Across the Barricades

A very long time ago, I read a series of books by author Joan Lingard. Set as the "Troubles" were beginning in Northern Ireland, the main protagonists were two teenagers, a Catholic boy named Kevin and a Protestant girl named Sadie. Amongst the chaos of violence in the escalating unrest, somehow they formed a romantic attachment, crossing the divide between their suburbs and eventually fleeing Belfast altogether to start a new life in England. With a baby, a second pregnancy, poverty, family issues and striving to create a home, the couple were able to meet all their challenges, with mostly youthful optimism. This doesn't mean they were without flaws; they were prone to bursts of immature anger and petulance. Thus they seemed all the more believable. I still wonder what became of them.

Barricades are very much a part of our home and have nothing to do with religious or political tensions. They have all to do with the Problem Child. The last few months have seen a multitude of changes in sleeping arrangements for the Canine Clowns. After Ruby successfully worked out how to break down the supposedly doggie-proof Stalag 13 gate, there was no point trying to confine her to the laundry. This created a new challenge. With dog beds now taking up pride of place in front of the telly, we also needed to keep the Bloody Beagle from spreading mayhem and hair all over the couches.

Not that we care that much about our more shabby than chic lounges. Madame Cat, having reduced sight from previously galloping blood pressure, no longer trusts herself to jump. So, in order to reach desired heights and our laps, she climbs. The red leather comfy furniture now appears to have suffered a severe case of the pox.

But Beagle hair is just too much. Add to that is often Beagle dirt, Beagle slobber and Beagle delicacies brought in from outside to eat at her leisure. We thought we had enough deterrents on top of the sofas in the form of chairs and the pouffe and the side table.

We were wrong.

Gradually, she began to wiggle onto the top of the armrests and somehow balance herself there with happy sighs of satisfaction. Or perched on the pinnacle of a couch surveying her Queendom. Then one fateful night, Michael sat up watching the idiot box on his own after I'd gone to bed. He turned into the idiot by forgetting to protect the living room furniture at all.

The scene in the morning was straight out of a horror movie. Ruby had thoroughly enjoyed sleeping all over the entirety of one couch and the edge of the other. Goobers and dirt and hair and unspeakables were smeared everywhere. She had also helpfully pushed the cushions onto the floor so Pip could sneeze violently on both of them when he wasn't happily unconscious.

I lost the plot. Cleaning involved vacuuming, washing with disinfectant and then applying the leather treatments. I must admit I let Michael have the enormity of my frustration at full throttle. He was suitably contrite.

So we have added further defences to the barricades. An extra chair. A waste paper bin. Any awkwardly shaped item that we can use to dissuade summit attempts. At the moment, we are winning. Except, the Beagle still has an exceedingly smug expression on her determined little face.

The many faces of the Problem Child -

The wanton destruction of the barricade...

The beginnings of Stalag 13

And further fortifications!

Who, me?!