicles for the shower and toilet. Not much in the way of privacy. We arrived and ordered room service, which they said would take 25 minutes to arrive. That was plenty of time for a quick shower (always feel yukky after a flight). I quickly stripped off, leaving clothes strewn around the room because I was trying to be quick, and went behind the flimsy glass wall into the glass-sided shower cubicle. It was a good shower, lovely hot water, one of those soap dispensers on the wall (which I don’t especially like but it smelt nice so I used it) but nowhere to put your own shampoo because ‘minimalist’ means no shelves or soap dish, just a big empty cubicle. I was just shouting about all this to Husband when the doorbell rang. Room service was faster than expected. That’s okay, I thought, Husband will open the door but you can’t see into the bathroom from the doorway, no need to panic, he’ll thank the man, receive the food, shut the door.

But no. Husband opened the door, then stood back while the waiter wheeled a trolley into the room. I watched them (in horror) through the glass sides of the shower cubicle. The waiter (poor man—who wants to see their granny in the shower?) put the trolley in the middle of the room, and left fairly promptly, while I was desperately trying to cover my embarrassment with a towel. There was no hiding—the bathroom area has huge mirrors, brutal in their honesty—on every wall which isn’t glass. Great for beautiful young bodies, rather depressing for older women trying to hide from unsuspecting waiters. It was not a great moment. Need to discuss shower protocol with Husband.

Saturday 12th September

Slept well, woke about 3:30. Our favourite diner (The Flame Diner on 9th and 58th) is open 24 hours, so we walked there. New York is great in the early morning, it’s as light as day with all the huge billboards and screens, like walking through a television salesroom for giants. The air is warm in September, no need for more than a tee shirt (with a cardigan for the air conditioning inside). We entered the diner, slid into a booth, a waiter appeared with menus and glasses of iced water… I love NY.

After breakfast, we wandered up to The Met (The Metropolitan Museum — which in English we would call an art gallery). I have happy memories of here. When we lived in NJ my children were small and I would sometimes take them into the city. Before visiting art galleries, I would always show them pictures of the art first (our local library had some lovely art books) and they would each choose one picture. Then, when we arrived at the gallery, we would find each of the chosen paintings, and because they were so much bigger, and brighter, and because they knew something about it, when the children saw ‘their’ painting they were genuinely interested. Then we would go home (because 3 paintings is enough, when you have young children). I do remember one fun visit when as we climbed the marble staircase, my 4 year-old shouted: ‘Look Mummy! There’s Socrates drinking the hemlock!’ And everyone nearby turned in amazement to see who the child prodigy was! Anyway, that was a long time ago, and this time I was with Husband. Although I think 3 paintings was about his limit too.

We then went for lunch in another diner. I had a BLT, and a slice of New York cheesecake, which is fabulous and not sweet or lemony or rich, and I have only ever found it in New York. (Other places claim to serve it, but it’s never the same.)

Hope you have a good day too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Too Difficult

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Lots of things in life are, frankly, too difficult. As I get older, I seem to encounter more and more things which are too difficult for me. Obviously some things are easier—I don’t need to think about how to drive to the shops, or cook dinner, or give a talk to a group of elderly people. But I think there are more things which I now struggle with—exceptionally long walks, carrying heavy things, training Meg, learning something new. The last one is becoming annoying as I continue my PhD research—but I have a strategy.

I have discovered that when I encounter something which I don’t understand, I don’t let myself worry about it, and I return to it very briefly in the future. If I return to it often enough, eventually I will get there. It’s like learning a difficult language—you do it one word at a time, however long that takes. When training Meg, I make her sit and look at me before I open the door. Sort of nibbling round the edges without worrying about swallowing the whole thing at once. This has been an especially good strategy this week, because I have some new grammar books.

