More snow
Out of the last six days, we have had at least some snow on five. Weird or what?
The cats don't like the snow and stay inside to bug me, my car looks vile from all the salt I've picked up on the motorway (and it is snowing and therefore way too cold to contemplate washing it, so vile it must stay) and I have to go and put the rubbish out for collection today so I will get cold and wet.
Other than that, I have no plans to do anything other than cook, have a scarily hot bath with lotions and potions, play my guitar, read a whole book and do my nails. No TV at all. Just some music. Oh and a nice homemade Auntie Sarah mocha coffee supreme.
The perfect Sunday.
Lap cat
Typing with one finger is hard. Charlie is on my lap and is refusing to budge so I am stuck. Bloody cats!!!
So. Sod this. Too much hard work. I'm going to enjoy my cuddle. See you later!
Little Miss (In) Competent strikes again
One of the cardinal rules of getting dressed in the mornings is that mirror use is essential. Do not try to get dressed whilst simultaneously feeding the cats, eating breakfast and putting the dirty washing in the machine, unless you can be trusted to remember to look in the mirror before leaving the house.
Appearance is very important in the professional world. It is, I feel important for everyone, as a component of self confidence, but when you are the representative of your company, presenting the correct and desired image is essential.
Scuffed shoes reflect badly upon the wearer. If they cannot be bothered to keep their shoes in good condition, how can they be trusted to keep financial records in good condition? It may be an unfair judgement, but the assumption is that a lack of care in personal details is going to be transferred to the professional world.
A lack of colour co-ordination is also a black mark. Some environments are conducive to experimentation in the fashion department, but I have to say it is not usually the Finance Department. At least in every one I have had to visit. Again, it can give the impression that the wearer isn't bothered about the finer details - a trait that is pretty damn important in today's world, working or otherwise.
So........can you guess where this is going?
I was having a meeting this morning. I've met the woman in question several times before, and I like her. Very friendly and easy to talk to.
We were discussing the finer points of a specific policy, when she leans over and starts to examine my top. It is one of my favourite work tops as it is supposed to be crinkly and doesn't require ironing. Which is always welcome. She looks me straight in the eye and says:
"I think.....no, I’m not sure, urm.....I think your top is inside out"
Oh shit. I look down at my shoulder, and yes. The top is inside out. The seams are visible. The label at the neck is poking out. And worst of all, the washing instruction label is flapping cheerfully at my ribcage. It is 11AM, and I have been here two hours. And I have been wandering around the building for most of that time.
"Oh. Whoops!" is the best response I can make. What can I say? She continues
"I wasn't sure. I mean some tops are supposed to have the seams showing so I didn't want to say anything"
By now I am turning really quite red. I can feel the heat spreading. I have rosy cheeks at the best of times, but I think you can appreciate that this was not the best of times. I don't normally blush, but this was one of those rare times that my cheeks decided to chime in with their contribution to the morning's embarrassment. Resembling a tomato I squeak out
"Oh" Mistress of the English Language I clearly am not today.
And then I realise....... I don't really care. She thinks it is funny - her giggles are a big giveaway, and I have to admit, it IS funny! I don't think I have done irreparable damage to my company's image - just my own, and it certainly isn't in the league of going to Edinburgh a week early for a meeting (yes, I did that too). Oh well. I am an auditor that isn't easily forgotten. Can't think why.
"Give me a minute to go and redress myself!" and I scamper off to the ladies to do what I should have done this morning. Look in the damn mirror.
Completely inside out. Bollocks. I redress myself, and check several times before I leave that my flies are done up, my trousers are on correctly and that my top is the right way out and on. Sorted.
And hanging on to the remains of my dignity and professionalism, I go and finish my meeting.
Fraud
'Twas a nice normal day. Until the phone rang.
It was the fraud department at the bank.
"We are calling as a part of a routine fraud investigation. Can we please verify some of your recent transactions?"
Nothing out of the ordinary about this - it has happened a few times befow. My main concern was the fact that I was dying for the toilet and trying not to move my feet and disturb the slumbering Charlie.
"Did you place an order with Amazon fifteen minutes ago for £1500?"
What the fuck?! Not in my wildest dreams.
"No. AARRRGGGHHHHH!"
"Don't worry, the transaction was declined"
Great. People are trying to clean out my account and I shouldnt' worry because the bank declined it.
"Did you spend £700 at an American electronic store at around midnight?"
"NO! I live in the UK and I just got in from work, you freak. Planes just don't travel fast enough to make that possible"
"OK. Well, that one has gone through. We'll freeze your card and hopefully that will stop it." She sounds so cheerful and matter of fact that I would punch her, if she wasn't calling from a call centre in Glasgow.
"And if it doesn't?"
"Well, then there will be an investigation. As it is fraud the money will be refunded in a couple of days after the investigation". Still so cheerful. Not her bloody money, that's why.
As an afterthought....
"I'm guessing that you also didn't spend £750 in a US car bodyshop last night then? That one was declined too as it was the third attempt on your card in five minutes."
"Oh joy"
So. I have just been paid. I can't access my money as the card has been frozen. I can't get to a branch as I have to work (for money I can't bloody access), and some little shit with an entitlement complex and a phobia of real work has tried to empty my account of its hard earned funds. Fucking wankers.
I'm going back to Limp Bizkit. "Give me something to break; how 'bout your fucking face?". Dedicated to the workshy thieving fuckers of the world. May red hot pokers be shoved up your rectums.
