Bollocks
I have my first ever speeding ticket. It was only a matter of time. I was caught doing 89mph in a 70mph zone and am now the not so proud owner of three points on my licence.
Bugger.
The Baron went out last night. He went to a work party (I really didn't want to go with him), and I went and had Chinese with my sister and her partner. She went to bed early and we sat up drinking, talking and listening to music. I had a fun night.
The Baron did not. He drank a little too much - ok, far too much, and lost the contents of his stomach. Repeatedly. And then passed out. In the pool of stomach contents.
Lovely or what? Luckily, he had a good friend with him who didn't abandon him, but stripped him, got him in the car and brought him home. He deserves a medal.
I got home to see Harvey's face peering out of the catflap, looking somewhat desperate for someone to come home and get the smelly thing out. The Baron was passed out on the sofa. I put a blanket on him, put his clothes in the washing machine and went to bed.
But other than cleaning the house at 3AM, I did have a pleasant evening.
It was strange walking home at 2.45AM. So quiet and calm. It was clear and I could see lots of stars as one of the street lights was out. Birds were singing. I always find that strange whenever I am out at that time - I just don't expect birdsong.
One of the songs we listened to last night was "Blues for Meister" by the Chili Peppers. Because I am learning the bass guitar, I listen to a lot of their music, but this one had eluded me. It is a tribute written and sung (badly) by the bassist, Flea, to his cat.
"Have some respect, for my cat,
"Who got squashed by the wheels of a Cadillac"
and
"Me and my pussy, we lost our flow,
"Goodbye my sweet little calico"
Very sweet, if slightly strange. Very cool bass line. Not typical rock and roll behaviour, but a very heartfelt song. The kind of sappy thing I'd do for one of my bunch.
Speaking of whom.........Ellie has taken to talking to the insects as she commences torturing them. Little chirrups and grumbles from deep down in her throat. I caught her torturing a spider by removing its legs, one by one. And she was talking to it. Knowing her, she was telling the poor bastard exactly what she was going to do to it.
It's raining. Time to get the washing in, methinks.
Cars
After seeing Katie's behemoth of a car, I thought I'd show off my baby. Except mine is flame red. 
Where is my home?
The house is a mess of half packed boxes; books disgorging themselves in a stream across the bedroom floor and a lonely pillow has been removed from a box by a cat in need of a comfy snooze in the pool of sunlight on the floor.
I can't wait for this move to be over and to get rid of the boxes that dominate the landscape of home.
I want my home back. We still live here in this house, but mentally we have moved. This is now just a house, filled with boxes and furniture, and stuff to be moved. We want our home again.
Snapshot
Hot sunny days. Sitting on a bench in London Fields chatting to an old man. The countryside around Aylesbury shimmering in the heat and haze. Cats chasing leaves in the grass. Cool drinks after a BBQ. Waking up and feeling a cool breeze through the skylight. A purring cat sleeping next to me, paws holding tightly onto my hand. Playing football with the Boy. Feeding the birds with the Boy.
Jobs
I just checked the cats ideal job.
Harvey's ideal job is a Satan. I'm impressed. Independent confirmation that my cat really is the devil. Charlie should be an evil boss, and again the truth is not a million miles away.
(Frankie should be a traffic warden , and Ellie a kids tv presenter (she is crazy enough))
The Baron? He should be a Prime Minister. He is going to love that when I tell him!
I wish
Apparently my ideal job is that of a trained assassin.
This courtesy of Job Predictor.
Not bad. Sounds more fun that being an auditor.
France and the First Catch
France was fun. The ferry was late, so we had a mad dash to Belgium, bought the fags from the highly suspicious (but legal) shed behind the cafe and then dashed back to France to to the shopping. Good day.
Harvey Cat caught his first ever bird yesterday. He came trotting in, smile all over his furry face, and left it reverently at my feet. I decided the best course of action was to get it the hell out of my house.
Naturally, Harvey had other ideas. That was his dinner. So promptly took off with his bird.
Imagine, if you will. Scarlet headed (it hasn't faded that much yet) mad woman armed with a pooper scooper and a black bag chasing a cat carrying a dead bird by the wing through the streets. Fucking scarlet hair and dead bird body flapping in the breeze as the sun beats down. The ice cream van can be heard making its approach. Puctuated by:
"Give me the bird Harvey." Mioaw. I think that means he doesn't want to.
"Give me the bird you deranged killing machine." Rwarp. My bird.
"Give me the fucking bird you little shit." Hiss. Bugger off, bitch.
Time for a change of tactics. Does reverse pyschology work on cats? Does it bollocks. No, something else will have to do. But what?
Harvey's eyes glint dangerously. He is under his favourite bush, which is in full bloom now. Think bees. Lots of bloody bumblebees dancing above my head. I hate bees.
So I get on the ground, giving any passers by a great view of my arse. Cheap thrill for someone, I'm sure.
The bird lies between us, guarded by one off white paw. Claws fully unsheathed. Now I love my cat, and I know he loves me, but since he is somewhat mentally disturbed, I know that he will happily use those claws, in love, to prevent me stealing his beloved, and mangled, birdy.
