Years ago, when we lived in our last house, we decided we wanted those wooden slatted shutters. So we did that thing of inviting a few contractors round to get them to pitch for the job.

Generally in those situations, Mark and I take turns at playing bad cop and good cop - as in one of us asks all the questions, while the other basically shuts up, smiles, and stays non-committal. It’s a system that works as it means one of you can really listen to what's being said, and you don’t get stuck making a rash decision.

With one of the appointments though, Mark had a work commitment, so I ended up seeing the salesperson on my own. She was a nice enough woman, though maybe a bit too ‘Good Housekeeping’ for my taste. I didn’t need to know that many ladies want shutters in their homes for that feeling of security, or that they can help with allergies, and I didn’t care even if they did make a house more sellable. I knew already I wanted shutters. I was just trying to find out if she would be the one to deliver them.

So we went around the house and she measured up the windows and then we sat down at the dining table while she pulled out the estimate. It was a bit of an eyebrow raiser and way above the other estimates we’d received. I smiled and thanked her and said I would think about it. Then conspiratorially she told me I would get 10% off if I paid a deposit right away.

I explained I couldn’t commit to anything until I’d run it by my other half, and she smiled sympathetically, and she said she understood. She said that because I’d been so friendly she could hold off the discount, and that if I signed up by tomorrow morning, she’d just tell them I’d signed up right away. I thanked her and said I’d keep her posted.

Then, as I walked her to the front door, she took my arm and asked if I wanted some friendly advice. I wasn’t entirely sure that I did to be honest, but you know, wisdom often comes from strange places so I said, “Sure.”

So then she suggested that I should chill a nice bottle of wine and make a lovely meal for Mark, and maybe play some soft music. Then, when he arrived home I should greet him with a glass of wine, and feed him dinner, and let him relax and talk about his day. And then after that, I could tell him how I had absolutely found the right shutters for us and not only that, I had bagged a discount.

I'm not going to lie. I was actually completely silent for a bit as I tried to work out what the Hell she was going on about. And then, I’m afraid, the wheels came off the bus a bit. Though I had a whole lot of stuff I wanted to say about being my own person and earning my own money and being married to someone who miraculously is able to listen to me, whether I’ve cooked him his favorite dinner or not, I simply just said, “Mark is sober. If I tell him to have a glass of wine as soon as he walks in the door, he will look at me like I have completely lost my mind.”

She looked a little unsettled by that, so I added, “Although I admit there is the teeniest tiniest minuscule possibility that he might choose to drink that one glass of wine. In which case, it will be ON. And yes, the windows will have shutters, but so will the doors, the bedrooms the bathrooms, in fact possibly the whole back yard.” I laughed.

She moved a little closer to the door.

“I’m kidding, of course” I said, “Not just the backyard, but the whole fricking street. And the next. Fuck it. Maybe the whole of this zip code. Including the cars, and the trucks, and even any random cyclists that happen to pass by. The whole place will be shuttered.”

She seemed fairly keen to leave.

“Well, ehm, just remember about the 10% discount,” she said as she hurried out the door.

“Thank you,” I said.

When Mark came home, I told him what had happened, and he laughed so much I thought he might choke. And of course, we didn’t get the shutters from that woman. We got them from a very laid-back guy whose family had been making shutters for decades.

Now you may wonder what buying shutters in our old house might have to do with anything that might be going on in Tweddley Manor right now, and to be honest, up until very recently, I would have said relatively little.

But you see this week, we took Arthur to the vet - Don't worry. He's fine. It’s just that as Arthur is a small dog of indeterminate heritage, he gets a yearly check-up. Also, he gets seasonal allergies, and once he has an allergy shot to see him through the summer, he is much happier. Of late, Arthur has been sneezing and licking his paws, so it's evidently shot time.

Arthur is not a big fan of vets. Because he was a shelter dog, he gets terrified going anywhere where there are dogs in crates, as he’s scared that he's going to be left there. Usually, he’ll settle down with a bit of a chat and a snack or ten, but even then, he’s still on high alert. It's a two-person job to keep him mellow.