My purse
I've been clearing out my purse today. The amount of receipts and other bits and pieces in there was astounding, and what a strange story they tell.
In the first receipt compartment (I am this organised) are all my work related expenses ready to claim. Mainly train tickets and car park receipts. And a running tally of how many times I have been through the Dartford tolls this month (they don't give receipts). Oh, and a receipt for a USB memory stick for my laptop. We'll skip on by these ones. Extremely boring.
In the second compartment are all my supermarket receipts, so I can keep an eye on how much I have been spending and on what. It's the accountant in me, I swear. So I can see that this month, I have spent my allotted £160 on food kind of stuff. Two weeks I was over - needed some toiletries (hah! If only I tided the bathroom up instead!) and some steak one week (yes, I honestly did need the steak to satisfy an intense craving for bleeding meat), and the other week was my epic stuff the trolley because I have £134 off my shopping stock up trip. And I got a little carried away. Luckily, two weeks I was under - only needed milk, fruit and veg, and bread.
The supermarket receipts are highlighted and annotated to encourage me to stop buying crap. No more microwaveable burgers (for the Baron, and they are as foul as they sound). No more Ben and Jerries ice cream (both guilty on that one and the cats do love a little too). No more toiletries - I HAVE ENOUGH. I have to remember that! No more large tubs of pimiento and feta stuffed olives - small tubs only (they all get eaten the first night anyway). No more houmous - the Baron's tastes far better than the store bought, even if I have to tidy the kitchen up after as he is too lazy. And no more biscuits, because I really will eat them if they are there, despite what I tell myself.
In the third compartment are all my coupons and stuff. Some from Tesco, some from some pharmaceutical company that sent them out of the goodness of their big greedy corporate hearts, and lots of book related ones. I am a bookshop owner's wet dream - I find it physically impossible to leave a shop without a book. And my interests are quite specialised so they are always obscure (so I have to buy it because I may never see it again) and always expensive. In return, they send me coupons for money off if I spend a certain amount.
The fourth compartment is where it starts getting interesting. A receipt for a large ginger cat. A separate receipt for a large ginger cat’s inoculations and bollock removal. Plus a whole load of adoption related stuff that really needs to be filed.
A receipt for a bass guitar. Another for a gig bag. Yet another for an amp lead because in my excitement over my guitar I forgot the lead and had to go back again. Strangely, there is also an alan key in there for adjusting the string height. Hmmm....that probably ought to be in my gig bag.
The receipt from my Institute membership and subscriptions. Looking mightily crumpled and stained. I've got the certificate, so who cares!
A receipt for a pair of shoes. I have no idea where that came from. Definitely not mine. I don't shop at that shop.
Bulk cat food shopping trip. Plus a cat bed. And just because, some blue tumblers with.....you guessed it....cats on.
Receipt from a meal out for my birthday. That was a biggie - 6 adults and one child. But it was a good night out. It is a family tradition that the Birthday Boy or Girl has to take the whole family out to celebrate. Lucky for us that my birthday and the Baron's can be celebrated at the same time.
Receipt for Dad's birthday present - he is the Birthday Boy tomorrow so he is coughing up for dinner. We (being the Baron and I, and my sister and her partner) got him a thirty minute flying lesson and a twenty minute acrobatic session in an ex military aircraft. He is over the moon, and from the way he is talking, is planning on flying there during his lesson!
The receipts from the new work clothes that I bought on Monday. I needed new trousers as my bum was looking bobbly - trousers not anatomical defect, and they had some lovely shirts. I’m wearing one now.
As an aside, I use a fountain pen at work. It's the only way to make my handwriting look passable. Guess who got rather animated in conversation today and sprayed blue ink across a 2 metre radius? And covered her new shirt? And her face and neck?
I'm sure you managed to guess. Little Miss Competent here in the corner.
What else?
More vet receipts - claw clipping for Miss Ellie and flea treatment for the whole brood.
The receipt and list of repairs needed on the Baron's car to certify it road worthy. Not too bad, but shouldn't still be in my purse as it is nearly a month old.
Note to self to buy road tax before it expires on Sunday. Have I yet? Have I bollocks.
Note to self, need stamps......I have a diary, so why the explosion of post it notes? Actually, I've just worked out where my stamps are. In the Christmas card box. In the loft. The Baron is going to love that. I can just imagine it:
"The stamps are in the loft? Why? I can think of several places slightly more practical to keep them." Your arse is the phrase that springs instantly to mind, but I will need to be nice if I want to see those stamps before Christmas.
"Urm.....yes. Sorry 'bout that, but I need them down here." Grovel, grovel, grovel.
"You made me get the ladder out, risk life and limb to squeeze that box in the loft whilst fighting off three deranged cats who wanted to play on the ladder, and you want it back?! Are you trying to kill me?"
Muttering something about the high level of insurance on the Baron’s life.......
"It was an accident. I need a stamp, so could you pretty please get them down for me"
"Go buy one. I'm not climbing up there for a stamp." Arms crossed, and evil face meets my sweet and pleading countenance.
"I suppose now is the time to tell you that I may also have accidently put your driving license in there too." Big grin as I know I have won this round and will see my stamps shortly. The driving license is in fact safe in the car file, but since he doesn't have a clue where anything is, I'm keeping that to myself and playing dopey. I might have put in the box. It is just highly unlikely!
"You stupid tart." The Baron stomps off.
