The Fruitful Garden
We've cleared the garden out. We now have some fantastic beds ready to become a fully productive vegetable garden come spring.
The compost bin arrives tomorrow, my orange, satsuma, lime and olive trees are due to arrive later this week, and my chilli's are thriving, as are my herbs. Minus the bits that the cats have chewed out of them. I am also growing some catmint at the moment, and will start a tub of catnip off in the spring to keep them away from the other plants.
What else? Oh, a good friend of mine, and former neighbour, has just announced her pregnancy. I am very pleased for her, and we shall gloss over the small pangs of jealousy occurring. We are meeting up this week (though not for a drink as we normally would). She moved a few weeks before I did, and we haven't seen each other for quite a while.
I have signed the Boy up for a gymnastics class. He has been asking to go to it ever since he saw the Olympics, and since he found out I broke my arm in gymnastics class when I was little (why that is an incentive I don't know, but I don't pretend to understand the mind of a six year old boy). We have an hour's trial lesson on Wednesday afternoon. He doesn't know yet - it is a surprise.
Off to soak in a hot bath. Gardening is hard work, and my legs are starting to mutiny.
Peace and Quiet
Harvey is prowling around upstairs in my bedroom. I can hear him knocking my candlesticks around. He is happy.
Frankie is fast asleep on my giant stuffed rottweiler. I hope that is a good omen for the new puppy.
Ellie is in the conservatory watching the goldfish outside. I light the pond for her every night, she likes it that much. She sits on the cat tree and talks to them.
Charlie is glaring at me. He hates my laptop, as he feels my lap is for him and him alone.
Willow is eating. If she isn't eating, she is sleeping. She is an easy cat.
Hollie is currently hiding in the mechanism of the chairbed. She likes the foam.
The Baron is working late.
It is quiet.
There are no street lights at all in our village, and as a result it is dark. We have been using our telescope most evenings since we moved here. I have no idea what I am looking at, but it is fun. I've seen lots of shooting stars this evening. I am going to join the library and get some books out on astronomy.
I have my vegetable garden all planned out. My herbs are starting in the kitchen, my lemons and peppers in the conservatory. My orange tree is ordered and on its way, and I am expecting my lime tree to follow very shortly. The Baron doesn't know yet - it is a surprise for our anniversary tomorrow.
We plan to start the garden this weekend. There is so much to clear up and get rid of, before we can start preparing the beds. We have been looking forward to having a garden for so long, and now we can start work on the garden we have talked about for so long.
I love this quiet time in the evenings. It feels so much relaxing in this house - almost as though the extra room in the house is giving me extra room to think. I can play my instruments whenever I want without disturbing anyone else. I finally have my piano back after nearly five years. I'm not as good as I used to be though.
I have just ordered some rare breed meat from an online farm shop. I am planning a huge roast dinner at the weekend to thank my family for all the help they have given with this move. I also got some traditional bacon from the same rare breed. I am looking forward to my Sunday bacon sandwich in bed now!
I now have room for all of my books. I have several thousand books, some of which I haven't seen in nearly five years. I had to store them in the loft of my parents house. I love to sit and read in the conservatory, with a cup of tea and a cat. It is so nice.
Hope everyone else is having as nice an evening as I am having. Peace and quiet to you all!
Checking in
I am sat in my conservatory, surrounded by cats, lemon trees and pepper plants. I have a cup of tea and slice of ginger cake on the go.
Bliss.
The move went well. We broke two wineglasses and two minature ceramic tureens. We are pretty much unpacked and straight. The bed arrives in two weeks, and the leather sofa's in four. We have a phone line in, and satellite tv is being installed on Wednesday. My new oven is in, the shower, kitchen sink and tap are going to be put in soon. The new bathroom floor tiles will be completed in four-ish weeks.
The only bad thing? We can't get broadband. I am suffering with 26.2K dial-up at the moment, and the best we can hope for is 512K. We just left behind 1.5M. Sob.
The cats are well. Harvey was delirious when we retrieved him from cattery. They were all a little quiet when we got home, but all are settled in well. Hollie has become a brave little lady and wanders around the house and sleeps in bed with me and the other five. Charlie has been caught snuggling with Frankie, Willow is in love with my new oven (probably because I have been testing it with a succession of roasted chickens) and Ellie is just Ellie. By which I mean she careers round the house in a wave of destruction.
