I am afraid I am still having little giggles of a very immature, not to say childish manner, over some bits and bobs I read in the papers yesterday. I think these silly things have been specially put into the papers to cheer up us Scorpios who are still recovering from the chaos, nay trauma, of the Grand Trine House Party Experience of last week.
The best giggle goes to the name of a mistress of a Duke of Britain, the story of whom is causing a minor scandal in the red-top rags at the moment. His name was something ordinary and dukey, like Edward, or James or something. But her name? Jeannie McWheeny! I kid you not. I'm sorry, but reading that caused me to snort into my cup of tea. And then it caused me to think of writing a children's story based on a little tiny fairy-type creature called Jeannie McWheeny-Tweeny who lives in the sporran of a wee Scottish lassie called Joanie McWoany, who, because she lives in Scotland where there is a dearth of light, warmth and sunshine, is in a constant state of depression. And that her depression lifts when fairy Jeannie McWheeny-Tweeny emerges from the sporran releasing a huge shiny ray of sunshine and warmth. A bit like having your own portable light-box.
Well, it got me thinking about focusing on writing again, which has been let slip over the last few weeks mainly due to the exhaustion of teaching all day, getting involved in after-school drama activities and being fatefully caught up in a Grand Trine. So I went to Waterstones yesterday and bought a book of writing activities to get me back in the saddle so to speak. (I also bought the follow up book to 'The Morville Hours' which is called 'The Morville Year' which is a stonking good read and makes me want to move to Hereford/ Shropshire even more.)
'What about the article on the regional celebrations of the 'Lympic Games?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
Mrs Pumphrey has come into the Manor kitchen to assist in the extracting of the honey from the supers we brought home yesterday. Her method involves sitting beneath the colander with some bread and butter, catching the honey as it drips on the aforesaid bread and butter and then eating the bread and butter in the manner of a chicken who hasn't been fed for a fortnight.
'I was coming to that,' I say.
'Tell them about the three enormous crocheted lions,' says Mrs P.
'Well, you've just spoiled the story,' I say, crossly.
'Shall I carry on whilst you de-cross yourself?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'Yes,' I say.
'Well,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'Britain has been divided into twelve regions and each region has developed an arts project to celebrate the 'Lympic Games in July. And one region, I forget which, has decided its art project will be the crocheting of three enormous lions.'
'The story appears to have lost its sense of surprise and appeal,' I say, wearily.
'But you haven't heard what Mrs S and I are planning as our cultural arts event for the 'Lympics,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I think I'm going to stop eating honey now. I feel a bit sick.'
'Very wise,' I say. 'So what is the Much Malarkey Manor project going to be? Not that I care that much as I hate sport but I'll support you in your endeavours as my chickens and my friends.'
'Thank you kindly,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'We are going to...' (and she does a tinny drum roll on the side of the honey dripping colander) '...batik a thousand bats!'
'Not literally, I hope,' I say, thinking of the inevitable knock on the door and hefty fine from the British Wildlife Conservation Trust for Bats and Other Leathery Winged Creatures Like Pterydactyls Called Norbert.
'Of course not,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And if you are going to add asides, could you make them shorter, please, only they are interrupting the flow of my prose.'
'Do continue,' I say.
'The bees are going to provide the wax, and we're going to use natural dyes from the flowers in the garden,' continues Mrs P. 'And Tango Pete is donating the ball of rubber bands he's been collecting since 1983, in order for us to er...rubber band-up the fabric prior to dipping it in the dye.'
'And where is the fabric coming from?' I say.
'Ah,' says Mrs P. 'That's the cunning part. You know it's Spring?'
'Yes,' I say.
'What do cats do in Spring?'
'I daren't say,' I say.
Mrs Pumphrey gives me a stern look. 'They moult,' she says. 'And you have three cats which equals a lot of fur.'
'You're telling me,' I say, as I am in constant hoovering mode at the moment, and often leave the house with furry trousers.
'Well, Mrs Slocombe is collecting the fur...'
'Not from the hoover?'
'Might be...'
'Eeurgh....'
'And she has today begun weaving it into a luxurious fabric ready for the batiking thereof!' says Mrs Pumphrey.
I sit a few moments, in silence, pondering the wonder of it all.
'You see!!' shrieks Mrs Pumphrey. 'Everyone is contributing to the project! And by the end of July, one thousand bats will have batik jumpers made from cat fur fabric and bees wax, er...wax!'
'Do bats need jumpers in July?' I say. 'Furry jumpers?'
'They're getting them whether they like them or not,' says Mrs P. 'And I defy any of them to refuse.'
Indeed, I think. It will take a very brave bat to refuse a jumper from a chicken on a mission.
Today's blog was brought to you by Surreal Experiences.com - for all your Escape From the Real World needs.
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Sunday, 25 March 2012
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
The Much Malarkey Manor Guide to Quilting With Cats
Firstly, I should like to point out that the title does not imply that cats were used in the manufacture of a quilt; merely that they were present in the same room as the quilter i.e me when I was quilting.