When we first rescued Arthur, we started at a different vet. But on the last visit there, the vet had burst into tears. She said Mark and I reminded her of being in Scotland and how much she’d loved it. She said that being in Scotland was simpler, easier times.

Mark and I had smiled sympathetically and said that there were many things to love about L.A. Even Arthur sensing there was something other than veterinarian stuff going on, had -uncharacteristically I might say - nuzzled her trying to make her feel better. This only seemed to make her even sadder.

Eventually, once she’d dried her eyes and looked Arthur over, she agreed he was in pretty good shape but that he would definitely need his teeth done.

That surprised us as we take him twice a year to get them laser cleaned - kind of like a regular cleaning in human dentists. She did agree that his teeth were pretty good, but still had to advise us to get his teeth done and x-rayed under general anesthetic.

Though he is big on attitude, Arthur is small in dog weighing in at 16lb. Unless there’s a real need for it, general anesthetic doesn’t seem wise.

“Is that really what you’d advise for such a small dog with no apparent problems?” Mark had asked her.

And the vet’s eyes filled up again, and looking away sheepishly, she replied that it was totally up to us what we did, but that’s what they definitely would advise at that practice.

So we moved to a different practice. We were lucky to find one where the vets were a bit like the guy who fitted our shutters - super chilled, because they know what they're doing and have been doing it for a really long time.

Normally the surgery is so busy you have to book a couple of weeks in advance, so we were thrilled to be able to get an appointment. Arthur, obviously, was not so thrilled.

It wasn’t the same vet we’d had before. She was new. She had all of Arthur's records though and as he likes to be in and out of the surgery as fast as possible, Mark and I reckoned it should be fine.

Hearing that we wanted an allergy shot, she said we really should be considering a hypoallergenic diet for him. I make Arthur’s food. (And yes, sue me. A bit of research online. Chicken, turkey, or beef. Brown rice, vegetables, vitamins, and a crockpot. It’s not rocket science.) So I asked what was in that food. She didn’t answer, instead explaining that actually for some dogs real food wasn’t the best option and that prescription food would be better. She says it doesn’t look like food, and in some ways it’s not, because it’s really very highly processed nutrients. She laughed, saying that it looks like little polystyrene balls, but that dogs really love it, and it really is the healthiest option.

Everything smelt a bit off to me, and I don’t think it was down to Arthur’s anxiety farting.

Mark - non committedly - said we’d think about it, so then the vet asked if Arthur ever had stomach problems. Mark agreed he did, but only if he'd managed to snaffle a piece of discarded rancid old pizza while out on a walk, or sneaked in a bite of something disgusting he might have sniffed out a clod of grass.

The vet nodded, concerned. She said she definitely thought this new diet would be worth us considering.

Arthur seemed bewildered. I did too. Mark once more - non commitally said we’d think about it and asked for the allergy shot.

She nodded but said that first she ought to check his teeth. We told her about the laser cleaning and she told us how it’s not as thorough as they could do. Also, unless we’d had an X-ray, we’d have no idea what nasties might be lurking beneath the surface. She talked about a dog whose teeth had looked fine on the surface, but then had had to have 8 teeth out. Mark and I looked at each other, both of us reckoning that Arthur's probably only got about 8 teeth.

I said that I didn't want Arthur going under anesthetic. She added that while he was, they could check for issues with his internal organs or look to find if there were any cancerous masses.

Mark asked if she had seen any signs of cancerous masses, and she said she hadn’t but an internal exam was the best way to tell.

Arthur was getting fidgety now, and to be honest so was I. We’d come in here with a healthy dog who gets a bit itchy and is prone to fleas, and now we’re full-on cancerous masses.

Mark asked if there was any other less invasive tests to check he was ok, and she agreed a blood and urine panel.

So we agreed to that. And $475 later, we left the vet. Arthur was glad to be out of there, but not as happy as we were. If that’s the runaround for a perfectly healthy dog, what the fuck would they get up to if he was in trouble?

In recent years, Private Equity firms have been buying up local and family veterinary practices. When they do, they no longer have any interest in value. Instead their interest is on profit. I guess that’s what happened to ours.

A friend told me recently that vets are apparently more suicidal than dentists. I was shocked, I mean how fucking miserable do you have to be to be even more depressed than a dentist? But truly, it must suck to study for years and find your doctorate only qualifies you as a salesperson.

