I have come to the conclusion that Roman can either access the internet and read, or understand English.
The reason for my theory is that a couple of days ago, I blogged about the grief our bunny was causing us when it came to getting him to bed at night.
As well as writing that blog post, Claire and I have also been discussing how we are going to deal with any bedtime antics in the future.
While I remain off work following my scooter accident, Claire is also absent from her job, although she is not off sick. Due to the ongoing risks to my health from COVID-19, my wife and I are both having to follow government guidelines on shielding. With laws being relaxed, it is inevitable that she will be back at work in the not too distant future.
How does all of this affect Roman? When Claire is at work, an evil alarm clock wakes her up in what I regard to be the middle of the night – which in fact, it is shortly before 6am.
Shielding from coronavirus has meant that the morning alarm has shown some compassion of late, remaining silent until owl, fox, badger and all the other nocturnal creatures have put themselves to bed.
With all this in mind, Claire and I have been somewhat relaxed and tolerant of Roman’s bedtime defiance, safe in the knowledge that there will be no horrendously early wakeup alarm.
When the time comes for my wife to drop the shield and return to work, the early morning call will return. This will mean that playing ‘Catch the Bunny’ at half past eleven is not feasible.
We have discussed – inadvertently within earshot of Roman – that because of his poor behaviour, he may have to return to his cage considerably earlier than normal, or worse… spend the entire day locked up!
Given the high levels of intelligence held by our gifted rabbit, I suspect that he either read my recent blog post, or overheard our evil plans to keep him incarcerated, and hoping for us to have a change of heart, decided to improve his naughty behaviour.
Either way, we can’t complain. Roman has put himself to bed without a battle, for two nights running.
What are the chances of him becoming a demonic beast this evening?
Leeds United have found themselves top of the league again, looking down upon the likes of Hull, Middlesbrough and Wigan – all the glamorous towns.
If they can avoid bottling their seven remaining games, including all our hopes and dreams, Leeds will be competing with the elite next season… whenever next season may be.
Am I considering gloating that my promotion prediction was accurate? Let’s just say that I am yet to buy any champagne or ice.
I thought that it was about time I did a blog post on Roman, as besides the one showing off the Father’s Day card, not much has been written about the furry little scamp for a while.
Young Romy has been causing Claire and I problems of late. One word. Bedtime. Roman does not know what bedtime is and if he does, he certainly doesn’t wish to comply to rules associated with it.
My wife suffers most when it comes to Roman’s end-of-day rebellion, as unfortunately she has been given the task of persuading him to move from his exercise run into his cage each evening.
I agree that this may sound a trifle unfair and that I have dodged a bullet when it comes to nasty chores. However, given my limited mobility, it would be rather tricky for me to chase a lightning fast, defiant rabbit around his enclosure, without causing catastrophic injury or death to one or both of us.
If I was to use my frame to help me enter and walk around this run, he would probably run rings around me, causing his human daddy to trip up, face-planting the floor and possibly even falling onto him!
The wheelchair is another idea. However, as Roman would almost certainly run rings around that too, I would be very concerned of him falling under the wheels and accidentally becoming roadkill.
Roman’s bedtime behaviour has only developed into a major problem the last couple of months. Before that, he would happily hop into his cage when asked to do so.
Things currently feel like they are a real battle. I know that I often make light of Romy’s cheekiness and mischief, but it has now become serious. Claire spends between twenty and fifty minutes every evening, struggling to persuade a stubborn rabbit that playtime is over. Roman is effectively dictating when he, Claire and me go to bed.
BAD BUNNY
We have tried many ideas to try and solve this problem…
Bribery
Roman loves treats. He has an abundance in his collection. Yes, he is very spoilt. Out of all these goodies, he has two clear favourites – toast and dried mango.
Readers of my blog with a good memory will recall that mango was once removed from his menu. This has since been reinstated. The simple reason for the change of heart was that it helps us to get him back into his cage – or at least it used to…
The only way Roman will willingly return to his cage is if he is given a piece of toast or mango for doing so. Otherwise you can forget it. To make matters even more frustrating, he appears to have become a bit bored of mango. While he would still happily gorge on the stuff until he burst, if it is offered to him as a bedtime bribe, he turns his twitching nose up. It feels like he is laughing at us.