1) Remove, with glee, from the packaging the fabric purchased with great excitement in an e-bay auction frenzy last week. Sigh with fond remembrance about how exciting e-bay auctions can be. Make note to have another go soon.
2) Sort through fabric - 10 different designs all sharing the same autumnal tones for easy matching and no dodgy colour clashes.
3) Sit on floor in living room surrounded by needlework accoutrements. Phoebe Cat immediately appears from nowhere and decides THE BEST place to have a sleep is right in the middle of the floor where you want to spread out your fabric. Atmosphere in room takes on the air of rigid dogma as neither cat nor human are willing to move elsewhere.
4) Faff about for a good half an hour deciding which fabric to match with which, and in which order to achieve most pleasing effect. Use the woman's perogative to change mind at least six times.
5) Decide on project outcome for patchwork. Options are a) table runner b) cushion cover c) a fancy doo-dah padded handrail cover for the bannister rail of newly decorated stairs. Decide on cushion cover as an easy-entry into the world of quilting as will probably get funny 'Why?' looks from hubbie and daughter if attach quilted hand-rail cover to bannister rail. Besides, the colours don't quite match the hall, it being eau-de-nil, them being autumnal. (Ooooooh, get her!)
6) Pandora Kitten appears at exactly the same second the sewing box is opened and attempts to remove all cotton reels from top tray. Firm application of the word 'NO!' is treated with disdain, as is attempted reprimanding waggle of the 'finger of doom.'
7) Attempts to arrange fabric squares in pattern are hindered by jumping Pandora Kitten and sleeping Phoebe Cat. Start to piece together fabric squares with Pandora Kitten attempting to chase end of cotton thread.
8) Finish a reel of cotton and use it in an cunning attempt to distract Pandora Kitten from further distruction by rolling it through hallway into kitchen. All cats like to play with cotton reels. Hubbie comments the novelty will soon wear off and she'll be back to loot sewing box for a new one. Poo-poo idea. Keep faith with the cat 'n' a cotton reel = hours of distracted fun theory.
9) Two minutes later, Pandora Kitten reappears to loot sewing box for new cotton reel. Remonstrate with Pandora Kitten for letting the side down. Make note never to trust Pandora Kitten ever, ever again.
10) Manage to sew together 12 of the 25 squares without incurring injury to either self or creature of feline persuasion. Find 'specs perched on end of nose' method works well. Makes one feel like a real granny.
11) Re-assemble remaining squares after pattern destroyed in unexpected hunting ambush by Pandora Kitten.
12) Go and cook dinner.
13) Return with new vigour and detemination to complete half a cushion cover by the time 'Gavin and Stacey Out Takes' comes on telly.
14) Phoebe Cat now awake. Without invitation, decides to test the completed section of cushion cover. Complains about lack of room and padding. Leaves in a huff, shedding fur all over the shop.
15) Pandora Kitten renews attack on remaining fabric. Decide it is well past Pandora Kitten's bedtime and consign her to kitchen.
16) Complete half a cushion cover in peace. Relative quiet punctuated only by one inadvertent stabbing of thumb with sewing needle resulting in mild blaspheme.
17) 'Gavin and Stacey Out Takes' very funny.
On reflection, sewing and cats do not mix. On reflection I do not care.
1) Remove, with glee, from the packaging the fabric purchased with great excitement in an e-bay auction frenzy last week. Sigh with fond remembrance about how exciting e-bay auctions can be. Make note to have another go soon.
2) Sort through fabric - 10 different designs all sharing the same autumnal tones for easy matching and no dodgy colour clashes.
3) Sit on floor in living room surrounded by needlework accoutrements. Phoebe Cat immediately appears from nowhere and decides THE BEST place to have a sleep is right in the middle of the floor where you want to spread out your fabric. Atmosphere in room takes on the air of rigid dogma as neither cat nor human are willing to move elsewhere.
4) Faff about for a good half an hour deciding which fabric to match with which, and in which order to achieve most pleasing effect. Use the woman's perogative to change mind at least six times.
5) Decide on project outcome for patchwork. Options are a) table runner b) cushion cover c) a fancy doo-dah padded handrail cover for the bannister rail of newly decorated stairs. Decide on cushion cover as an easy-entry into the world of quilting as will probably get funny 'Why?' looks from hubbie and daughter if attach quilted hand-rail cover to bannister rail. Besides, the colours don't quite match the hall, it being eau-de-nil, them being autumnal. (Ooooooh, get her!)
6) Pandora Kitten appears at exactly the same second the sewing box is opened and attempts to remove all cotton reels from top tray. Firm application of the word 'NO!' is treated with disdain, as is attempted reprimanding waggle of the 'finger of doom.'
7) Attempts to arrange fabric squares in pattern are hindered by jumping Pandora Kitten and sleeping Phoebe Cat. Start to piece together fabric squares with Pandora Kitten attempting to chase end of cotton thread.
