Thursday 4th December 2008

My Mistress has overcome her Bambi impressions with some overshoes that go over her boots. They are a more practical version of hobnail boots, with little rivets in the bottom to grip as she walks. If you ask me, it takes all the fun out of it. We seem to wake up every morning to a new covering of snow. Then by lunchtime it has all but disappeared. One of these days there’s going to be more than a covering and then snow shoes or no snow shoes, having a drive at a 45 degree slope is not going to seem such a good idea.

My Mistress is now sporting her new sweatshirt “Alfie Dog, waiting to be famous.” I thought it was very good of her to show such solidarity with me in my search for celebrity. One day I shall be an ‘A’ list guest and I shall repay her kindness by letting her tag along. It’s the film premieres I’m looking forward to most.

If I am going to earn a wage, I am going to have to start charging for membership of the Pet Dogs Democratic Party. Up to the point I am elected to the role of Prime Minister, I will need the party to pay me for my full time work. Of course, it would be nice to earn a little from my writing, but I’m under no illusions. The life of a writer is not only a solitary one but one of low pay. Low is probably a euphemism for largely unpaid. The minimum wage becomes irrelevant when you work for yourself. You can work long hours for little more than a pat. Oh the life of an artist, it is such a precarious and often misunderstood life. We have our fans, but where’s the money?