It's guest post time again. Now when it comes to cocktails, chocolate and small furry animals, and the odd man, temptation comes knocking on my door and I have no self-control. But I also have something in common with Julia Hughes in that stupid decisions have a habit of snowballing. Horses, superglue and a naughty terrier – sounds like something The Ghost Hunters’ Club would get tangled up in. Julia, excellent indie author and all round good egg, tells us why doing things at two in the morning with the lights off isn’t always a good idea ...
Since LK has kindly invited me over, and since LK and her readers love scary stories, I've a horrifying tale to tell.
It all started in half term. A teacher friend asked me to take care of her horse while she lived it up on some sandy white beach. I should have said 'no.' If fact, I think I did say no. But somehow I found myself getting up at the crack of dawn to go and muck out "Ruby Tuesday." The friend has no children. Her Arab horse is her life, and apparently she doesn't trust anyone else to look after her baby. Yes, I fell for that one. I was crouching down at the business end of a hoof, scraping out brown smelly stuff. Ruby's leg twitched and her metal shoe knocked against my teeth. Luckily, a swift investigation confirmed my pearly whites were all in place, though a crown felt a bit wobbly. Thinking I'd got off lightly, I went about my day. By bed time, I'd forgotten my encounter with the equine hoof.
What happened next is the stuff of nightmares. I woke up and immediately realised something was missing. My crown had dislodged in the night. Springing from bed, I found it. Aha! I thought, all the dentist will do is cement it back in, while in the younger son's bedroom, there is superglue.
I marched downstairs to the hallway mirror, tooth in one hand, superglue in the other. My small terrier/Chihuahua cross Tinker followed. I squeezed a few drops of superglue onto the tooth, and actually raised it to my mouth, when reason prevailed. This operation would go better if I turned the hallway light on. I did. Reflected in the mirror, I saw Tinker sitting on the stairs, watching intently. I should mention a couple of Tinker things:
One: Her eyesight isn't brilliant.
Two: She adores mint polos.
Carefully avoiding gluing tooth to fingers, or upper lip, I opened wide, positioned the shard of white porcelain and pressed it upwards. It fell out again and bounced over the floorboards. Moving faster than any small dog has a right to, Tinker pounced and gobbled it up, licked her lips and looked around for more.
The sons haven't yet stopped laughing. They often joke that when I die, Tinker will quite merrily dine on my corpse. I now know this to be true, but she could at least wait until I'm dead. Friends call just to listen to my "Sean Connery impression." One even asked me to make a recording.
I tell 'em all to pithe off.
My story's moral is this: anything that appears to be a good idea at two in the morning, probably isn't.
You can visit Julia on her website or buy one of her books from Amazon.