8) Finish a reel of cotton and use it in an cunning attempt to distract Pandora Kitten from further distruction by rolling it through hallway into kitchen. All cats like to play with cotton reels. Hubbie comments the novelty will soon wear off and she'll be back to loot sewing box for a new one. Poo-poo idea. Keep faith with the cat 'n' a cotton reel = hours of distracted fun theory.
9) Two minutes later, Pandora Kitten reappears to loot sewing box for new cotton reel. Remonstrate with Pandora Kitten for letting the side down. Make note never to trust Pandora Kitten ever, ever again.
10) Manage to sew together 12 of the 25 squares without incurring injury to either self or creature of feline persuasion. Find 'specs perched on end of nose' method works well. Makes one feel like a real granny.
11) Re-assemble remaining squares after pattern destroyed in unexpected hunting ambush by Pandora Kitten.
12) Go and cook dinner.
13) Return with new vigour and detemination to complete half a cushion cover by the time 'Gavin and Stacey Out Takes' comes on telly.
14) Phoebe Cat now awake. Without invitation, decides to test the completed section of cushion cover. Complains about lack of room and padding. Leaves in a huff, shedding fur all over the shop.
15) Pandora Kitten renews attack on remaining fabric. Decide it is well past Pandora Kitten's bedtime and consign her to kitchen.
16) Complete half a cushion cover in peace. Relative quiet punctuated only by one inadvertent stabbing of thumb with sewing needle resulting in mild blaspheme.
17) 'Gavin and Stacey Out Takes' very funny.
On reflection, sewing and cats do not mix. On reflection I do not care.
Saturday, 4 September 2010
Cats on Heads
There is a picture on the front of the Guardian magazine today of Morrissey with a tabby cat perched on his head.
'Do you think that cat is really sitting on Morrissey's head, or has it been superimposed in some kind of digital camera trickery?' I say to Andy, studying the picture carefully.
Andy didn't know. I had a thought.
'I could start a new web-site called www.catsonyourhead.com,' I say. 'Where people could send in pictures of themselves with cats on their heads. '
'Yes,' says Andy. 'It could be the new global phenomenon. You could write a book about it, too, called 'A Cat on My Head. A bit like when Tony Hawkes travelled around Europe with a fridge.'
'Don't expect me to sit on your head,' says Mrs Miggins. 'I don't know where you've been.'
'Talking of books,' I say, 'next Christmas, not this one because this year is Nearly King Jimbo year, we could do a book based on all the chicken blogs.'
'Yes,' says Andy.
'I'll pass you the name of our agent,' says Mrs Miggins. 'You can negotiate publication rights with him.'
'It's not Tango Pete, is it?' I say. 'Besides, I am your agent. And you chickens would be nothing without me and my writing talent.'
'HA!' says Miggins. 'Don't you believe it. If us chickens weren't around you'd be staring into the back garden writing about the rotary drier or that flipping buddleia you try to murder ever year which still keeps coming back.'
'I could write a story about a rotary drier,' I say.
'It wouldn't be very entertaining,' says Mrs Miggins.
'It might be if it had a cat or two pegged to it in a force ten gale,' says Mrs Slocombe, who, I have to say, got a little too much pleasure from that story a couple of weeks ago about the woman who put the cat in the bin.
I go back to studying the picture of Morrissey and the cat. It looks real. The shadow on the wall behind them looks very convincing. The cat looks a little like Pandora. I toy with the idea of putting Pandora on my head and getting Andy to take a picture. But she can be a little too useful with her claws during the dismount process, can Pandora, and I'm wearing a nice white blousy thing today.
Phoebe would stay put if balanced on my head, because she rarely moves these days unless the vacuum cleaner is after her. But I fear putting Phoebe on my head would be akin to balancing a heavy concrete ball, and it would put my neck out. Tybalt would probably stay put,too; petrified with fear and wondering what in the name of Beelzebub I was doing.
Balancing a bee on my head would just be asking for trouble.
And I don't want to be responsible for encouraging people to force cats to sit on their heads when the cats don't want to. Looking at Morrissey and his cat, they are clearly in tune with each other and the cat is used to perching and staying put . It looks a bit bandy legged; perhaps it is a particularly old cat that will sit anywhere and can't be bothered to move a la Phoebe but not so fat. Or perhaps it's a cat with vertigo and is clinging on to Morrissey's scalp for dear life and the look on Morrissey's face isn't one of concentrated benigness, it's one of 'This friggin' hurts but I can't scream because I don't want Guardian readers to think I'm a great big wuss, especially given my history of gladioli swinging.'
Ah well. Perhaps I'll try it later. After all, I am feeling slightly numb on paint fumes at the moment. Andy has added to the undercoat aroma by transferring three gallons of wine from the bucket where it's been fermenting all week into the demi-johns where it will continue to ferment, for despite the exploding wine episode of last Saturday, he is still determined to build up a sizeable wine cellar for Christmas and no doubt get totally rat-arsed whilst watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special.
Which is understandable. I think I'd have to be pretty drunk to watch any more of Matt 'Potato Head' Smith playing the Doctor. Bring back Tennant, that's what I say.