Toast, however, is the game changer. Our rabbit goes crazy for the stuff. He can clearly smell it being prepared, as before any has even been offered to him, he will happily return to his cage, waiting patiently and expectantly for his reward. I half-jokingly suggested to Claire that once he has returned himself to his cage, she secure him for the night and eat the toast herself. A mix of compassion and fear of the consequences meant that she didn’t consider my suggestion to be a helpful one.
We are now left in a situation where the only way in which we can put Roman to bed, without triggering World War III, is to give him some toast. This is not feasible to do on a daily basis… it’s unhealthy for a rabbit to consume bread so frequently. Toasting bread takes time. We haven’t always got bread to give him. Most importantly, why the bloody hell should he blackmail us into giving him toast every night?
We will continue to feed Roman toast, but not every evening and only if he behaves himself at bedtime. In the meantime, we will continue to search for another treat he’ll go mad for. Maybe I should try Pringles – I find them incredibly addictive.
Intimidation
I’ll be honest, Claire and I don’t like this method and have jointly decided to not use it anymore. Besides being a little turd at times, Roman is our fur baby. He relies upon us for his safety. We also cannot abide inflicting any form of distress upon a living creature.
In the past, when it became clear that Roman was not going to willingly go to bed, we would remove all his toys, tunnels and hay box from his run. He always had access to food, water, hay and a litter tray – except these had all been moved into his cage – somewhere he had full access to, but would avoid entering like a cooking pot!
SPOT THE BUNNY
Once his run had been cleared of every possession to his name, the downstairs lights would be turned off and we would pretend to retire to bed ourselves. Of course, Romy was never left in this state for long, and after brushing her teeth, Claire would return downstairs to find our rabbit still out of his cage.
It was following the first and only occasion, where our bunny looked scared and upset, that we vowed never to do that again – regardless of how disobedient he may be.
Trapped!
Unfortunately, we have had to resort to this technique a lot lately. Fortunately, it doesn’t frighten or distress the boy, although has been known to piss him off.
‘Trapped!’ is exactly what the name suggests. You trap Roman in the corner of his run, with his open cage. This leaves him with a choice of where to spend the next few hours – on a small patch of carpet, or in a spacious cage, with warm hay, fresh food, water and toilet facilities.
He does return to his cage eventually, but it takes far longer than anyone would imagine. Personally, I think at that point he knows it’s game over, so in one final act of defiance, he forces Claire and I to sweat it out.
This approach may sound like the best way of getting Romy ‘home’, but it really is not! When the time arrives for him to get to bed, it is late. Claire and I are usually both knackered. Given how my wife has to do all the physical work, the last thing she wants to do at the end of a long day is play chase with the Duracell Bunny.
Wait
The fourth and final option seems the most logical. That is because it is. Place open cage next to open run and wait for rabbit to enter cage. Simples. The only flaw in playing the waiting game is that Roman is happy to play for a very, very long time. I don’t think we have ever waited beyond thirty minutes, before resorting to the ‘Treat’ option. Considering how he holds all the cards – and is very much aware of that fact – I suspect he would be willing to hold his ground for longer than us.
And that is it. We are all out of ideas. Currently, feeding Roman toast appears to be the only reliable means of getting him to go to bed.
As we have already refused to reward him with toast each night, we are slowly, yet begrudgingly, getting used to a nightly clash. The only way out of this mess is to hope we discover a treat that rabbits find as irresistible as toast. Either that, or hope Channel Five commissions a show featuring the bunny equivalent of The Dog Whisperer, or Super Nanny.
There are many professions where, despite the job being important, there is just one major duty involved. Get this bit right and you can fairly say that you have done well.
If you are a surgeon, you must know which leg is supposed to be amputated, or the correct kidney to remove.
As an undertaker, it is clearly crucial that you carry out the necessary work on the correct deceased individual. Placing the corpse of a renowned mass murderer in a coffin reserved for a ‘Beloved Dad, Brother, Husband’ probably wouldn’t go down too well – especially at an open-casket funeral.
Now a question for you all… what would be the most important aspect of a courier’s job? Ensuring that you don’t get chased by fierce dogs? Allocating enough time to drop into the post office for a cup of tea and natter with the delectable Mrs Goggins? Those both sound very important – especially the latter, considering Mrs Goggins’ husband, Fireman Sam, is away on a stag weekend.