A Dangermouse pin, bought for charity and for vanity. Headway is a brain injury association, supporting those with a brain injury and their families. When I bought the memory gadget for my laptop, the store was selling these pins and I had to have one. It is exactly the same as the picture that appears after all my posts. So cool"
And finally.......
No real cash as I only had coins and I put those in the secret compartment in the car for going through the tolls. I left some shrapnel to put in my penny pot tonight. The Baron swiped my debit card to get cash out as he doesn't have a card and all his money is transferred in to my account. One day we will both have the same day off and will finally be able to sign for a joint account.
Three credit cards. One is bright green, and has a good cashback scheme. Two are silver and one of those has a picture of a lightening strike on it. I need to cancel the non lightening card. Three store membership cards (all free). An old savings account card. I barely use the account as the interest rate is crap, but it is purple, and I like purple things.
My picture driving license, and it is the worst picture in the world. I was talking at the time because I didn't realise that the picture was about to be taken. So my mouth is slightly open. My work identification card, with the same vile picture on. A donor card from 1993.
And that, folks, is the contents of my purse. As the Capital One ad says - what's in your wallet?
What would a random stranger deduce about my life from that motley collection? Answers on a postcard if you will.
Unexpected holiday
Can anyone lend me their writing muse? Mine seems to have gone on holiday without so much as a goodbye or a wave.
I want a postcard, muse.
Instead, I am being visited by my muse's stroppy teenage nephew, who adores loud and violent music, and sings it at the most inappropriate time in my head.
So until he buggers off, I will be singing along to Limp Bizkit, and playing air bass. I want my writing muse back - my mind is more peaceful; not punctuated with violent thoughts.
But if you can't beat them, beat them up.
Ouch
Shortly after last night's post, Charlie bit me.
My crime? Trying to stop him using my sofa as a scratching post. At least both hands hurt equally now, I suppose.
We are friends again though. Harvey just smacked him in the head, so they aren't, but other than that, all is peaceful. Charlie likes little safe hidey holes (fair enough) and so is hidden behind my shelf of work files. Which will come crashing down shortly when he ventures out again. Sigh. I spent all morning sorting those and I have already had to pick them all up twice after a cat attack.
Despite the biting, and the file rearranging, and the fur everywhere, and the litter cleaning and all the other little annoyances, I love being owned by cats.
Home never feels empty. It is impossible to feel sad with a cat around; they can sense moods and their mere presence is soothing to a troubled mind. Their purring is music to the disturbed soul, and their gentle kneading is pure pleasure to a tired and aching body.
There is nothing quite like being woken by four cats seeking your love and affection. I wake to find myself covered in cats stretched out, purring and rubbing their faces on me. Harvey on my left side, paws round my neck and his head pressed into my neck purring; Frankie wrapped around my head and with his cheek against mine and his whiskers often up my nose; Ellie sprawled across my feet and purring to herself; and finally Charlie, laying against my back and his paws up in my arm to get me to roll over and stroke his big beautiful head.
Now if I could only train them to bring me a cup of tea in bed........
Retired hand
I don't have the use of my hand.
That didn't stop me playing. What did stop me playing was the tearing sensation followed by white hot pain in my index finger. Fearing extreme damage (probably a little too late to worry about that now) the guitar has been put to bed for a few days whilst I allow my poor fingers to recuperate.
In other news:
Charlie seems to like me.
Harvey looks ready to explode. See above.
The Baron seems to get his arse-iness from his father. Also known as the King of Arses.
I finally tidied up the bathroom. I found (ready for this??!), all unopened:
1. 14 tubes of toothpaste;
2. 4 toothbrushes. And we use electric brushes now anyway.
3. 13 bottles of assorted shampoo's;
4. 5 bottles of assorted conditioner;
5. 4 bottles of mouthwash;
6. 5 cans of shaving gel;
7. 10 bars of soap;
8. 13 bottles of handwash;
9. 8 bottles of bubble bath; and
10. 15 packets of disposable razors
Shame on me. But it is all sorted now, and on the upside I don't need any toiletries for at least the next year.
I should probably open up a corner shop with the amount of stuff we have stored. My sister doesn't go shopping when she runs out of stuff - she comes here.
Do you see why I want to move house?
Two fingers
I'm typing with two fingers. One on each hand.
I usually touch type- something I learnt when I left my University dissertation until the last week and had to write a 15,000 word essay on the role of carbohydrates in the initial stages of mammalian fertilisation ( the subject was reproductive physiology). It was really interesting (the field, not necessarily my interpretations), and I did really well as I got a First, even if I did leave it a little late.
(I drew little faces on all of the sperm in my diagrams. I'm sure that helped to bump up my mark)
There is no cat on my lap. No, the reason is more exciting than my usual excuse for poor typing.
My fingers aren't working properly. In fact, I can't bend them and they feel like they are on fire. Exciting, you say? Damn right.
I bought my first bass guitar today and have spent the day playing. In spite of 15 years of piano playing and 13 of clarinet, my fingers are suffering. The hand position is so different and I have lapsed in terms of practice of late. The piano is at my parents and I don't play too much as the Boy always comes and plays on the keys I am not using, but am about to. It usually causes a tantrum (on his part) so it just isn't worth it yet. I will teach him, but he won't sit still enough yet to make it any fun for either of us.
So I have serenaded the (poor) neighbours with the Offspring, Green Day and the Chilli Peppers. They get scales tomorrow, assuming I have the use of my hand back by then.
