Being attached to routine, as I am, my New Year predictions are about those things that remain the same, with minor adjustments. It’s a mix of predictability and excitement.
Naturally, I first asked The Boss what would remain the same but he was throwing cushions around at the time - the remote control for the TV had escaped again.
As well as running out of batteries at the wrong time, the remote likes getting stuck between seat covers or sliding under a chair or hiding under yesterday’s paper, or a tea towel.
And the remote drives him apoplectic when a streaming app like Kayo or Netflix, having functioned smoothly for months, suddenly demands a password again - without offering any reason why.
Watching and hearing him trying to plug in his email address and password - one letter at a time on the screen - is an unsettling experience for a dog. There is language uninviting, as Banjo said, that I won’t put into writing.
Another source of expletives is those regular updates he gets on his phone or his computer, which change things he’s finally become accustomed to, again for no good reason. Then there’s the auto-correct on his phone, which thinks it knows better what he’s trying to say or spell, when he claims to know his own mind. But of course, it’s a toss-up.
Despite my trying to change the subject, he banged on about those passwords, which are getting longer and more complicated. He says every app or website – whether it’s for underpants or wasp spray - insists on some letters, some numbers, some capitals and a special character. Then his phone will tell him he’s used that password one too many times. It makes him cry.
Which is why The Boss glumly predicts those irritations will stay the same this year, if they don’t get worse. And he hasn’t even got onto that disappearing sock thief, or the tradies who expect someone to be home, even if they turn up on a day different from what they promised.
I have my own frustrations of course: my food bowl invariably empties with distressing speed; belly scratches always finish prematurely - and I can never quite nail that pigeon that comes down to the pond to drink in the evening.
But I reckon it’s a fair bet that the sun will rise tomorrow; the birds will wake me on all but the rainiest days, the breezes will bring me endless interesting scents and Sirius, my brilliant dog star, will be high overhead every night of the summer. It will be a good year. Woof!
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