Today I wrote an entire piece about the situation in Ukraine, because that is quite rightly preoccupying many of us.
However, I've pulled it. There are people far better qualified than me who can comment. There are people far less qualified than me who are commenting, mostly on social media where a host of experts lie in wait to display their vast knowledge on any given subject be it global affairs, pandemics or movies. And books.
So let me divert you for a little while from the pressures and worries of the world stage, power-mad politicians and empire building.
Let me instead tell you about Mickey.
Now, as my regular reader will know (as long as she has taken her medication), Mickey is my dog. That's him above.
He was a rescue, originally from Bosnia, and he ended up with me after he had been returned to the rescue centre in Scotland three times. I was known at the centre and they were aware that I was more likely to persevere with him. And that's what I did so now he is, mostly, a good boy.
I say mostly because as you read this I may well be at the vet with him for the second time in four days.
Don't worry, there's nothing wrong with him - he's merely going to get his booster injection. And no, he did not give his permission, in fact he was never consulted on this, for frankly it is for his own good and other dogs.
That doesn't mean he likes it.
Oh no, not in the slightest.
Mickey may be a good boy, he may be very loving, but in the vet's surgery he turns into Cujo. I don't mean the rabid dog of the movie but the rabid and also probably possessed hound of Stephen King's book.
We were there last Thursday. He walked into the surgery quite the thing. He said hello to the receptionist. He allowed the vet to give him biscuits. He let her talk to him. He walked around the room to let her see how he moved.
But the trouble began when she pulled out her stethoscope.
Yes, her stethoscope.
He wouldn't let her near him with it. I tried holding him but he snarled and gave her the kind of look that would put a bad guy in an Italian western to shame.
We decided going straight to the injection portion of the visit was the best way forward. Also, a muzzle was deemed wise.
I put it on him. He allowed it. Wasn't happy, but it went on.
That was as far as his goodwill went.
Whenever the vet approached him with the hypo he went bananas. There was barking, there were snarls, there was the kind of writhing you see in exorcist movies. If he'd had pea soup I'm sure it would have flown.
I tried to hold him, first this way, then that. At one point I was crushed against the wall, hanging onto his harness as if I was a rodeo rider and he was the bucking bronco. And I contemplated making that first b an f. A rear approach was attempted but rebuffed.
In the end we gave up and a new appointment was set for Monday morning. And this time he would be sedated.
I am writing this on Sunday evening. He is to get two pills tonight and another two tomorrow morning. I don't know how he will react, if they will work or even if he will let me administer them in the first place.
You see, he was listening to the conversation and sometimes I think he understands every word he hears.
He's looking at me as I type. He knows I'm writing about him. I can tell by the look in his eyes. I don't like that look.
Somebody send Max Von Sydow...