I'm off to soak my fingers. They hurt!
But it was worth it. Hope everyone's elses Saturday has been as much fun as mine!
New moon
It was a new moon last night.
Cats are very sensitive to moon cycles, or so I have been told. My parents dog (and their neighbours cats and dog) are too.
Full moon sends them a little more loopy than normal. More running around at night, more miaowing, more fighting between the boys.
Charlie took ham from my hand last night. It turns out that he likes ham as much as the others, so there were four cats underfoot fighting for it. Of course, being a good cat slave, I am aware that they like the most expensive ham on the deli (well, they are cats!) and I buy it for them once a week. They get more if it is reduced, but too often I find myself in a tug of war with a little old lady for it and I lose. Lucky for me the ladies on the counter know that it is for the cats and they sometimes save it at the counter for me so I don't get involved in any punch ups.
(I once saw a punch up in the supermarket. One woman clipped the ankle of another with her trolley, and didn't see fit to apologise. After much shouting and swearing the injured woman threw a tub of pimiento stuffed olives at the other. When bad mannered woman finished removing olives from her coiffure, she leapt on the injured woman and punched her nose. Both got carted away by store security. Seems sad that a shopping trip can end in a bruised ankle, a broken nose and a banning from the store for one, and olive smelling hair and a banning for another).
Anyway, I digress.
Charlie, after taking the ham from me, stationed himself at my feet for the rest of the evening. I didn't touch him (too scared) but I talked to him. That drove the Baron up the wall but Charlie stayed with me and listened.
It must have worked because he slept on my feet all last night, even when the others paid their nocturnal visits. When the Baron's alarm went off because the stupid arse forgot to turn it off last night, Charlie started crying.
I called him, and he came and snuggled against me. I got brave and stroked his head (that head cries out to be stroked, it is so soft and furry) and he closed his eyes.
He actually stayed for 17 fantastic minutes (odd coincidence, because Frankie never used to come for cuddles until recently and that was the length of his first snuggle). He didn't purr but his ears didn't flatten and he shut his eyes. 17 minutes of four cats on the bed. One was evil eyeing Charlie (clue: slightly demented white tabby boy), but no fights, hisses, growls or swipes. Just peaceful togetherness.
I eventually got up to feed them (Frankie only cuddles if he wants something, and that something is normally food). At that point, it has become Charlie's habit to go back under the sofa, not emerging again until the evening.
The moon must have affected him more than I suspected, because he sat in the middle of the floor calling for food. I gave him some ham - gratefully yummed up - and ignored the growling. I understand that after three months on the street, he doesn't want to share his food.
He won't eat from the same place as the other cats as evil Harvey bopped him a couple of nights ago when he ventured out. But the boys were out terrorising the neighbourhood, as is their wont, and Ellie still hisses at him before running away.
So I thought he cound be persuaded. Because he still thought I might try to take his ham crumbs away, he growled as I approached. Ignoring him, I showed him where the food was, and realised I was backed into a corner. I tried to step over him, but he hissed and ran. Mistake.
However, in keeping with today's newfound braveness he was back out from under the sofa in thirty seconds, and this time I managed to get him to the food and myself up the stairs. Result! One fed cat. The crowning glory? He has followed me up and is sat with me by my feet. He really does talk a lot, and Ellie seems to talk back now (in between the odd hiss). I am so happy - my cat seems to trust me now!
So things are looking really good. And I am now off to go and look at bass guitars.
Musings
The blossom has appeared in the last couple of days, which is great. The blossom is quite brave this year, as the weather has decided that freezing cold would make such a change.
So with frozen fingers I bring you these musings:
Why, with four cats currently in residence, is the Baron talking about adopting a fifth beast?
When I spent hours looking for my calculator, why did I not look under the sofa?
Why do I buy cat beds when they prefer the box it comes in? And when they sleep in my bed anyway?
Why did the BBC show the Omen and Omen 2, but aren't showing Omen 3?
Why did I ask the Baron to make me a CD for the car when he has dire taste in music?
And most pertinent of all..............
Why do I drink endless cups of tea when I know that I will need the bathroom every thirty seconds as a result?
I think you can guess where I am about to visit....again....and again..........
Shopping
Some of you might remember that I swore the Baron could never come shopping with me ever again. Well, you can guess who came along this evening.
Usual stuff - fight due to a certain someone walking off and abandoning the trolley mid aisle, putting rubbish in, talking bollocks.....the normal stuff.
But tonight was more fun than usual as we could really spend. Normally I spend about £30-£40 for the two of us and the cats; thanks to the beauty of loyalty points (and some nifty insurance choices) we had money off coupons for £134. So a-spending we went.
Being a boring person, I stocked up on normal stuff. Batteries (bought the wrong ones so back I go tomorrow), lightbulbs (since three are out in a house with eight), and some jars and cans of food we use often.
I did get some new headphones for my mp3 player and a recipe book. The Baron got some headphones (broken as it turns out so back they go too) and lots of toys for the resident furballs.
Speaking of whom, Charlie bit me again last night and left a lovely gash on my hand.
Anyway, we spent an enormous £190, but paid £48.71. That was a nice feeling, and my cupboards are completely full.
So off to enjoy some Ben and Jerry's (a very rare treat) and read my new recipe book. And sit with a Charlie cat who has emerged from his hidey hole.
Sorry for the mundaneness of my life. It bugs me too.