Now, where have all the cats gone?
So that's our Christmas shopping dilemma sorted out for the next two years.
'Do you think that cat is really sitting on Morrissey's head, or has it been superimposed in some kind of digital camera trickery?' I say to Andy, studying the picture carefully.
Andy didn't know. I had a thought.
'I could start a new web-site called www.catsonyourhead.com,' I say. 'Where people could send in pictures of themselves with cats on their heads. '
'Yes,' says Andy. 'It could be the new global phenomenon. You could write a book about it, too, called 'A Cat on My Head. A bit like when Tony Hawkes travelled around Europe with a fridge.'
'Don't expect me to sit on your head,' says Mrs Miggins. 'I don't know where you've been.'
'Talking of books,' I say, 'next Christmas, not this one because this year is Nearly King Jimbo year, we could do a book based on all the chicken blogs.'
'Yes,' says Andy.
'I'll pass you the name of our agent,' says Mrs Miggins. 'You can negotiate publication rights with him.'
'It's not Tango Pete, is it?' I say. 'Besides, I am your agent. And you chickens would be nothing without me and my writing talent.'
'HA!' says Miggins. 'Don't you believe it. If us chickens weren't around you'd be staring into the back garden writing about the rotary drier or that flipping buddleia you try to murder ever year which still keeps coming back.'
'I could write a story about a rotary drier,' I say.
'It wouldn't be very entertaining,' says Mrs Miggins.
'It might be if it had a cat or two pegged to it in a force ten gale,' says Mrs Slocombe, who, I have to say, got a little too much pleasure from that story a couple of weeks ago about the woman who put the cat in the bin.
I go back to studying the picture of Morrissey and the cat. It looks real. The shadow on the wall behind them looks very convincing. The cat looks a little like Pandora. I toy with the idea of putting Pandora on my head and getting Andy to take a picture. But she can be a little too useful with her claws during the dismount process, can Pandora, and I'm wearing a nice white blousy thing today.
Phoebe would stay put if balanced on my head, because she rarely moves these days unless the vacuum cleaner is after her. But I fear putting Phoebe on my head would be akin to balancing a heavy concrete ball, and it would put my neck out. Tybalt would probably stay put,too; petrified with fear and wondering what in the name of Beelzebub I was doing.
Balancing a bee on my head would just be asking for trouble.
And I don't want to be responsible for encouraging people to force cats to sit on their heads when the cats don't want to. Looking at Morrissey and his cat, they are clearly in tune with each other and the cat is used to perching and staying put . It looks a bit bandy legged; perhaps it is a particularly old cat that will sit anywhere and can't be bothered to move a la Phoebe but not so fat. Or perhaps it's a cat with vertigo and is clinging on to Morrissey's scalp for dear life and the look on Morrissey's face isn't one of concentrated benigness, it's one of 'This friggin' hurts but I can't scream because I don't want Guardian readers to think I'm a great big wuss, especially given my history of gladioli swinging.'
Ah well. Perhaps I'll try it later. After all, I am feeling slightly numb on paint fumes at the moment. Andy has added to the undercoat aroma by transferring three gallons of wine from the bucket where it's been fermenting all week into the demi-johns where it will continue to ferment, for despite the exploding wine episode of last Saturday, he is still determined to build up a sizeable wine cellar for Christmas and no doubt get totally rat-arsed whilst watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special.
Which is understandable. I think I'd have to be pretty drunk to watch any more of Matt 'Potato Head' Smith playing the Doctor. Bring back Tennant, that's what I say.
Now, where have all the cats gone?
So that's our Christmas shopping dilemma sorted out for the next two years.
Friday, 4 December 2009
Brewin' and Freezin'
There are 40 pints of Christmas beer now brewing in their barrel in the downstairs bathroom. As Andy said when he inspected it this morning, 'It looks like one massive pint of Guinness.'
The making of the beer occurred last night and I have to say that the intial brewing stage smelled very pleasant and very Christmassy indeed. I think it was due to the copious use of cinnamon sticks, nutmeg, raisins, black treacle and oranges, and the fact the fermentation progress hadn't started. Anyway, Andy battled on for about an hour in the kitchen accompanied by various bangs and crashes and a certain amount of steam. My assistance was requested only once, when the contents of the preserving pan in which the aforesaid ingredients were being boiled needed straining into the fermentation bucket.
'What happens next?' I said To Andy.
'The brew has to be left for 4 to 6 days to ferment,' said Andy.
'Forty six days?' I said. 'That's never going to be ready in time for Christmas. More like Valentine's Day.'
'I said, four to six days,' said Andy. (Well, I had to get a pun in somewhere, didn't I?)
'Oh,' I said.'And then what?'
'Then it gets put into the pressure barrel,' said Andy.
I'm not liking the sound of a pressure barrel. Sounds too much like pressure cooker. My gran had a pressure cooker which, because she was fearless, she used a lot. But as a child, this piece of equipment used to scare me rigid and visions of my grandparent's house being sent skywards by an exploding pressure cooker frequented my dreams.