Harvey the Hunter King is still watching me intently. But something catches his eye. A bee. The dilemma is clear: should he get the bee, or guard the bird? Basking in his glory as bird catcher extraordinnaire, Harvey decides that the bee is a sufficient challenge to his neutered manhood. And out he shoots.
Almost immediately he remembers the bird. Too late. Birdy is loaded onto the pooper scooper. A sad little moan from Harvey, and the birdy is out of his reach. He cries piteously, circling my ankles, but he isn't getting it back.
Now what to do with it?
Birdy isn't going to get a full burial, although there is a ready made hole in the front garden from where the "For Sale" sign used to live.....Ellie got her head stuck in it a couple of days ago. Hole = place where cat must be. In the genes, you know. I suspect that a burial will only lead to a disinterment later in the day so burial isn't an option.
Birdy may have one final experience of flight though, as my neighbour, the owner of a formally lethal bird chaser, sadly now too overweight to hunt, recommends lobbing birdy to his final resting place in the dense bushes near the house.
I don't like that idea either. Harvey is quite good at fetch.
Birdy's final resting place? Black bag in the bin. Thank God the binmen come on Tuesday.
Vet Woes.
I'm going to France tomorrow. With a swift foray into Belguim as well.
It's the annual crossing for cheap fags and booze. The crates of beer from the last trip have all been drunk, the fags have been smoked and the garlic is nearly all gone. And I'm out of my favourite biscuits that I can only get in France.
We catch the ferry at lunch, so we shall dock and head off towards Belgium to find a sleepy little restaurant to have a late lunch. The Boy is coming, determined to learn a few words of French and he has been told that lunch will NOT be McD's in Calais.
But that is tomorrow.
Today.......well not so pleasant.
Four cats. Two cat carriers. One trip to the vet.
Not only do I have scarlet fucking hair with red highlights, I now have scarlet streaks on my arm, face and hands. Harvey took offence to be being shoved head first into a carrier (believe me it was the only way).
Still, it gives me a chance to sport my eclectic plaster collection. On the left arm we have Harry Potter, and on the left hand we have a bug (thumb) and Buzz Lightyear. On the right arm we have a spaceship, and on the hand, a bandage covering my palm where Harvey ripped a two inch (and at least half a centimetre deep) gash across my palm.
I restrained myself and have not put a plaster on my cheek. I used to wear a plaster on my nose when I worked in McD's (many moons ago) when I refused to take my nose stud out. I've tired of that look.
But all the cats are in good health, which is all that matters. Charlie took some catching though....I had to draft my neighbour in to help get him in the carrier. Her cat is a psycho bitch, so she understands. Charlie sat on Ellie the whole way to the vets, but they didn't fight at all. Harvey and Frankie always go together and snuggle, but their carrier is too small for the pair of them, so I am on the look out for a bigger one.
Charlie is obese and has ear mites. Quelle surprise. This is the rescue cat who hoovers up all leftover food and refuses to go outside without me in case I don't let him back in. So we are to instigate an exercise programme, consisting of Charlie chase the laser pen, and regular ear cleaning with my new handy dandy cat ear cleaner. Note that it doesn't come with asbestos gloves. Because of his history we will just take things very slowly with him. He is doing so well that it isn't worth rushing him to lose a little weight.
Harvey needs his teeth cleaning. He isn't even two yet, but no matter what we try, his teeth are unhealthy and will need to be cleaned. My poor little boy.
Ellie is finally big enough to move off of kitten flea treatments. She is very small still. The vet refuses to comment on her mental state. ;.)
Frankie is perfect. Great teeth, lost all the weight that he gained due to cattery, and is just perfect.
Result!
My hair
I want to tell you about my hair.
I have hair. Lots of fine hair all over my head. Not that unusual.
The vast amounts of static I generate are noteworthy, but still not that unusual. Painful at times though.
The cut is shoulder length (ish) with layers. Nothing outlandish.
Colour? Now we are talking. My hair is chocolate brown naturally, and last summer I had some highlights put in, but they are almost all grown out. Again not, not hair that turns heads.
So, in the interests of making my hair that bit special, I invested in some permanent hair colour. By L'Oreal. Because I am worth it.
I chose dark brown, and the dye came with highlighting equipment for "multi tonal depth". Or some bollocks like that - I should read packets with more care.
I checked the colour swatches, and checked the examples on the box. WIth chocolate brown hair, I could expect beautiful glossy brown hair with lighter brown highlights. Lovely, and just what I wanted. I've been most colours of the rainbow, and am happy with nice brown. I just fancied something a little more sultry.
My sister and I and slapped the dye on. We waited the requisite 25 minutes to allow the colour to develop, washed it out, towel dried it and applied the highlighting cream to well chosen strands of my hair. We waited the 20 minutes that took to "develop a natural colour" and rinsed. Conditioned. and looked in the mirror.
I do not have glossy brown hair with lighter highlights. Oh no. That dream died when I looked in the mirror.
I have fucking scarlet hair with dark red highlights. I look like a 16 year Goth with severe angst. Scarlet bloody hair. With red highlights.