You see, the thing about selling a small business to a Private Equity firm is a bit like handing a chilled glass of wine to someone who doesn't need that wine. Before long, the whole place will be shuttered.

The vet called me the next day and left a message. Arthur results had come back normal - color me unsurprised - though there did seem to be very early signs of what could possibly be kidney issues, and they did have a specialized medicated food they could prescribe for that.

Mark called the surgery. He's better at being bad cop than me. He asked for a copy of the blood screen so we have a record of it for the future. And because we’re never going back.

Anyhoos, I am pleased to tell you that Arthur who might possibly have the early signs of something that could even be kidney issues has been extra perky since his allergy shot.

So in the end, the $475 was worth it. Not because it’s value for money, but because of how much I value him.

Lynn

Xo

PS: Every time you click on the wee heart emoji, Arthur finds some rancid old piece of pizza in the street and tcompletely ignores it recognizing that it’s not a nutritious option for him. Thats a totally lie obviously, but maybe, just maybe, one day that might work

To support the continuing publication of this work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, or buy Lynn a cup of tea.

Volume 3 of Notes From The Valley is available in hardback, paperback, audiobook, and eBook: US, UK, Can, Aus

If you do buy anything, please leave a review on the site as it helps people know that I write in proper sentences… erm sometimes xo

P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle at Fish and Bear. For details and booking, go to Fishandbear.net

Value - Audio

“Technology can be both wonderful and brutal,” I commented to Fergus as we both sat in the family room at 4 in the morning listening, or rather trying not to listen to the smoke alarm sporadically going off.

There was no fire. If there had been a fire, we’d have been shivering outside on the street instead of sitting shivering in the family room. There definitely wasn't a fire, but try telling our network of smoke alarms that.

Mr. Tweddle, fixer and protector of all things in Tweddley Manor, was of course, on hand trying to solve the problem. Standing on a chair wearing nothing but his underpants, intensely negotiating with one of the smoke alarms, he was a veritable older, cuddlier Scottish version of Bruce Willis in Die Hard. And I might have told him that, if the smoke alarm didn't intermittently keep going off.

As difficult as it was for us, it was 10 times as hard for Arthur. Dogs’ ears aren’t meant for smoke alarms. His poor wee body was rattling with fear. I gave him some meds snuggled into a bit of leftover pizza. Then he was conflicted. He hated the smoke alarm, but then again… pizza.

And I guess Lachlan would have been grumbling alongside us, but for some reason, the smoke alarm in his room was behaving perfectly normally. Also, Lachlan is a heavy sleeper. When that boy is at rest, nothing short of an earthquake will rouse him.

Sitting in the half-light of the family room, Fergus grunted. “Yeah,” he said, “Technology really can be brutal.”

Here in the Valley, some weeks are busy and some weeks are calm, some are chaotic and others quite serene. This week, I dunno. This week has been kind of all of them on one go - as if Nature wants to remind us how many colors there are.

The garden has been resolutely producing blooms. The tomato seeds I planted a couple of months ago are now mental flowering seedlings. Work is busy and I never seem to have enough time to get to projects. And everything is about to get busier as we open Fish And Bear in two more venues. I know Mark is excited. It’s like he found in Fish And Bear, that elusive thing he’s wanted to work in all along.

And actually, if I stay away from the news, life is really pretty good - expensive for sure, but good. Post-birthday, the house is awash with cakes and deliciousness that I seem to always find the boys furtively digging into. Ripley, our rescue chicken, seems to be finally settling in with the flock. Grendel the rescue rabbit is enjoying his new rabbit enclosure so much he seems to have grown about three inches. And Arthur is just Arthur. He too is getting older, but there’s something deeply pleasing about watching him swagger territorially around the backyard, or plonk himself down on the back steps to bathe in the sun.

On top of that, my mother-in-law always does this totally lovely thing when it’s my birthday. She’s a brilliant gift giver, and on top of whatever thoughtful gift she sends me, she’ll also send me a gift card or an Amazon voucher and say - “Spend this on something daft or ridiculous just for you.”