We're back!
Moving Day minus 12 hours
Everything is packed bar the computer. The house is clean, the cars are loaded and we are ready to go.
This is DMouse. Over and out.
I changed my mind
Current result is negative. Half of me wishes to sigh in relief and the other half wants to go and and cry in the bathroom.
So I have made a decision. I am not going back on the pill. This is something I have been thinking about for a while now.
I have been switching my diet over to organic only for the last few months to avoid pesticides, hormones and other shit, and the irony is not lost on me that I voluntarily pump myself full of them on a daily basis.
And the Baron has packed my last packet anyway. He is supportive of my decision to come off of it for the reasons above, and so that is that.
Sorry for the drama.
I need a drink
I am not a happy bunny this evening.
The cats are in cattery. The Baron is working late, and I am lonely. I miss my babies.
The house is depressing. Boxes and bags everywhere. I want out. The pub sounds fantastic. Open roaring fires, and copious amounts of alcohol.
Except.........there has been a noticeable lack of roof falling this week. Enough to have prompted a little test. Which has so far not proved anything conclusive as the first fucker didn't work. The second was negative but since I am on the pill (with some big accidents this month) I can't be sure of dates. So I daren't drink until I am sure.
And, oh God, do I need a drink.
A letter to my cats
Dear Cats,
You know we are moving house. At least, I assume you do. Perhaps you think we are creating a giant playground for your convenience? You are half right. We are doing this to ensure you have even more space to take over.
We have some news for you, but I will get to that in a moment.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you, Harvey, for kindly tearing the skin down my finger in an effort to wake me up. It did. The pouncing on me once I had gone back to sleep was a nice touch too. But it was lovely to wake up and find you snuggled into my neck. Thank you.
Frankie, sweetheart, earplugs are not a major food group and should not been considered a regular starter. Also, I would be able to feed you a lot quicker in the mornings, if I didn't have to search so hard for clean underwear. Stop stealing my knickers.
Ellie. Just stop eating the boxes. You are not teething. Neither are you a bird, so you can't fly. I don't care how many times you throw yourself off of the shelves, it isn't going to happen. It is lovely when you come for a snuggle in the night. However, to make it a little more pleasant for me, could you please stop putting your bottom in my face?
Charlie, I promise we aren't going to leave you behind. Promise. You are coming with us. I will never leave you. So can I please remove you from my leg? I can't feel it anymore.
Willow. You get fed. Please refrain from stealing food from my plate. Also, whilst I have your attention, I appreciate that your eye socket might itch from time to time. It would be nice if you found another way of relieving it. People don't like having their noses pushed into empty and furry eye scokets. It just feels a little odd.
Hollie. Please come out from under the sofa. We'd love to see you. It's been 16 days.
Love,
Your slaves.
PS. You are all off to cattery tomorrow.
Nearly there
We've nearly finished the packing. The house is empty, yet filled to bursting with boxes. Five days to go.
The cats are in feline heaven - they think we have spent all this time crafting a playground for them. Every open box houses a cat. Every box bears the scar of a cat attack, be it teeth or claws.
Keeps them amused.
A bad idea
So the kitchen is packed up. And this is BAD. I thought packing would be a good thing, seeing as I move in eight days time. But no, it is really, really BAD.
For I am hungry. And the fridge is empty. There is not a morsel of food in the house. Unless you count the cat food. Not that it matters, since I have also packed all the plates, utensils and cutlery I possess.
I did consider this whilst packing, but since I wasn't hungry at the time it didn't seem such an issue. But once all the shops shut, the tummy rumbles commenced, and packing up the kitchen seemed like a BAD idea.
I also accidently packed the HarveyCat. I unsealed him as soon as I worked out which box he was inhabiting, but have now run out of tape. So the little git is back in the box, laughing at me.
He might not be laughing so hard if I eat his cat food.
Just keep packing...
Just keep packing.........just keep packing.
Shish kebab
We thought Hollie escaped. Hollie, the indoor only cat, who deigns not to have a name. It was completely my fault. I opened the cat flap the wrong way so instead of them being able to come in and not get out, they had free access. When I ran upstairs to grab my phone, I heard the flap go.
Hollie was gone.
