The people behind the Orwell Prize have hit upon the bright idea of publishing Orwell's diaries in blog form.
The first entry, from this day seventy years ago, finds Orwell back in Britain after his experiences in Spain. He's convalescing in a sanatorium in Kent where he and his dog- which goes by the name of Marx - discover a large snake in the grounds.
All I can I say is that that snippet of information is eerily uncanny because, on August 9. 2008, our Boston Terrier - who goes by the name of Martov - decided to puke his dinner up all over Kara's snake-like pregnancy pillow. It took me all of SIDE A of Martin Newell's 1993 classic, 'The Greatest Living Englishman', to put the bastard cover back on the pillow after putting it through the hot wash.
Be sure to check out the Orwell Diaries each and every day as they are published, and look on in wonderment as every shade of the political blogosphere decided to claim as Eric Arthur Blair as one of their own.
Martov? Put it this way: if the wee git pukes up on our bedding and pillows again, he's going in the dog crate of history.
2 comments:
Poor Marty. Wouldn't have anything to do with all the Chef Boyardee you feed him, would it?
No, it was the fancy smancy dog food that you insist that he eats.
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