Greetings dearest pals! I am delighted to report that my leisure time has been sighthound rich lately, with visits from my great pals Enzo, Jackie and Monty (honorary sighthound masquerading as a terrier) and also Betty and Margot. I have thoroughly enjoyed their company and muvver has been wafting around Spindle Towers with a serene look of contentment on her beaming fizzog. Hector has also enjoyed the presence of more of my pointy nosed compadres, but as he points out, my tastes are expensive enough as it is, let alone welcoming more to the pack. This of course is a slur on my good name (all excesses are hound necessities) and I shall be consulting my Twitter pal Harborhound, (attorney at paw) immediately. 

It is the time of year when all hell lets loose at Spindle Towers. I am of course talking about the clocks being put back this weekend. I can’t tell you how much havoc it causes to a Spindle’s body clock. Just an hour adrift can confuse my digestive system to revolt voluminously, and induce jet lag normally only seen in Michael Palin after an especially busy filming schedule. The good news is that I got a longer snooze in the morning, which I had intended to make the most out of, although considering the fact that I don’t tend to get up before 11am on most days was neither here nor there really. 

The darker evenings also signal the evening of all evenings, Halloween! This year, the Velvet Marmoset (night-club extraordinaire) was hosting a night of sinister merriment, which we were all very much looking forward to. 

Muvver naturally behaves as though every day is halloween, but one day a year, the axis of the world shifts slightly to the left and the rest of the population behaves and dresses to more closely resemble her. She is at one with her dark hearted, black lace mittened people. She never needs a special outfit for Halloween. In a spot of good news, Hector has finally decommissioned his Herman Munster outfit after years of grotesque over exposure (the outfit, not Hector…) 

Morning tea and Hob Nob time gathered us all together in the kitchen, and once settled with vittles we peered at him and considered an appropriate character for him to inhabit for the night out.

After a heated discussion (crumbs a flying) we decided against Nosferatu, as when he scuttled out the room and then back in again some time later to debuted his provisional outfit (striking several beguiling poses) he looked more like The Count from Sesame Street – Ah ha ha…and we fell about laughing.

If however, he unfurls his hair from his utilitarian pony bun arrangement he is indistinguishable from Gandalf. There followed a barrage of, may I say rather distasteful and childish jokes regarding wizards sleeves, and a Terry Pratchett style knobbled staff. Once the loons had pulled themselves together and stopped sniggering like thirteen year old boys, they decided that this year he would be channeling his inner Riff Raff from `The Rocky Horror Picture Show’. The bald pate that shines atop the flowing white locks (nailed the locks) would be provided by a bra cup insert glued to the top of his head. The rest of the outfit could be found in his everyday wardrobe. 

At this point, both loons swivelled in their chairs and peered at me expectantly, ready to be thrilled with my chosen outfit, which was when I realised that I had been so busy socialising that I hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. Eyes were rolled (rather rudely I think) and another pot of tea was made and we began to brainstorm ideas. Naturally their suggestions were ridiculous and were only mentioned in the hope that I would humiliate myself. After careful consideration and four custard creams later (a natural progression after Hob Nobs), I decided that I wanted to be a ‘classic’ hound this year. I wanted to be a Spindle witch, my inner McGonnagal if you will, bursting out to all whom survey me, broom in paw and pointy hat deployed.

Well…a Spindle Witch on the top half…BUT I would be offering my lower half up as a tribute to Joan Hickson in the guise of Miss Marple…because I could. The bonus of course would be sturdy footwear as I sashayed my way across the dance floor of The Velvet Marmoset.

The planning of the ghastly and ghoulie fixated outfits turned out to be more stressful than you would have imagined, so later that evening, we sallied forth to join friends of ours in the village pub quiz. It was thankfully a fairly shenanigan free evening, even though Muvver discovered that a particular member of staff does a mean line in Margaritas. Their team came joint third out of ten, although the other members of their team were clearly brought down by the insane muppet like knowledge of the loons. I myself had distanced myself from the rowdy, arm waving table and perched at the bar so I could survey all going on around me. Well, what a remarkably competitive thing a pub quiz can be in a small Hampshire village! A quiet morning was had by all the following day.

Which brings us this very evening to the great Halloween shindig at the most disreputable night club in downtown Hampshire! We are all polished, buffed, dressed and ready to strike forth into the night! Ready to duel with the Devil wielding a glitter ball and an electric cattle prod (Sister Josephine – club owner and expert vegetable grower). The night promises much dear pals, and I shall naturally report back to you all, until then though, pip pip, and my Halloween love to you all.

Channelling my inner Quentin Crisp…