Charlie, Charlie, Charlie
Is under the sofa. He has been there all day.
Now, I don't blame him. After months of neglect he has been brought to a house with three other cats and two strange humans. He might be huge (and he really is) but that would scare the arse of most cats. He does venture out in the evening so he is doing very well.
The longer term feline residents are coping well with the adjustment. Harvey and Frankie seem resigned to his presence, and Ellie, though hissing, is too scared to actually start trouble with a cat three times her size.
Charlie loves the Baron. He sits on his knee after dark, when he ventures out and allows lots of petting. He sleeps on him at night.
Me? He hates me. He hisses at me, he turns his head away when I talk to him and he bit me when I stroked him in the night. Admittedly, I thought he was Harvey, and tried to roll him over, so I can understand it. But with 120 cats to choose from, how did I fall in love with the cat who loathes my very being?
Last night he climbed onto my pillow, and then hissed at me to get off. And did I? Yes. What else is a good cat slave to do, even if the said cat would prefer you to leave the house altogether?
I'm glad he is here, and that is he is out of that cage. I just wish he liked me.
Happy Birthday, Baron
Brief run down:
1. Spent the whole night throwing up. Interesting, but not pleasant.
2. Charlie hates me. Literally.
3. Got lots of store credit from my supermarket this morning. Planning a shopping trip and I won't have to pay!
4. Blood test results still haven't come back.
5. Mum found out about the "surprise" trip to Florida.
Misery
Charlie is sat in the middle of the floor, miaowing.
I think he is talking to Harvey and Frankie, trying to make friend with them. Frankie looks interested, but if Charlie moves towards him he growls. Frankie doesn't look like the type to growl, but he sounds positively evil.
Harvey is just glaring, in a very Damian-esque manner. Ellie is still hiding.
I've just come back from my sisters house. I was feeling miserable so I escaped over there. The Baron kindly offered to stay with the cats to prevent bloodshed.
Beer and pizza later, I feel much better. Her partner is teaching me the bass guitar, and tonight we covered some Green Day and some Chilli Peppers. Next weekend we are going to look at getting me my own bass!
Cry if I want to
As in, it's my birthday and.......
Charlie won't come out from behind the TV. He cried all night and then finally found us in bed. Frankie woke up and in his fright knocked down the shelf next to me, which tipped all the books onto me, with the shelf, my glasses and phone landing 6 feet below on the floor.
Ellie is hissing and then hiding and no-one is eating.
The Baron's parents came round to moan at us for getting another cat, and then wished the Baron a happy birthday (because they saw my cards). When he pointed out that they were mine, they claimed not to know when my birthday was, even though we have been together nine years and his is two days after mine.
The computer is down at the surgery as well, so I can't even find out my blood test results.
And I even had to make my own birthday cake. Clearly it knew I was feeling grumpy, because it sank in the middle and stuck to the pan despite the vast quantities of butter. Cake just knows.
The Fabulous Four, or A Western in One Part
The tumbleweed is blowing across the living room floor. In the heat of the house, no sounds can be heard.
Harvey faces Charlie, eyes glinting. Charlie stares back. His eyes are hard.
Honour is at stake. Neither blink. Neither moves. The leadership of a whole clan is to be decided now. Both chew their matchsticks in a meditative manner.
Frankie has sought safety in the kitchen sink. He pokes his head up to see what is happening, but then dives for cover as Harvey says:
"Show us what you've got then, New Boy"
Charlie's nose twitches. He spits out his matchstick. Frankie's ears poke back up, straining to hear the reply.
"Go for your guns, Stripy Tail!". Charlie makes a leap towards Harvey, who jumps six feet into the air and lands in exactly the same spot, spitting and hissing at Charlie. Charlie stays low, and skulks backwards to his original position.
Stalemate.
More tumbleweed (where is this coming from?) blows in across the floor as silence reigns once more.
Both go back to eyeballing ferociously. This may be a long evening.
Charlie
We were only supposed to be looking.............
Looking should be done with your eyes only. Looking should not involve touching. It should never ever involve your heart at all. That only leads to trouble. Big and expensive trouble.
The trouble in question is a beautiful ginger male cat who has taken up permanent residence under the sofa. His name is Charlie. He was abandoned four months ago and only made it to the rescue centre a month ago. That is three months of neglect. Three months of scavenging. Three months of having to find shelter from the cold, rain, frost and wind. Three months of no affection at all.
I read his biography first and then he peeked out from under his blanket. One look at that sad weary face (he wasn't adjusting to life in a cage well, and was being passed over as a biter and a hisser) and I knew he was to be my cat. He had to be.
So a good few forms later, a chunk of money and a lecture from a woman who, despite knowing that we currently have three cats, felt that I needed to be told in great detail how to care for a cat, Charlie was ours.
Now to introduce him to the resident monsters.......
Harvey took one look, hissed, growled and then buggered off to play with his new toy (cunning piece of bribery on our part). Frankie ran away to watch from afar and hasn't come back. Ellie puffed up to three times her normal size, lost the ability to walk and then decided to make a run for it. She is now with Frankie.
I haven't actually seen Charlie in a few hours now, but he is still under there. Harvey is now sat by the sofa with his head under the cover, just watching. No growls, no hisses and no swishing tail.
I think we will be alright.
Happy Valentines Day, folks!
More madness
You'd think that after my blood test debacle that I would know what day it was. You would think that.