'A pressure barrel?' I said. 'Are you sure?'
'Oh yes,' said Andy. 'Definitely a pressure barrel.'
Note to self - line bathroom walls with super-strength and thoroughly absorbent kitchen roll. For I remember what happened with the elderflower champagne experiment earlier this year. You can still see the stains.
My part in the Christmas preparations is, as you can imagine, the gathering and preparation of food. I thought, I'd better defrost the freezer before I go shopping for goodies of the frozen ilk. I don't have a regular timetable for freezer defrostation; it generally happens when I can't slide out the ice cube tray with ease. And since that occurred somewhere back in July, a defrost is well overdue.
In order to defrost the freezer, I have to pull it out from its station 'neath the kitchen worktop to reach the plug and switch it off. As soon as the freezer is removed, this is the cue for the cats, i.e Phoebe the Fat, Tybalt the Tall and Pandora the Downright Nosey, to dive into the space left and get stuck under the kitchen cabinets. They then refuse to come out, and when they eventually do, they are covered in all kinds of under kitchen cabinet detritus which they then proceed to spread around the house.
So this morning I shooed them from the kitchen into the hallway, where they proceeded to sit with their noses pressed against the glass panels, and trying to form a kitty pyramid to reach the handle. Tybalt is actually very good at opening doors by swinging wildly on handles, so I had to work fast.
Freezer out, freezer switched off, freezer pushed back half way to prevent kitty intrusion of dark recesses of kitchen cabinets. Ha! Human overcomes cat!
'What's going on?' shouts Pandora, racing back into the kitchen. She investigates freezer baskets, ice cube trays and tries to get behind the semi-stuck out freezer.
'She's defrosting the freezer,' said Tybalt, who climbed on top of semi-stuck out freezer, then tried to get behind semi-stuck out freezer.
Phoebe remains silent, but immediately tries to get behind semi-stuck out freezer. Pandora diverts her attention from the freezer baskets and gets into freezer. Tybalt and Phoebe join her. I remove cats from freezer and replace with bowl of freshly boiled water to get the defrosting process underway. The freezer is more bunged up than I realised, and given it is a very cold day, this defrosting lark could be a long process.
Cats try to climb back in freezer with bowl of hot water. I remove cats. Cats climb on top of freezer and dangle over the edge, poking at drips that are starting to form as melting gets underway. Cats bat my hand as I scrape away with windscreen scraper meant for cars not freezers. I read somewhere you are supposed to use a spatula to scrape ice from freezers. I tried this method once. It was rubbish. Don't bother.
Cats vacate freezer zone briefly when I start using hair dryer to generate a bit of extra heat before realising the combo of a hairdryer in close proximity to a bowl of hot water is probably an unwise idea. Cats return and start patting water that is collecting in water collection receptacle placed on kitchen floor in front of freezer. Much malarkey ensues as cats continue to help defrost freezer.
But they soon get bored. Phoebe is now sleeping in the first sun we've had for what seems like months, Tybalt is sitting proprietorially on what is known as 'Tybalt's Step' by the telephone and Pandora is I don't know where but it's almost time for elevenses, and as soon as I open the biscuit tin, she'll appear because she is turning into a biscuit pest.
So not only are we Christmas tree shopping this weekend, we are also on the look out for a pressure barrel and food for the freezer.
Christmas Sausage making tonight. Hurrah!!
The making of the beer occurred last night and I have to say that the intial brewing stage smelled very pleasant and very Christmassy indeed. I think it was due to the copious use of cinnamon sticks, nutmeg, raisins, black treacle and oranges, and the fact the fermentation progress hadn't started. Anyway, Andy battled on for about an hour in the kitchen accompanied by various bangs and crashes and a certain amount of steam. My assistance was requested only once, when the contents of the preserving pan in which the aforesaid ingredients were being boiled needed straining into the fermentation bucket.
'What happens next?' I said To Andy.
'The brew has to be left for 4 to 6 days to ferment,' said Andy.
'Forty six days?' I said. 'That's never going to be ready in time for Christmas. More like Valentine's Day.'
'I said, four to six days,' said Andy. (Well, I had to get a pun in somewhere, didn't I?)
'Oh,' I said.'And then what?'
'Then it gets put into the pressure barrel,' said Andy.
I'm not liking the sound of a pressure barrel. Sounds too much like pressure cooker. My gran had a pressure cooker which, because she was fearless, she used a lot. But as a child, this piece of equipment used to scare me rigid and visions of my grandparent's house being sent skywards by an exploding pressure cooker frequented my dreams.
'A pressure barrel?' I said. 'Are you sure?'
'Oh yes,' said Andy. 'Definitely a pressure barrel.'
Note to self - line bathroom walls with super-strength and thoroughly absorbent kitchen roll. For I remember what happened with the elderflower champagne experiment earlier this year. You can still see the stains.
