Mud Larks

One of the downsides of dressing your house in Christmas paraphernalia is that it becomes harder to keep surfaces clean because they’re covered in tinsel and sparkly pine cones which you need to move in order to get to the surface they’re residing upon. And, as anyone who has ever decorated for Christmas knows, the fun part is putting all the stuff out. The ball ache is putting it all away or moving it.

This year, as I’ve mentioned before Peppa is taking a break from climbing the tree and/or sleeping in its branches. She’s had a bit of a tug at the tinsel over the past couple of nights, but this time she appears to be going more towards the top of the tree so any intention to climb in it and trash it from the inside appear to have been left in 2016.

But she has learnt a new trick this year.

Monopolising on the shit weather, Peppa has taken to traipsing through the house with ridiculously muddy paws.

Everywhere you look there are footprints – across me, the bed, the table, the top of the book cases, the TV unit, across the top of the washing machine, up the cupboards, the dining table, the chairs around the table, my pillow, me… the list goes on and on.

And you can try all you want to keep up with wiping them away, but they reappear when you back is turned. Almost as if they’re actually made with some sort of unwashable joke ink that, when washed, disappears and when dry reappears again to really piss you off. You can tell where she’s been and what she’s walked around.  Recently, for example there were paw prints all across the top of the small table in the front room, apart from a portion of the table which is approximately large enough for a laptop to fit in. It seems that one night as I made barriers from my arms to prevent Peppa sabotaging whatever I was doing, I have unwittingly saved the laptop from being muddied into the middle of next week. It’s one thing for her to walk across the keyboard, but to leave it looking like a school rugby team has walked across it having just finished playing on a poorly maintained pitch is a whole other kettle of fish.

The thing is, there doesn’t seem to be any end in sight to the crappy weather. I suppose it is December after all, but I don’t remember her being this much of a mud gremlin in previous years.

I’d rather she just climbed the bloody tree.