I have to go to work tomorrow. And all I own are black suits that makes my hair glow like burning embers. I won't be hiding in an office tomorrow - my hair shall light the way to wherever I hide.
Piss to L'Oreal.
Words from the Boy
The Boy is here.
Reading over my shoulder. As far as he can - for a five year old he is pretty good.
And it is an improvement from him trapping Harvey in the corner and hissing at him, before Harvey has a chance to. 'Course, Harvey hisses back, scratches the Boy and runs away. The Boy then does his drama queen routine and claims that he will die from incipient blood loss - his words, not mine.
The Boy has a few words that he wants to say. He is dictating, so I apologise in advance........
"Hello Katie. How are your little girls? I want to see you all when we come to Florida. Can we play ping pong?" He is looking forward to going, and pretty little twin girls is his little dream come true! A premature perv, perhaps?!
"Hello Chris. How are your children?"
"Hello everyone else. I don't know your names yet. "
That is it for him. He is in the bathroom trying to get the cat fur off of his school uniform. Best of British to him.
So off we go. I am spending the evening at his house (the Baron is on lates) with him and my sisters boyfriend aka the bass guitar teacher. And lots of beer.
Catch you all tomorrow. My beer awaits!
Heaven help me
The update is here - I just haven't summoned the mental energy up to relive it before now.
Suffice to say that that is three days out of my life that were wasted, and I doubt the Baron's parents will invite me around for Christmas dinner this year. And if they do, well, I shall be busy.
The highlights:
The Baron's father moans a lot. And walk slowly. Both his parents do.
The Baron's father doesn't understand that when on a plane, you do not constantly grab the chair in front.
The Baron's father (BF for short) doesn't understand that it is not pleasant to see/listen to someone eat with their mouth open. I know I have issues in this department, but I tried, I really tried.
The BF thought it was ok to fart in the car. In fact, anywhere he felt like. And thought we should find it funny.
I finally escaped to my own room for some peace and quiet whilst they went to theirs. 10 seconds later, they turned up in our room as theirs wasn't ready. No "do you mind if we sit in here for a while"; they just wandered in and made themselve at home. I went and got very drunk.
The Baron's parents were harder work than a small child. His mother (who in fairness, is mentally compromised since her brain haemorrhage) doesn't go to the toilet until she is fit to burst, and that is naturally when there are no toilets around. In fact, on one occasion (and this of course was my car and not the hire car) there was a minor accident. I keep blankets for a reason, but that isn't it.
Due to the Baron's parents toilet habits we missed two airport buses to the car park. As a result I missed a long planned BBQ, and the Boy fell asleep before dinner. An apology? Don't be stupid.
The groom made a sick speech about marriage, when the only reason he got married is that he was caught out shagging his secretary. He may well love the Bride, but to pretend he asked out of love is crap.
The Irish contingent were a cliquey bunch of self righteous arses.
The Bride's father waited until half way through the first course to say grace. When everyone was eating. And did it in a holier than thou tone of voice, sure of his place in heaven. Twat. And then got as pissed as a fart.
The Irish lot brought up the subject of religion and then got offended when a non Catholic asked a question. Precious fuckers. They don't know why they were offended since they couldn't answer the question - normal side effect of religious indoctrination from an early age. The Closed Mind Syndrome - the answer to all questions lies in the Bible. Apparantly they don't talk about it, especially as it is the wrong place at a wedding. So why bring it up, me thinks?
I got smacked in the head with a tray at the reception.
Insult of insult, I was sat at the childrens table. Not with the Baron. Not with my friends who we travelled up with. With the fucking children. Who, incidently, were beautifully behaved. But sat with the children. Apparently the grooom hadn't noticed. Probably too busy mentally fucking his secretary.
We were constantly told that the Irish throw the best parties. If that was a good party, I would loathe to go to a bad one. No-one got blind drunk - since there were no free drinks other than some wine at dinner, the music was indifferent, the Irish were miserable little bleeders with no desire to mingle, and the majority of the reception party sent back the main course.
That covers it, I think.
On the good side:
I am home again.
I am home again. Bears repeating as it is the best bit of all.
I met a couple of nice people, who live locally to me. We are planning a BBQ. We shall have a good party. However, the Irish won't see it as they are not invited, even if some live down the road.
The Bride was happy. She looked lovely.
The best man aka the Baron did really well. He got nervous in his speech (my handiwork) but he did a great job.
My cats were pleased to see me.
(I should point out at this point that the Baron's parents are in fact nice people. His father loves his wife and children dearly, and just wanted things to go well, hence the five months of stressing. Which put him in hospital last weekend. But, and this is the but, he just has some repulsive habits, that given my extreme reluctance to go to the wedding and the fact that everytime I turned, they were there, led me to react to more strongly than usual to them. I did apologise at one point, but when he continued with his moaning and groaning the next morning, my hungover self simply could not cope. He was chewing gum with his mouth open and it made me sick. Literally. I was mean to him, I know but I expect more from an adult (that includes myself too) and that type of behaviour (myself included) isn't acceptable.)