So, after an hour of wandering around the neighbourhood in tears (with Harvey at my heels - which somewhat hampered the rescue efforts, as everytime I asked if they had seen a tabby cat, they invariably replied there was one behind me. I suspect my image as mad cat lady has been well reinforced), I discover the bitchbag has wormed under the bath behind the panel AGAIN.
Despite the fact I have to move house in ten days, I have been forced to destroy the bath panel to get her out. She is now back under the sofa.
I've tucked the sofa skirt up so I can see her. Unfortunately, now all the cats can see each other so I am writing to the cacophony of feline hissing, yowling and growling.
I was trusted to take her from her home, and I so nearly terminally fucked it up. If she had gone, there would have been no way I could have got her back. She doesn't respond to her name, she doesn't trust me and she has no idea where she is.
I am so grateful she is safe, but I feel awful.
Counting game
10 days to go to the move.
9 days until the cats are in cattery.
8 days until my sister buggers off to Tenerife and leaves me the Boy.
7 boxes packed.
6 cats driving me to the brink of madness.
5 working days left before my leave starts.
4 cat baskets to de-hair.
3 reports to write this weekend.
2 cans of diet coke left.
1 nervous breakdown underway.
Help!
Blame Katie
This is Katie's fault. It came from this site.
You say "the city" and expect everyone to know which one. (Is there another that matters?)
You can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Shepherds Bush to Elephant & Castle at 3:30 on the Friday before a long weekend, but can't find Dorset on a map. (I can find it. Just. And Shepherd's Bush to Elephant is easy peasy)
You step over people who collapse on the tube. (Generally. Especially if a can of Special Brew is being clutched)
You've considered stabbing someone. (not lately. After Tom, stabbing is a tad more real. It's usually beating people with my laptop)
Your door has more than three locks. (Yes)
You consider eye contact an act of overt aggression. (Hell yes! You do not look at people on the Tube)
You call an 8' x 10' plot of patchy grass a garden. (it's all I have, dammit!)
You know where Karl Marx is buried. (Highgate Cemetary, and very pretty it is too)
You consider Essex the "countryside" (That is where we are moving in 13 days time. Very countryside.)
You think Hyde Park is "nature." (Well, what else could you call it?)
Shopping in suburban supermarkets and shopping malls gives you a severe attack of agoraphobia. (K-mart was just plain scary. Way too big, with way too much unnecessary crap. How much choice does a person really need?)
You've been to Tooting twice and got hopelessly lost both times. (I used to work there, and got lost frequently. Icky place, but it is south of the river)
You pay £3 without blinking for a beer that cost the bar 28p. (Blinking isn't going to bring the price down, and I am not going on a beer diet)
You have 27 different menus next to your telephone. (Yes. I have a folder for them all)
The UK west of Heathrow is still theoretical to you. (I suspect it is theoretical to the bods in charge of the roadworks on the M25 coming up to Heathrow too)
You're suspicious of strangers who are actually nice to you. (Too weird)
Your idea of personal space is no one actually standing on your toes. (Alas, but is it just a dream?)
£50 worth of groceries fit in one paper bag. (Sadly, this isn't exclusive to London)
You have a minimum of five "worst cab ride ever" stories. (All involve alcohol, unsurprisingly)
You don't hear sirens anymore. (Except on football nights when it sounds like the end of the world)
You've mentally blocked out all thoughts of the city's air quality and what it's doing to your lungs. (But I don't get hayfever in the city. Works for me)
You say 'mate' constantly. (Guilty. Even the Boy has picked that up now)
Anyone not from London is a 'wanker'. (Except a few select people. My mum, for starters)
Anyone from outside London and north of the Watford Gap is a 'Northern Wanker'. (Again, except my Mum and a few others. But everyone from the city knows civilisation ends at the Watford Gap)
You have no idea where the North is. (Sadly I do, as I have been. I don't wish to again)
You see All Saints in the Met Bar (again) and find it hard to get excited about it. (I haven't seen them. Here, we see Posh and Becks (lucky us) a lot. No-one cares)
Somebody speaks to you on the tube and you freak out thinking they are a stalker. (You don't talk, unless you are drunk, or walk into someone. General chitchat is weird, and marks you as a desperate perv. Or a tourist. I'm not saying which is worst)
Oh yeah, baby!
Thank fuck for that.
We are exchanged! Can I hear a big OH YEAH BABY!!!!