And this year, I knew exactly what I wanted to spend it on. (No, it wasn’t a new set of smoke alarms) It was - cue drum roll - one of those digital photo frames. (Yes, sue me, I really am that dull.)

You see, I have tons of photos that I haven’t looked at for ages. They sit unnoticed on phones or computers, and occasionally I used to post them on Instagram or Facebook. or they lie in boxes at the back of a cupboard. But once upon a time, they meant something.

Back in the day everybody looked at photos. Even when they were completely rubbish. We had shitty old cameras that we had to buy a spool of film for, and then once we used up the spool, you had to send them off to be developed. And then you just hoped you had something decent in there, because in the shitty old cameras, there was no way of predicting what you were going to get.

And then when your photos came back from the developers, somebody had their head chopped off, or the photo was blurry, or they were just completely shit. But no matter how shit they were, they were still treasured and put in albums, and they were looked at.

And what dawned on me of late as I try to avoid the torrent of incandescent bullshittery online, is how much of my life I seem to have handed over to it.

Nowadays, it’s easy to take a photo at any time, and I don’t know if that’s what has made them meaningless, or that we’ve learned to devalue anything that reflects our real life rather than the one that’s presented online. But I do know that so much of my time is spent looking at photographs of people I do not know or don’t respect, whereas too many images of those who matter to me lie dormant.

So, now armed with my handy new gift from my mother-in-law, Sandra, I’ve spent a whole load of the week transferring the photos from my phone and computer to the digital photo frame. It’s been really quite something rediscovering moments that once were.

And honestly, these digital photo frames are quite something. They can store thousands of pictures. And not just pictures, but they take little videos of people moving around too. It’s a bit like being in a Harry Potter story - except it’s real life as opposed to something made up by a woman who started hating everyone once she got rich. And also in real life, the personification of all evil is not some guy with half a face, but instead a fat bloke with orange skin and half a hairpiece. (Honestly, in terms of personification of all evil, how bad do you have to be to pick an actual fight with the Pope?)

I probably bought a frame that was a bit on the large side, so I haven’t worked out where to put it yet. So until I do, I’ve put it in the family room. And it is strangely soothing to watch the pictures click by when you're sitting there at 4 in the morning waiting for the smoke alarms to calm down.

In the darkness of the early morning, when Fergus and I sat shivering, my mother’s face shone out. Then a picture of both my parents dancing. There was a shot of Mark and I with Fergus as a newborn, and then an image of my family in Scotland as we went en masse to Stirling Castle. There was a sequence of pictures of us building this house, followed by one of Lachlan as a preschooler dressed as Batman, next to his (ever more practical) friend Clark, dressed as a UPS driver. And then a black-and-white picture of Mark’s parents when they were dating.

It was beautiful. Truly beautiful. Even within the misery of unpredictable smoke alarms. And if it is true that your life does flash before your eyes when you die, then mine is going to be really pretty enjoyable.

Eventually, Mark called over, “I have to reset the system, so it might get a little loud.” I said OK, and Fergus covered his ears, and Arthur trembled and looked at me, hoping for more pizza.

And five minutes later, with the system reset and our ears still ringing, we were back in our beds, hearts still racing. “What was the score with the smoke alarms?” I asked Mark.

“Who knows,” he said. “It seemed to have tripped itself up. Technology - sometimes it’s magic and other times it’s brutal.”

And while the digital photo frame flipped through snapshot after snapshot, I closed my eyes and wondered whether I should have taken a photograph of Mark as an older, cuddlier, Scottish John McClane. And I smiled to myself. Probably best I didn’t.

Lynn

Xo

PS: Every time you click on the wee heart emoji, our smoking detectors do their fucking job and detect for smoke rather than drive us crazy. Thats a totally lie obviously, but maybe just maybe… it might work :D

To support the continuing publication of this work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, or buy Lynn a cup of tea.

Volume 3 of Notes From The Valley is available in hardback, paperback, audiobook, and eBook: US, UK, Can, Aus

If you do buy anything, please leave a review on the site as it helps people know that I write in proper sentences… erm sometimes xo

P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle at Fish and Bear every Tuesday. For details and booking, go to Fishandbear.net

Moving pictures.... - Audio

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