Mammy has to keep her bra on because of Tom Hardy.

That was the first thing my four-year-old said to the poor bloke who came to fix my washing machine this afternoon.
‘The dog.’ I mumbled. ‘The dog is called Tom Hardy.’ I gestured to the six stone lump that was trying to headbutt his way through our patio doors to greet the poor, ashen coloured, bloke.
‘What is it?’ frightened washing machine fixer asked. I refrained from telling him it was the biggest pain in my arse, I’ve ever experienced, and went into the whole French Mastiff, Dogue De Bordeaux, Turner and Hooch spiel, instead.
‘Is it friendly?
‘Is it friendly? It’s the reason I’ve got to keep my fecking bra on!’ I wanted to say but thought better of it. He didn’t seem like the type of person who would appreciate the fact I need a sports bra on to go within a meter radius of Tom Hardy because falling over braless, with the boys, bloody hurts.
Tripping over Tom Hardy without a bra, hurts.
Having Tom Hardy launch himself at you without a bra, hurts.
‘He’s a doll!’ I said sarcastically.
Washing machine fixer looked sceptical. ‘Did he break this?’ he gestured at the this in question and it clicked into place.
‘He’s broken everything.’ Four-year-old chipped in. ‘Daddy said we can’t have a new kitchen until we get a gun.’
I did that nervous laugh and pulled a, ‘isn’t she funny’ face and hoped washing machine fixer didn’t have links with the RSPCA or social services.
Of course, Tom Hardy had bloody broke the washing machine! And even if he hadn’t done it directly, I’d put my last Bonio on the fact that he had indirectly bust it.
He’s broken so much, including my soul, I’m starting to wonder what the bloody hell we’ve done?
For instance, I want to cook a chicken in the slow cooker, only the slow cooker is protecting the only three tea towels I have, in the only kitchen drawer I have left.
I’d like to sit in the garden, only we’ve had to barricade half of it off to stop him, both, ruining and jumping the fence.
I’d like to leave my recycling in the place its supposed to be only the bloody thing thinks every empty bottle of gin or Magners is for playing purposes. (and there’s a lot right now!)
I’d like to not have to sweep up four million stones, that he’s dug up, and spread through the kitchen for kicks but most of all I’d love to not have to wrestle the bloody beast every time I innocently enter my kitchen.
Making food has become hell on Earth and we all know I’m no Nigella as it is. (I once made a cheese and potato pie without having any potatoes in the house, and remember the time my oven actually leaked?)
I wrestle with the big one, trip over the small one, have to open everything above my head, and pray to god nothing gets swiped or licked, or slobbered on.
These are the things I definitely didn’t read about when Tom Hardy came home as small as a handbag and as sweet as a chocolate cheesecake.
I didn’t realise I’d always have to wear footwear and underwear.
I didn’t realise I’d have to hide EVERYTHING.
I didn’t realise he may knock my other dog up and I certainly didn’t realise that I’d be googling saddles for small horses and cleaning everything three times daily.
But the biggest (no pun intended) realisation of the entire, getting a dog that will ruin your life malarkey, has been, just how many places get hair in them!
I found a clump of it, ginger, mastiff, Tom Hardy fluff in between my arse cheeks, when I got out of the shower?
How the fuck does that happen?
How the fuck did any of this happen?

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