Nope. No clue at all.
I thought it was Saturday this morning. So I didn't get up and go to work. I turned off the alarm and went back to my blissful slumber.
Whoops.
I realised at 9am that it was in fact Friday and I was supposed to be in a meeting at 10am. Cue the fastest shower and breakfast ever, followed by a breakneck dash to the station. Where the train was sat at the platform, due to delays further down the line.
Bugger.
Commuting Woes
I'd forgotton the misery of commuting.
I thought it would have been burned indelibly into my mind, but time does appear to heal.
We will ignore the accident last night on the Tube last night, between Barbican and Farringdon where ten (oh yes, ten!) trains managed to crash one after the other into a metal bracket that was protruding from the tunnel wall, breaking windows and buckling carriages.
We will ignore the people who throw themselves under the Central Line - actually maybe if we didn't ignore them, they wouldn't feel driven to do that.
We will ignore the recent report that says that trains are crowded, but not overcrowded.
None of that happens. There haven't been several alerts at Liverpool Street this week - the prerecorded message "Will Inspector Sams please report to station reception" played every thirty seconds is just a call for a very lazy member of staff. The sirens and groups of station staff congregating are just mere conincidence.
My train yesterday wasn't fifteen minutes late, nor was it a short formation of four lucky if you can breathe carriages instead of the eight can just about hold on to a rail carriages.
Lets focus on the really good stuff:
The commuters with deplorable personal hygiene. The worst thing about being short is that you all too frequently end up with your face in someone's armpit. And fate always decrees that that person has issues of some kind with deoderant; the majority of those issues being that it isn't manly to wear it.
The gum chewers. Mouth open, fillings for all the world to admire (and we apparently have some quite creative dentists here in the UK) and plenty of gnashing, amplified by the silence caused by the train having been motionless for the last fifteen minutes.
The tourists. Individuals with nowhere to go and bugger all idea where they are. Backpacks larger than the average sumo wrestler and a map that could redecorate a large wall. And for some reason, their favourite place to study their map is right in front of the ticket barrier.
The irate commuter, guaranteed to cause a scene. The practised commuter (and although not frequent, I count myself in here) knows where the train will stop and so waits for the door. Laptop at the ready to barge onto the very limited space available. Knows the rules abut not making eyecontact or eating smelly food at rush hour. The irate commuter isn't au fait with all this and is one of the last to try to get on. No bloody chance!
But sees what she (and it is always a woman in my experience) thinks is a vast oasis of space further down the carriage. The reason no-one is there, is because there is nothing to hold onto.
So irate commuter begins:
"Can you all please move down the carriage. People want to get on"
No-one moves an inch. Someone usually pipes up that there is no room at all. That is like waving a red flag to a bull.
"I can see there is room. Move down the fucking carriage! People want to get on!"
Around this time, the people blocking the doors turn their backs, forming an inpenetrable wall of flesh, but that doesn't stop irate commuter trying to squeeze into the carriage. The doors start to close about now, and irate commuter is unceremoniously pushed back to the platform with a "sorry love" and the train departs, with the carriage united in its insults for irate commuter.
You have to play the game.
Worming Night and Blood Tests
Last night was cat worming night. With three cats, it takes a whole night to catch them and actually get the tablet down them.
I was wrong over who would cause the most pain. Harvey was as good as gold and only bit me twice. Frankie spat and hissed at me, but upon bribery with biscuits, meekly took his tablet.
That little bitchbag Ellie though was something else.
She hissed, she swore, she hissed some more and hid under the U bend. She pretended to swallow it, and after five minutes throat massage, when I was convinced it was gone in one of the many swallows she did to fool me, she calmly spat it back out again.
I bundled her back into my leather jacket (I wasn't taking any chances with her little claws) and popped it back in. Out it came. In. Out. In. Out. This of course wasn't nearly as sexy as it sounds written down!
The tablet was dissolving to a chalky stickiness on my hands. It was turning yellow, and it stank to high heaven. I couldn't really blame her for refusing it. I tried the biscuit bribery. Nada.
I decided that I was going to try once more and then I would return to the vet in defeat. He has no trouble with my gits - they only play up for me! So I wrapped her tight, got her mouth open and dropped what was left of the tablet down her poor abused little throat.
It stayed! We stayed locked in position for ten minutes - I didn't trust her - and had a little cuddle sat there on the bathroom floor.
Voila!
It wasn't just the cats who suffered abuse in the name of medicine yesterday. I had my blood test.
It didn't start very promisingly.........
I got up and asked the Baron to drive me there, just for moral support. Lets just say that the US got more support from France over Iraq than I did from the Baron and leave it there.
We got to the surgery, and I went up to the receptionist, who glares and opens her shutters.
"Hi, I'm here for a blood test" says I, clutching my little request form.
The shutters bang shut.
"Phlebotomist will be back on Thursday"
I pull out my directions, and stare at them. Then stare at the closed shutters. The receptionist has already turned her back and is regaling her colleague with the history of the hypochondriac who had just called for the fourth time (I am good at eavesdropping!)
"But it says right here that blood tests are on Monday and Thursday!" The shutters are wrenched open and really I wish I hadn't said that because.....
"Today is Tuesday!" Shutters slammed.
Unfortunately, this isn't the first time I have done something like this. I once went to vote a week early. I dragged the Boy along to see democracy in action and found that I was definitely first in the queue.