My part in the Christmas preparations is, as you can imagine, the gathering and preparation of food. I thought, I'd better defrost the freezer before I go shopping for goodies of the frozen ilk. I don't have a regular timetable for freezer defrostation; it generally happens when I can't slide out the ice cube tray with ease. And since that occurred somewhere back in July, a defrost is well overdue.
In order to defrost the freezer, I have to pull it out from its station 'neath the kitchen worktop to reach the plug and switch it off. As soon as the freezer is removed, this is the cue for the cats, i.e Phoebe the Fat, Tybalt the Tall and Pandora the Downright Nosey, to dive into the space left and get stuck under the kitchen cabinets. They then refuse to come out, and when they eventually do, they are covered in all kinds of under kitchen cabinet detritus which they then proceed to spread around the house.
So this morning I shooed them from the kitchen into the hallway, where they proceeded to sit with their noses pressed against the glass panels, and trying to form a kitty pyramid to reach the handle. Tybalt is actually very good at opening doors by swinging wildly on handles, so I had to work fast.
Freezer out, freezer switched off, freezer pushed back half way to prevent kitty intrusion of dark recesses of kitchen cabinets. Ha! Human overcomes cat!
'What's going on?' shouts Pandora, racing back into the kitchen. She investigates freezer baskets, ice cube trays and tries to get behind the semi-stuck out freezer.
'She's defrosting the freezer,' said Tybalt, who climbed on top of semi-stuck out freezer, then tried to get behind semi-stuck out freezer.
Phoebe remains silent, but immediately tries to get behind semi-stuck out freezer. Pandora diverts her attention from the freezer baskets and gets into freezer. Tybalt and Phoebe join her. I remove cats from freezer and replace with bowl of freshly boiled water to get the defrosting process underway. The freezer is more bunged up than I realised, and given it is a very cold day, this defrosting lark could be a long process.
Cats try to climb back in freezer with bowl of hot water. I remove cats. Cats climb on top of freezer and dangle over the edge, poking at drips that are starting to form as melting gets underway. Cats bat my hand as I scrape away with windscreen scraper meant for cars not freezers. I read somewhere you are supposed to use a spatula to scrape ice from freezers. I tried this method once. It was rubbish. Don't bother.
Cats vacate freezer zone briefly when I start using hair dryer to generate a bit of extra heat before realising the combo of a hairdryer in close proximity to a bowl of hot water is probably an unwise idea. Cats return and start patting water that is collecting in water collection receptacle placed on kitchen floor in front of freezer. Much malarkey ensues as cats continue to help defrost freezer.
But they soon get bored. Phoebe is now sleeping in the first sun we've had for what seems like months, Tybalt is sitting proprietorially on what is known as 'Tybalt's Step' by the telephone and Pandora is I don't know where but it's almost time for elevenses, and as soon as I open the biscuit tin, she'll appear because she is turning into a biscuit pest.
So not only are we Christmas tree shopping this weekend, we are also on the look out for a pressure barrel and food for the freezer.
Christmas Sausage making tonight. Hurrah!!
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Baby Face
Today I saw the first photos of Baby Bun Grand-child! Scan photos, of course, in glorious monochrome, but photos nevertheless and it was very exciting!
There were four altogether, strung in a line like the ones you have taken in a photobooth for your passport. Head facing towards us, then in profile, bum in the air and then casual recline position. Little hands, little feet, little head. Actually, the face one was a bit scary, being like a shadowy skeleton, but it was fascinating to see the nose, eyes and mouth and the way the skull bones are joining together at the top. I liked the profile one best - it looked like a broad bean with a retrousse nose.
Anyway, all is well and Baby Bun Grand-child is 16.8 cm tall. Quite a handful already.
I was at the allotment at just after 7.30 this morning. Things are starting to die back now but I was surprised to see the runner beans throwing up more flowers so perhaps there will be a secondary bean crop. I did some tidying, some digging and some weeding. And then I noticed I was being pursued by half a dozen wasps. I thought, I wonder what it is that's attracting them and then I realised that I was digging the area next to the raspberry bushes and every now and again I was pausing in my digging to nibble on a raspberry or five and they were being drawn to the scent I was making by picking the fruit. I picked cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage, beans, carrots, tomatoes, onions, peppers, chard and spinach and came home with two full bags of produce, the sun in my face and a feeling of oneness with vegetables.
Back home there was a fracas occuring in the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. I went to investigate and found the Misses Miggins, Pumphrey and Slocombe seeing off a tabby cat that had wandered haplessly into their domain.
'And don't come back!' yelled Mrs Miggins, dusting her wings together in a 'Job Well Done,' kind of way.
'Everything all right, ladies?' said I.
'It is now,' said they.
Chris and Leane popped around for lunch hence my viewing of Baby Bun Grand-child photos. At one point during their visit Chris said, 'Why do I feel like I'm being ganged up on when I come round here?' Bless him! He was in the company of his girlfriend, his mother and his sister all at the same time- how else does he expect to feel? But he got a cheese panini and a jam doughnut so it couldn't have been that bad an experience.