Believe it or not, as a person in charge of delivering parcels, the most important job is also the most basic of tasks – getting the correct package to the correct recipient.
I am sure chimpanzees have been shown how to work out similar conundrums. Scientists have probably successfully taught pigs too. Even rats have demonstrated the ability to drive. Therefore, if anyone was to experience difficulties in delivering a letter or parcel to it’s intended address, it would be fair to say that they have a lower IQ than a rat.
Yesterday morning, I received an email from the courier firm, Hermes. If you have encountered this company before, you will probably know what they’re like. If you have not, let’s just say that they have a reputation. I’ll allow you to make your own mind up as to whether this reputation is good or bad – just search for them on Google and read through some of the results…
The email advised that a parcel had been delivered to my house. Good stuff. I was expecting a delivery. I did find it a bit strange, though. Claire and I had not left the house all morning, and had not heard anyone at the front door.
Based on past experience of Hermes, Claire checked our doorstep for parcels, as well as various other locations the delivery drivers like to hide things – under my wheelchair ramp, in the recycling bin, on the other side of the gate in the back garden. Nothing!
I tried to contact Hermes directly. The only obvious means of communication appeared to be to access their website and ‘chat’ to a robot named Holly. This was a total waste of time, as despite not being real, Holly was a rude cow, who needs to attend a customer relations course.
I politely asked if I could “speak to a human please”, to which she ignored me and just said that the parcel had been delivered. Aaarrrggghhh!!!
In the end, I emailed the retailer who sent me the parcel originally. Even though they hadn’t personally lost, stolen or eaten my package, it was their decision to use Hermes, so their mess to clean up. Put it this way, if I ran a hair salon and hired zombies to work for me (they would be dead cheap), I would expect to take the blame when my employees began eating the brains of my customers!
The retailer replied to my email pretty promptly. I was told that Hermes had delivered my parcel to the wrong address. Ha! I knew it! A lower IQ than rodents…
I am sure you are all wondering what it was I ordered, as well as the name of the retailer stupid enough to entrust Hermes to serve their customers.
Well, you need not worry. It’s unlikely that you will use the company yourself, seeing as it was Leeds United Football Club.
THIS FACE MASK IS WHAT ALL THE FUSS IS ABOUT
If by coincidence, you are a Leeds fan like myself, you’ll be used to being let down by the club, time and time again.
It’s not really a surprise that Leeds use a courier as shoddy as Hermes. After all, they’ve been appointing terrible managers for years…
Channel Four recently showed a documentary on people who go dogging. I only realised it had been on, when I noticed social media had gone into meltdown over the programme’s content and the individuals who took part in it.
Being the inquisitive type, I downloaded the documentary – which had been given the rather witty name, Dogging Tales.
My viewing ‘pleasure’ didn’t last for long . Within the first couple of minutes, I saw a pair of bare legs, with trousers and underpants pulled down around their owner’s ankles. The person looked to be reliving themselves, by enjoying an exceptionally long pee. There was clearly a long queue to use the loo, as I could hear many moans and groans in the background – presumably from other people who had been caught short and needed a wee or a poo.
A couple was later interviewed. They were both wearing masks, but these were not to protect themselves or others against coronavirus. The masks resembled some kind of animal – most likely a dog, cat or rabbit.
The man in the relationship revealed his first experience of dogging. In what was obviously a lie, taken straight from the ‘Jay Cartwright Book of Sex Stories’, he recalled how he was getting his end away (for want of a better phrase) with two women in the back of a car, when he was surrounded by six men who began pleasuring themselves.
I would like to say “in this situation, any normal person…”, but what “normal person” has a ménage à trois in their voiture? Unless everyone is doing it and I’ve lived a sheltered life.
For the sake of getting my point across, I will use the inappropriate term…
In this situation (being watched by six perverts), any normal person would either – call the police – put their jeans back on and drive off – murder the lead sicko, by ramming the closest object to hand up his bum. Most likely, a TomTomGo Sat Nav. A nasty way to go, but at least the hearse driver wouldn’t get lost on the way to the funeral.