So I went along to the other clinic. I'm not good with blood tests, despite having worked as phlebotomist myself for a year. I took my number and sat in the waiting room.
And waited. The cold sweats started and still I waited. I twitched and fidgeted and the Baron sat and laughed.
"Number 40!" Bugger, that was me.
I went in. Tourniquet on, arm swabbed and needle unsheathed. And then I freak. I ask her to wait a second whilst I compose myself. She said
"Shall we just get it over with?" in the tone of voice that those angelically patient mothers use at the checkout.
I no sooner nod my head, and bam! the needle is in and all is well. It is just the needle I have problems with so once my life blood was flowing freely I was fine.
I even got a lolly!
Makes up for the stonking great big bruise I have today.
Loud music
It's amazing how playing some evil music very loudly can cheer you up.
I don't think my neighbours like me much tonight though. Unless they like this music too.
Depressed
I feel a little depressed this evening, and I don't really know why. Hmm.
Good and bad
The TV blew up last night.
I inherited a chest freezer yesterday.
That's all folks.
Train tales
I was minding my own business on the train. Well, I suppose it becomes clear that I wasn't at all, otherwise I wouldn't be able to tell you this now. So......I was on the train, on my way to work.
A woman got on with her two children this morning, both teens. She sat opposite me, and pushed her snarly evil son into the corner next to her. Her daughter sat next to me, between me and a rather nice looking chappie (which is why I chose that seat when I got on the stop before).
The mother starts to harass her son, who clearly doesn't want to be up, much less conscious at the moment. He becomes rude and obnoxious. And loud.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the rather nice young chappie gently start to stroke the thigh of the daughter. She doesn't flinch. Hmmmmmm........pervert?
The son becomes louder. I would normally tell someone like him to shut up, but he is providing some cover for what is occurring next to me. Nice young chappie has started murmuring sweet nothings into her ear, telling her exactly what he would like to be doing to her. Does she know him? She hasn't moved at all, and is staring at her brother. Is she scared? Should I say something?
His hand moves a little further up her leg, and carries on with its soft carress. Mother is still absorbed in dealing with her son, and hasn't seen a thing.
The train starts to break as it appraoches the station. The daughter still hasn't moved or reacted to him. The train stops. She gathers up her bags, and suddenly out of the corner of her mouth says, in the gentlest whisper:
"I'll call you tonight. Don't forget about tomorrow".
And she stands up dutifully with her mother, and without a backwards glance gets off the train.
Nice young chappie leans back, puts his paper in his lap, and goes to sleep until we get to Liverpool Street.
Things I am happy about
1. The Baron got a new job.
2. The Baron has a huge pay rise.
3. I am meeting up with an old friend I haven't seen in years this weekend. She is from Poland.
4. The cats haven't destroyed anything.
5. It is nearly the weekend.
Evil Ellie and the wooden blinds
Oh yes. She may look cute but underneath that sweet furry little body beats the heart of a complete psychopath. Trust me on this - I know.
We have wooden blinds in our living room. 6 foot long, and made of pine. Expensive, but really lovely. To avoid feline temptation, the strings are securely fastened out of the reach of even the most acrobatic cat (read Harvey). The cats have been trained to push around the blinds to get to the windowsill as opposed to going through them. Training involved water guns, biscuits and time in the bathroom for bad behaviour.
Going through them caused the demise of the previous blinds. A fight between Harvey, Frankie and the blinds led to their complete destruction. Every single slat was broken and as the fight drew to a close - when the Baron came hurtling downstairs, the entire blind fell down, taking chunks out of the newly decorated wall.
We avoided getting any window hangings for a few weeks after that; it seemed a waste of effort if the cats were going to rip them out. Clearly the cats had different taste in blinds than we did, and until this was resolved it was pointless to buy anything else. But after several evenings of impertinent youth peering in, we relented and bought the above mentioned beauties.
The cats seemed to like them and all was well. True, Frankie did bite the edges when he was teething, and one slat was partly broken when Frankie got scared on the windowsill and tried to run away, forgetting the cardinal rule of around and not through. But on the whole, we all managed to co-exist happliy.
Until the arrival of Miss Ellie.
She had us fooled for a while, by copying the boys and going around them (as soon as she had the courage to venture up on the windowsill). She liked to bat the strings (and Frankie wasn't averse to it either), so we secured them. But she left them alone. The 9 fake mice that live on the floor were her preferred prey.
Today she showed her true colours - she isn't just a tortie, she has a heart of purest black.
I was upstairs "working from home" (remember that working from home is often code for hanging around certain forums and generally not doing very much productive - not always, but often). All was quiet. The boys were outside - Frankie skulking around the bushes, and Harvey wandering into neighbours houses to steal the resident cats food. Ellie still refuses to go outside, and was amusing herself downstairs with her favourite toy mouse. Or so I thought.
I saw her walking across the top of the sofa going towards the windows. Now Miss Ellie might not like going outside, but she likes to sit on the windowsill and soak up a few rays. So I assumed that that was her plan - it was a lovely warm day today. I was wrong. Instead, she hurled herself at the blinds and hung on for dear life to the top slats whilst trying to bat the twizzler around (you know, that thing that determines the angle of the slats). I yelled at her to get down, but this is Ellie. No isn't a word she likes, ergo no is a word she chooses to ignore. Ellie isn't a big cat at all, but she weighed just enough for a slat to snap off with a predictable and sickening snap.