Ah doughnuts! I haven't had a proper jam doughnut for well, must be well over a year. When you make your own cakes you don't tend to get involved in the shop bought stuff but as my oven is still out of commission following Sunday's explosion and as I happened to be in Sainsbugs this morning I thought, I'll get some fresh jammy doughnuts as a treat. They were delicious. Mmmmmm...mmmmm....mm!
And Andy texted to say the operation he had to do on a cat's willy this morning went well and was only mildly traumatic. He showed me pictures in a text book last night of what he was going to do today and I never realised a cat's willy was such a complex organ. Fiddly, too, with lots of tiny, tiny component parts all flopping and dangling over each other.
'You really need delicate fairy fingers for this kind of malarkey, don't you?' I said.
Andy nodded. 'And patience.'
'Shall I come and mop your brow for you?' I said.
'If you like,' said Andy. 'As long as you promise not to take over.'
I wasn't sure if I could make this promise. It all looked very fascinating and as I pointed out, I am very nimble fingered, what with all the needlepoint I do.
'I bet I could give it a fair shot,' I said. 'You could stand at the side and call out the instructions.'
'Hmmmmm,' said Andy with a barely disguised air of uncertainty.
He's very clever, my husband.
And that's about it for today.
There were four altogether, strung in a line like the ones you have taken in a photobooth for your passport. Head facing towards us, then in profile, bum in the air and then casual recline position. Little hands, little feet, little head. Actually, the face one was a bit scary, being like a shadowy skeleton, but it was fascinating to see the nose, eyes and mouth and the way the skull bones are joining together at the top. I liked the profile one best - it looked like a broad bean with a retrousse nose.
Anyway, all is well and Baby Bun Grand-child is 16.8 cm tall. Quite a handful already.
I was at the allotment at just after 7.30 this morning. Things are starting to die back now but I was surprised to see the runner beans throwing up more flowers so perhaps there will be a secondary bean crop. I did some tidying, some digging and some weeding. And then I noticed I was being pursued by half a dozen wasps. I thought, I wonder what it is that's attracting them and then I realised that I was digging the area next to the raspberry bushes and every now and again I was pausing in my digging to nibble on a raspberry or five and they were being drawn to the scent I was making by picking the fruit. I picked cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage, beans, carrots, tomatoes, onions, peppers, chard and spinach and came home with two full bags of produce, the sun in my face and a feeling of oneness with vegetables.
Back home there was a fracas occuring in the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. I went to investigate and found the Misses Miggins, Pumphrey and Slocombe seeing off a tabby cat that had wandered haplessly into their domain.
'And don't come back!' yelled Mrs Miggins, dusting her wings together in a 'Job Well Done,' kind of way.
'Everything all right, ladies?' said I.
'It is now,' said they.
Chris and Leane popped around for lunch hence my viewing of Baby Bun Grand-child photos. At one point during their visit Chris said, 'Why do I feel like I'm being ganged up on when I come round here?' Bless him! He was in the company of his girlfriend, his mother and his sister all at the same time- how else does he expect to feel? But he got a cheese panini and a jam doughnut so it couldn't have been that bad an experience.
Ah doughnuts! I haven't had a proper jam doughnut for well, must be well over a year. When you make your own cakes you don't tend to get involved in the shop bought stuff but as my oven is still out of commission following Sunday's explosion and as I happened to be in Sainsbugs this morning I thought, I'll get some fresh jammy doughnuts as a treat. They were delicious. Mmmmmm...mmmmm....mm!
And Andy texted to say the operation he had to do on a cat's willy this morning went well and was only mildly traumatic. He showed me pictures in a text book last night of what he was going to do today and I never realised a cat's willy was such a complex organ. Fiddly, too, with lots of tiny, tiny component parts all flopping and dangling over each other.
'You really need delicate fairy fingers for this kind of malarkey, don't you?' I said.
Andy nodded. 'And patience.'
'Shall I come and mop your brow for you?' I said.
'If you like,' said Andy. 'As long as you promise not to take over.'
I wasn't sure if I could make this promise. It all looked very fascinating and as I pointed out, I am very nimble fingered, what with all the needlepoint I do.
'I bet I could give it a fair shot,' I said. 'You could stand at the side and call out the instructions.'
'Hmmmmm,' said Andy with a barely disguised air of uncertainty.
He's very clever, my husband.
And that's about it for today.
Saturday, 5 September 2009
The Darkest Hour is Before Dawn...
...or in this case, 3 a.m.
If I nod off half way through this post, give me a nudge, will you? Three o'clock this morning, I am SUDDENLY AWAKE! I'd like to report that it was due to another inspirational writing moment, but it wasn't. There was no reason other than my mind was in overload trying to sort out various ups and downs that occurred this week and it wasn't about to allow me to get my allotted sleepy-byes time.
Also, my tummy was growling, again for no apparent reason.
