This morning I sat on the roof of a 99 year old house in the sunshine while everyone around me passed around cigarettes and other things. I was busy watching the foot traffic on the street below. This guy and his wife were loading their bags into the back of their cream coloured jeep. This is the man that suggested we re-name our resident seagull "Lester" instead of Gilbert, which it responds to. Every morning this bird waits around until we bring it out some scraps from breakfast. Which he will dutifully swallow with one gulp and then reproduce in the more accessible form of large white splats all over the back porch before flying away screaming. This has resulted in an awkward love hate relationship that sees us girls swearing under our breath with bright clean smiles on our faces as we bring him his breakfast.
The two "men" of this b and b are Gilbert the seagull and Mr. T, the bulky rectangular shitsu multipoo (both of which words google thinks I made up) when Marketa's son was younger he asked his mother in front of a gaggle of guests why his dog had to be a shit and a poo. In reality he is a pain in the ass. He makes these sounds with his nose that are easily comparable to those made by a pig. His diet consists mainly of cheese. He has the saddest little eyes though and everyday after his walk he races to Marketa's office at the front of the house for a little fondling. Also he is not fixed. I'll leave the rest up to your imagination.
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