It was a dull day at work. I had soon had enough of following Bernard's tours so I sat at the desk, bored silly. I wonder what we do when it rains as the desk is in the open air with no cover.
I was home by six and Mum and Dad and the dogs were already back.
All had not gone well at the trials. Dad had underestimated the standard and we came last and second to last but Dad was happy with what they had done.
Their week-end had been eventful as well though. First, Mum had trapped a nerve in her arm so had been unable to work Mi-mi. Then Dad had a run-in with a Belgian judge.
The dog trials are commonly regarded as corrupt so dodgy judges are not uncommon. Dad could accept receiving poor marks but could not accept the judge ordering him to call his dog back once she had actually found and was on the dummy. The reasons being that the dog has worked hard so you cannot and must not deprive her of her reward and success – i.e. in retrieving it. Anyway, the second time that the judge repeated the action, Dad fairly lost his temper, flew into a rage, taught the Belgian some foul English language and then hurled a soaking, wet, muddy dummy at him. He caught it full on the chin. However, the most telling thing is that Dad received no sanction for his actions. There was a lot of bad feeling towards the judge.
We watched some rugby recorded from the week-end and had steak-frites.
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