In the words of Andy Williams, where do I begin? I have had a mercy dash to the vet and a near death experience. It was the vet who is rude about my comely labrador physique. Mummie had been to the vet in the morning because she wanted to get me some worming tablets on account of my voracious appetite for dead things. In actual fact this is nothing to do with a voracious appetite and more as a result of the constantly stingy rations on which they expect me to survive. It is survival of the fittest. Mummie joked with the vet (who is very charming and Irish) that it was a gastric band that she actually needed for me, not worming tablets. She wasn't laughing when she came home though and found me struggling to finish the large tub of Stork margarine and full bag of sugar that I had repatriated from the kitchen table in to my mouth. I daresay that her mood had not been helped by failing to achieve to produce ( for the third day running) anything but the ugliest cakes I have ever seen for the village fete. She blamed it on Daddy who had forced her to put off the Aga due to it being 90 degrees in the kitchen. I digress. After the usual talk about what a disgraceful way to behave I came over a bit funny - it is called "taking a whitey". She thought that I was putting it on but the master stroke was me being sick down the side of the dishwasher. Twice. She panicked then as I am never sick, my mantra being that once food is down there, it's mine. Daddy was scathing when she phoned him to ask his advice, saying "I always knew that bloody dog would end up killing itself with food one day". Charming. He needn't expect any sympathy from me ever again. I was bundled in to the Landrover and taken to see the insensitive vet who actually sniggered when Mummie told her what had happened. I had to spend the night there on a drip having the margarine flushed out of my system. The vet was astonished by my quick recovery and said that she new I felt better by the next morning because I had tried to get in to the jar of dog biscuits she keeps in her surgery. Panic over but Daddy has forever blotted his copy book, his only comment to me was "thats another £100 you owe me". I am scarred by his lack of empathy. I had comiserated with him only the week before when he had overindulged on pickled onions. There was no emnity from me, even though he hadn't even offered me one, but labradors never forget ( particularly food related incidents) and every dog has her day. Mummie has suggested a little friend to keep me out of mischief. Daddy has suggested a quickie divorce in the event that this comes to pass. He says that one of me is enough - in fact too much most of the time. Bloody cheek. Watch this space Daddy, Mummie says that you will be down the road before I am, So there.