The books were frequently referred to by the other scholars, and some were not available in the online library (plus I do like to hold a physical book) so I took out a mortgage and treated myself. (Grammar books are incredibly expensive if you look at the single price. If you cost them according to how much interest/pleasure they will give over time, you are paying about 10p per hour of absorbed activity over several years—which I think is better value than a Netflix subscription.) I ordered them. They arrived. I began to read the first one—and did not understand what they meant. Not a good start. I mean, I understood (nearly) every word, but not when they were arranged in that order! For example, Chapter Two begins:

“The thematic domain is the lowest one in the minimalist program/distributed morphology hierarchic template.”[1]

However, I am no longer phased by such lack of knowledge. I knew in time it would make sense, I just needed to continue. I read on, letting most words wash over me like a waterfall but understanding the occasional paragraph, learning new things in drips. The main strategy is just to keep on going and not slip into panic. The second book (by Noonan) I read in the middle of the night. It was 2 am, and much too hot to sleep, and the book was on the floor next to the bed (which is the best place to keep books). I began to read. It all made sense. Best of all, many of the things that were explained I recognised as the non-understandable terms used in the first book. Because I had already encountered the concepts (without understanding what they were talking about!) I gobbled up the explanations in this more accessible book. What fun! Now I was ready to tackle the first book again, armed with new knowledge. My memory isn’t great, so I scribbled notes and charts to help me remember the main points.

For me, this is how I learn. My research is currently about looking deeply into biblical texts and trying to decide what the early authors were saying. I’m not doing ‘theology,’ so I’m not drawing conclusions about what is applicable today, or even how it impacts other parts of the Bible. (That will come later.) I am simply looking at the Hebrew, examining how the sentences are structured and exploring possible meanings. It’s fun. But it’s difficult. I shall keep nibbling…

I hope you find a way to cope with the difficult things in your day. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

[1] John A. Cook, The Biblical Hebrew Verb (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2024)

Cluttered desk with paperwork, “COFFEE & CHAOS” mug, and incoming call from Sarah Jenkins

Scam Alert!

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I was working when my mobile rang. There was a pause after I answered, which told me it was probably a scam, but it might have been a business so I continued and said ‘Hello?’ (I never give my name when I answer–there are too many scams and I want them to have minimal information.) The person (a man with an Asian accent) said hello, he was from Amazon Fraud Department, how was my day going? I was half-inclined to put down the phone at that point, I hate chatty sales people when I am trying to work. But there was a chance (albeit a tiny chance) that the call was legit, so I told him (possibly not too politely) that I was working (and hoped he would take the hint). I was also on full-alert in case of a scam–no pin codes to be given, no information about my account, no pressing a number to be transferred elsewhere–I know all these things can be scams.

Cluttered desk with paperwork, “COFFEE & CHAOS” mug, and incoming call from Sarah Jenkins

The call continued, and the next bit is really clever (and easy to be fooled by) so please read carefully. The man said (again) that he was from Amazon Fraud Department, there was a suspected fraud on my account, had I bought an iPhone in the last week? I had not. I was being cautious, and trying not to say too many words, so I just said (slightly rudely) ‘No.’ The man then asked if anyone else had access to my account. I said no, still wondering where this was going. He asked if I would like the transaction to continue, or to cancel it. If someone had hacked my account, I did not want to pay for an iPhone, so I said ‘Cancel.’ I was still trying to use single words, still trying to work out how this could be a scam. The man said that to cancel the order, they needed a cancellation code, which would be sent by Watsapp. Please could I put the phone on speaker mode and check my Watsapp, and read out the number. This sounded very dodgy–it made no sense–why would he need me to give a number he had sent? And why Watsapp? Do Amazon use Watsapp? I said no, he could send the code via email. The line went dead. A scam.

I was now sure it was a scam, but to what end? What could he possibly gain by sending me a code and then asking me to read it out? Could he somehow access my Watsapp account if I used it while he was on the phone? It seemed like a lot of effort just to hack a Watsapp account! I asked the family. (I also checked my Amazon account on a different device–I worried he might somehow be inside my phone and able to monitor which keys I pressed). I also wasn’t sure if my voice had been recorded (some places use voice recognition) although I had said very few words, I doubted that would be a problem.

The family explained the scam. It’s a clever one. To open a new account (online bank, social media, shop, whatever) they now usually ask for 2-step verification. They will email you a code, which you then enter on the screen. The scammer was probably attempting to open a fraudulent account in my name, or at least with my phone number, and although they could complete most of the online form with a false email address, they needed the code that the company would send. Hence the phone call. The ‘cancellation code’ he wanted would not have come from the fraudster, it would have come from whichever company they were trying to access. Therefore, when I read it to him, he would be able to complete the 2-step verification and hey presto, a new account set up in my name of which I would have no knowledge and no access. He could use this to sell dodgy things, or build a false identity, whatever dodgy dealings he wanted. I would never know.