As this was a Channel 4 documentary, the bloke was hardly going to be your ‘Average Joe’. Instead of reporting the party (consisting quite literally of wankers) to the fuzz, or throwing away a perfectly good £100 satellite navigation system, ‘Joe’ began chatting to the brasen voyeurs. I bet the two women he claimed to have been with him were thrilled.
Joe told how he was taught all the secrets of dogging, which he thought “sounds alright”, in a manner so casual, it was as if he had been asked by a mate if he wanted to nip out to Nandos for some chicken.
His partner, who I believe to be his wife, also wore a mask, in an attempt to make herself look like a character from a Colin Dann novel.
She and her hubby explained how, up until getting involved in dogging, she was severely lacking any self-confidence. It was a little patronising towards the poor cow, as I was given the impression that she was too nervous to visit the corner shop to buy a packet of chewing gum.
Now the opportunity has emerged to have sexual intercourse with her husband or a fellow dogger, while men and women pleasure themselves just a few feet away, her confidence has shot through the roof!
Not only can she stride with pride into her local Premier Convenience Store and buy a dozen sticks of Wrigleys, but also ask the shop assistant for a lottery scratch card, fifty ‘Tie Nee Weiner’ condoms, a bottle of Smartprice Vodka, five packs of Match Attax football stickers and a box of twenty Marlboro cigarettes.
The documentary went on to feature the couple venturing into the woods. It wasn’t made clear what the purpose of this trip was for, but one would guess it to attend a teddy bears’ picnic.
The documentary makers managed to film an owl in a tree. It was probably the nicest and most natural thing to feature so far. It was when ‘Joe’ started talking photos of his wife, posing on bits of fallen trees, that the owl flew off. It had clearly all become too creepy for the bird, just like for me. I turned the telly off.
Having been left rather perturbed by what I had just witnessed, I let Claire know. She was in another room, so had been spared the horrors that I just witnessed.
The conversation (over WhatsApp) was as follows…
ME:
I started to watch a Channel 4 documentary on dogging. It was one of the creepiest things I’ve ever seen and I had to turn it off after 10 minutes!
WIFEY:
Why were you watching a programme on dogging?! Is there something I need to know
ME:
It’s a documentary. You know me, I watch them loads. The other day it was about a murderer. Doesn’t mean I’m going to kill anyone
Anyway, I had absolutely no interest in dogging ever.. and after watching that depravity, there is no way on this earth I would have anything to do with it!!
The morbid interest that attracted me – and apparently over two million viewers – to initially watch the documentary, was obviously too much for my wife, as she came through and suggested we view it! That meant re-watching the ten minutes of filth I had just sat through.
I issued Claire with a strong warning about what she was about to watch, in the hope that she would change her mind. Unfortunately, for my state of mind, she didn’t. Now I know why they say “curiosity killed the cat “.
My wife and I bravely managed to watch the first ten minutes without vomiting blood. We even continued beyond where I had given up during my original viewing – the scene where the owl had freaked out.
It wasn’t long before Claire and I decided that enough was enough and turned the filth off. Before that, we had the displeasure of having to watch a truck driver reveal how seventy percent of his fellow truckers were also into dogging.
To his credit, the trucker did manage to amuse me, by repeatedly referring to women as “females”. Many people would understandably be a little creeped out by the driver’s term for the fairer sex, making them sound more like corpses than human beings. However, being a fan of the excellent Friday Night Dinner, I had to laugh every time he used the ‘F word’.
I was able to take something from the documentary… dogging isn’t for me. Either as a hobby, or even watching documentaries about the pastime.
I’ll make an exception when it comes to Peter Kay jokes on the subject. I am yet to be able to watch this YouTube video without laughing my head off.
About Me
So you stumbled across my blog. No doubt after searching for something bizarre on Google. Before you hit that 'Back Button', why not stay and have a read for a few minutes?
If you are after a website which gives advice on how to hack an iPhone X, download the latest Steven Seagal movie, or view nudy ladies, you've come to the wrong place and may now press 'Back'.
However, if you would like a lifestyle blog, written by a 30-something chap, living in Bath (England), feast your eyes on this.
You won't discover how to copy PlayStation 4 games. What you will find is a blog, covering life in the West Country, the highs and lows of supporting two unsuccessful football teams, while sharing a house with a wife and rabbit.
All written by a man, somewhere on the sanity-scale between normal and eccentric.