She looked at it as if to say:
"I wasn't expecting that at all, but what fun! Something new to play with" and proceeded to pick it up and roll around with it.
Naturally I ran downstairs (narrowly avoiding falling over the discarded mousie) and retrieved the remains of the slat. I don't smack the cats, but I felt that Missie needed some punishment, and so I put her in the bathroom for some time out alone. From long experience, I removed the toilet roll (Harvey as a kitten spent a lot of time in the bathroom for bad behaviour, and more than once I was greeted with a snarling beast, a shredded toilet roll and a most unrepentant glare) and tightly screwed on all lids.
I told her, sternly, that I would come back in five minutes. I don't know why I told her, I doubt she had a clue what I said. And I waited.
And the crying started. She has a cry that can break your heart. Piteous and sweet, as though she has been neglected for all her six months of life. I poured a drink, I nibbled my nails, I tidied up the kitchen.
At three minutes in, I lost it. I went into the bathroom.
She was sat in the sink miaowing for all she was worth. I received a rapturous greeting (she had already forgotten it was me who shut her in there in the first place) with wonderous headbutts and melodious purrs. We sat together for a while - I didn't want her to stop, and we made friends again. She does have a black heart, but it is golden on the inside.
After a while, she hopped off of my lap and scooted out the door. Guess where the little cowbag went? Not hard. Straight back to the scene of the crime.
Literally, because Black Heart flung herself back at the blinds and broke another slat off, and proceeded to work on getting the next one off. I scooped her up, told her off (again) and shut her back in the bathroom. And the crying started. Louder and more insistent the longer I resisted her. I held out. I was furious about the blinds (knowing that the damage was irreparable due to where the snaps were, and knowing exactly how much replacement blinds would cost) and furious with myself for not resisting her charms before.
I left her stewing a whole fifteen minutes. She cried the whole time. In the last minute, her miaow started to sound a little hoarse, so my heart snapped and in I went. I got the same wondrous greeting as last, and thought about shutting her up regularly to get these doses of love.
I carried her out and popped her down away from the blinds. She looked at me, looked at the blinds and looked at me again. And trotted meekly to her bed. She lasted two minutes before jumping up to attack the hapless Frankie, who had wandered in for his food. Frankie cried to go back outside - I think he feels safer out in the big bad world, and Miss Ellie went back to preying on her mice. Poor little buggers are in a bad way, with huge chunks of fur missing.
My blinds are in a similar state, thanks to a small girlcat.
The irony? While writing this, she has been peacefully asleep. I have had to get up no less than nine times to deal with Harvey, who appears to have a devil in his stomach (as the Boy would say). Why? Because he wants to go outside, presumably to escape the evil Ellie (who spent ten minutes chasing his tail earlier).
His crimes?
1. One tipped over food bowl - wet food everywhere.
2. Keys batted under the sofa.
3. Another tipped over food bowl - kibble this time. Treading on that hurts.
4. Using my sofa as a scratching post.
5. One Lion King impression on the balcony.
6. One smashed candle holder.
7. Hiding in my laptop bag and entangling himself in the power cable for extra grip.
8. Dragging a dressing gown downstairs, into the water bowl.
9. Opening the wardrobe door (he has worked that one out) and trying to open a 5kg bag of rice.
All to the accompaniment of Harvey howling. Joyous.
I'd put in my ear plugs, but Frankie ate the last pair. Cats!
Car wash
Am I the only person in the world with a car wash phobia?
I took my dirty little car to the car wash. It needed it - instead of being a chirpy red, it had turned grey with ingrained salt and mud. My rear number plate was invisible (partly the reason that I had refrained from washing it - harder to get caught on camera) through the weeks of grime.
It was one of the automatic ones. Big whirring spinning things - side and top - in a scary shade of blue.
As soon as the soap suds hit the window, obscuring me from view, my heart started pounding and my throat felt constricted. The spinning washy things started up and I could barely breathe. The noise was deafening and my little car was shaking under the barrage.
I was convinced that the machine would malfunction and crush my car to a little perfect cube, with me mangled inside. At that point, I was glad for the soap suds because no-one could see the look of irrational terror on my face and start laughing.
The spinning thing came down on my windscreen. Which was replaced a week ago. In my minds eye (in slow motion for extra pleasure) I could see my new windscreen buckling under the pressure and collapsing into the car, followed closely by the infernal spinning thing. By now, my heart is working overtime and the cold sweats have begun.
Then came the drying. Force 9 gales buffet my little car, shaking me from side to side. My wing mirrors move out of alignment and I can feel my hair blowing with the strength of the air being forced through the vents. Strange how it still dries streaky. Time to start breathing easier - the worst is over and the machine only has to pass back over me. Not that I know, because my eyes have been firmly shut since the spinning thing passed over the windscreen.
Finally, after feels like an age, the little green light comes on with a beep and I can finally get the hell out of there.
Guess what? The car is still filthy.
Wise words
My mother told me if I had nothing nice to say, I shouldn't say anything at all.
See you tomorrow.
Must have missed something
When I was at school, we had a career library.
It had prospectus's for all UK universities, information on any career imaginable and then some on others perhaps not quite so imaginable. All the information anyone could possible want was there. Except no-one ever told us the truth.
Not once did anyone point out that although women can enter pretty much whatever field they want to, they still have to do the housework at a weekend.
I don't remember in those "you can be whatever you want to be" talks anyone saying that I would still have to clean, cook and wash clothes.
I must have dozed off.