After the event, when I had time to think, I realised that very few companies (including Amazon) have my mobile number, so I should have known from the start it was a scam. But when these calls happen, it’s very hard to think quickly, and we’re never completely sure it’s a scam, so we keep talking, until sometimes it’s too late. I managed to spot this one, but it was clever. Please be careful whenever someone who you don’t know calls–they may not be who they say they are.

I hope you have a good week, and that all your phone calls are welcome ones. Take care, and do share this scam with others so it won’t work on someone else. Thanks for reading.
Love, Anne x

Accident at the Festival

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Screenshot of Daily Mail online report

You may have seen on the news that there was an accident at a Christian Festival over the weekend. There are two responses which really anger me.

In case you missed the reports, every August bank holiday, there is a festival called ‘Big Church Festival.’ It used to be called ‘The Big Church Day Out,’ and we went once—it was great fun, with food trucks and a stage with bands playing, lots of stalls, lots of people. (I don’t especially enjoy most ‘Christian’ music, but there was even an opera singer event, which was marvellous.) Anyway, the festival has grown over the years, had a name change, and now includes camping. Thousands of people attend. This year, a large wooden sign fell (I think due to winds) and hurt several people, killing one man who was a pastor. Very sad.

Image taken from Daily Mail online.

The two things which anger me are the responses I have seen on social media. One reaction has been humour—jokes made about the fact it happened at a Christian event. This is such bad taste. There are even reactions by people who claim to be christians but want to say the jokes are funny, they can’t resist laughing ‘even though I am a Christian.’ Being a Christian has nothing to do with it—that just means they hold a certain theological belief, it doesn’t make them better than others (even if it should). I suspect their reaction has something to do with wanting to appear relatable, ‘I’m a Christian but I still have a sense of humour’ sort of mentality. I consider them weak and bad mannered. When someone has recently been killed, it’s just plain rude to make jokes, or laugh about it, or show any lack of respect towards those who are mourning.

The other response, also by Christians, is the ‘God has a plan,’ ‘good will come of this,’ misguided nonsense which is also being spouted. It’s like christianity teaches that nothing bad will happen to good people (which is so far off the truth), therefore if something bad does happen, it must be part of God’s plan and some great good will be revealed. Again, this shows huge insensitivity towards those who are mourning (and a complete absence of understanding about what is written in the Bible and what is evidenced in real life). They seem to think they have a genie in their pocket, and if they have prayed the right prayers, and have the right motives, God will do what they want—he will suspend the laws of physics, perform miracles on demand, protect them from all physical consequences. And if God does not protect them—if high winds and a heavy sign are not influenced by a physics-defying miracle, well that must mean God has a better plan—because absolutely every event is part of a secret ‘plan’ therefore we must sing worship songs and celebrate because it’s not bad really after all. Is it? Actually, yes, it is bad. It is sad and horrid and vastly unfair. Bad things happen to good people. (Visit people in countries who are desperately praying that their children won’t die of starvation or disease if you don’t believe me.) Maybe nothing good will come of this tragedy. Maybe a child will grow up without her father, a mother has lost her son, friends have lost someone they love—and they will live with that hurt for the rest of their lives. There won’t be some great ‘good’ which will unfold. Life is just plain rubbish sometimes, and acknowledging that is not lack of faith, it is truthful. Pretending otherwise is misguided and cruel—because then when horrid things happen people either think they must have failed or God must have failed, because they know there is nothing ‘good’ in the disaster.

I am not denying that God is God, nor suggesting that God is absent. I do believe that God is God, I just don’t think he constantly miraculously intervenes to reverse laws of physics (which he set) every time humans pray. That would make humans into gods. Nor do I think God is absent—every horrid event in my life I have found God is there, helping me cope, crying with me, holding me when I am frightened. But when tragedy strikes, that is the time to cry. I think those who mock, or those who see it as an opportunity for christian scalp-hunting through misdirected praise songs have missed the point. If you are unaffected, if you are not crying, now is the time to shut up. Anything else is just rude.

