It's that time of year again when Dad insists on visiting this house made of glass.
Instead of having a decent sniff-around like me, he insists on spending ages peering through his black, shiny, clicking box at flowers.
Even after fourteen and a half years of companionship, it's still a mystery to me why Dad is interested in either black boxes or flowers.
They don't smell tasty and you can't eat them or play 'where's the rat' with them.
To each his own, eh friends?