Thanks for reading. I hope you have a great week, but if it’s tough I hope you know it’s okay to admit that it’s rubbish—and I hope you find the help you need.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Meg’s Diary. Not a (German) Shepherding Dog

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1/2/2026

A very bad morning. I was out, Husband took Meg into the garden. There was a duck on the lawn, Meg tore after it, ignoring Husband, caught the duck, killed her. I am so angry with Meg. I have repeatedly tried to teach her not to chase my birds, repeatedly distracted her so she doesn’t bark at them, constantly tried to teach her to be safe around them. But clearly, she is not safe with them.

The ducks are semi-wild (mostly the offspring of wild ducks which I have rescued from crows and raised on the pond, and they have decided to stay because I feed them). In the Spring, the drakes are annoying, so the hens will fly over the fence onto the lawn, away from the drakes. Usually, when they hear us in the garden they fly back, onto the pond. This one obviously wasn’t fast enough.

By the time I got home, there was nothing that could help the duck, who was lying, terrified, under a tree. I gently picked her up, and laid her in a nest of fresh hay, safely enclosed, so she could die in peace. Horribly sad.

I am so angry with Meg. I know that her instinct is to chase (although not to kill—she must have been very rough to have killed it) but she knows that she must not touch my poultry, which is why she was running away from Husband as soon as she had it, why it became a game to her, something to play with. It shows complete lack of obedience, lack of impulse control, lack of empathy (because I am sure that his tone of voice should have warned her that this was not a game, and she should stop).

After I sorted the poor duck, I went into the house. Meg was shut into the utility room. I told her to go into her crate. Something in my voice subdued her. She knows she has been bad. She knows I am angry with her—her tail is down and her ears and back and she is not making a fuss to be free, even though she would not usually be confined to her crate during the daytime. I am so angry and upset I need space from her for a while. After that, I will try to decide what to do. I have no idea whether there is a way to teach her not to touch the birds—it’s not as if I haven’t tried. I need an albatross to come and terrify her, so she never touches birds again. When things like this happen, I just feel defeated, and want to rehome her. I have not felt like that for a very long time now, but today I could send her back to the breeder and replace her with a normal German Shepherd dog. One who listens to me. Like Kia did.


Thursday 12/3/2026

We needed to go to Sheffield (to collect goose eggs to hatch) and I didn’t want her in kennels again so soon, so we took her with us. She was perfect. (Never thought I would write that!) We put her into her crate in the boot, loaded our cases, and set off. After several hours we stopped at services. I walked Meg round the car park, and through the services (because there was no sign saying dogs couldn’t enter) and Meg was great. There was noise, and people, and sliding doors, queues for food, people eating (so food smells) a games area full of flashing lights and loud sounds—Meg walked next to me on the lead, noticing everything but unperturbed by any of it. Marvellous.

When we arrived in Sheffield, we set up her bed in the Airbnb and had a cup of tea. Then we left her, in the strange house, while we went out for dinner. Meg was fine (I checked). She curled up in her bad and slept.

I didn’t attempt to walk her along the streets (she’s always awful) and I decided that being either inside or in the garden for a few hours was no worse than being in kennels. Meg seemed fine. In the house, we could hear the dog next door barking. Meg growled a few times, but mostly ignored it.

The next day, we put her back in the car and drove home. Again, she was perfect. She sat and watched the traffic, or lay down (not sure if she slept) and when we stopped she walked nicely beside me, toileted on grass next to the road, got back into the car without a fuss. I was very pleased with her.

As I said, we were collecting goose eggs. I hope to hatch some. I also hope that while I am raising the goslings, I can involve Meg in a calm way, and that she will realise they are fragile, and that instead of being things to chase they will be things she guards. (Surely, deep inside, there is some shepherding instinct??) This is my hope. We shall see…

Thanks for reading. I hope you have a good week and all is calm in your world. Take care.
Love, Anne x

Meg in field, not guarding geese.
New bed. Not sure.
Favourite sleeping position
Just plain naughty