I lie awake for about half an hour and then, because I am aware I am doing the equivalent of a horizontal River Dance and am in danger of waking Andy, decide to go downstairs for a mug of mint tea and a read. I'm reading Hugh F-Ws book 'Hugh Fearlessly Eats It All,' at the mo and highly recommend it as an informative and highly entertaining little number. I adore Hugh even more now. Andy and I are going to try and adopt him. We think he would make an excellent addition to our household.
In the kitchen, the cats appear, blinking into the sudden fluorescence of the light.
'What's she doing now?' says Pandora.
'Making mint tea,' says Tybalt. 'Which means she will then go into the living room, wrap herself in her Celtic rug and do some reading.'
'Oooh goody!' says Pandora. 'Play time!'
I sip my tea and read for about an hour and then my eyelids start to flutter downwards. I think, am I going to actually sleep? Or am I going to thrash 'n' doze? It is half past four. I have an hour and a half for sleeping before getting up again to let the hens out of Cluckinghen Palace. Hmmmm...I decide to stay downstairs so I won't wake Andy.
Eyes lids very heavy. Droopy droop. Book slides from hands. Head tilts back and over to one side.
'Chomp, chomp chomp.'
The sound is Pandora eating Terwilliger, the big fern that resides atop the faux wood burning stove.
'Will you stop eating Terwilliger,' I hiss into the darkness. The chomping stops. For twenty seconds.
'Chomp, chomp, chomp.'
'I said stop it!'
'It's not me,' says Pandora. 'It's Phoebe.'
'If you two don't leave the plant alone, I'll shut you back in the kitchen,' I threaten.
Eyes close. Head tilts forward so chin is cushioned on jim-jammed bosom.
'Chomp, chomp, chomp...'
'RIGHT! That's it!' I say, leaping up and chasing Phoebe and Pandora into the kitchen. No sign of Tybalt. He is sensible. He knows the best way to maintain freedom from the kitchen is to keep schtumm.
Although heart is pounding at sudden exertion, the eyes are insisting on sleep. I re-snuggle under blanket and try to regain previous comfy cushion position.
Two minutes later...
'Scratch, scratch, scratch...'
'What the f...?' I say. (You're allowed to swear in the darkest hours. God says so.)
'It's Phoebe,' says Tybalt, appearing from the gloom of the hall. 'She's trying to scratch her way out of the kitchen because she knows you are still downstairs. Pandora is egging her on,' he adds as an after-thought.
I crash open the kitchen door.
'What??' I say. Somewhere outside a dog is yapping. Yap, frigging yappity yap. And then a car alarm goes off. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!
'Is it time for breakfast?' says Phoebe.
'No,' I say and return to the sofa, leaving the kitchen door open.
Sleep is calling. My tummy has been comforted and settled by the mint tea.
Ten minutes later my nostrils are assailed by the unmistakable aroma of a wee small hour cat-just-done-a-poop smell.
'Just making room for breakfast!' calls Phoebe cheerfully from the 'conservatory'.
Wearily, I get up and clean out litter tray.
It is a quarter to six. I am almost asleep.
'COWABUNGA!!!!' yells Pandora as she jumps full square onto my head. I wonder how many paracetemol I need to take to achieve that fine balance between deep sleep and coma.
6.15. Get up, release and feed chickens, all the while keeping my eyes closed.
'You look awful,' says Miggins. 'You should get more sleep.'
'I'VE JUST LAID AN EGG!' yells Mrs Slocombe.
And now it is just gone 11. I have been awake for 8 hours. In real sleep time this equates to 2 in the afternoon. At this rate I'll be up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire by 6 p.m.
'Could you keep the noise down?' says Phoebe as my fingers trip clumsily and noisily over the keyboard. 'Only I'm trying to sleep.'
'Me too,' yawns a dozy Pandora Kitten.
Hold me back, folks. Hold me back!
If I nod off half way through this post, give me a nudge, will you? Three o'clock this morning, I am SUDDENLY AWAKE! I'd like to report that it was due to another inspirational writing moment, but it wasn't. There was no reason other than my mind was in overload trying to sort out various ups and downs that occurred this week and it wasn't about to allow me to get my allotted sleepy-byes time.
Also, my tummy was growling, again for no apparent reason.
I lie awake for about half an hour and then, because I am aware I am doing the equivalent of a horizontal River Dance and am in danger of waking Andy, decide to go downstairs for a mug of mint tea and a read. I'm reading Hugh F-Ws book 'Hugh Fearlessly Eats It All,' at the mo and highly recommend it as an informative and highly entertaining little number. I adore Hugh even more now. Andy and I are going to try and adopt him. We think he would make an excellent addition to our household.
In the kitchen, the cats appear, blinking into the sudden fluorescence of the light.
'What's she doing now?' says Pandora.
'Making mint tea,' says Tybalt. 'Which means she will then go into the living room, wrap herself in her Celtic rug and do some reading.'
'Oooh goody!' says Pandora. 'Play time!'
I sip my tea and read for about an hour and then my eyelids start to flutter downwards. I think, am I going to actually sleep? Or am I going to thrash 'n' doze? It is half past four. I have an hour and a half for sleeping before getting up again to let the hens out of Cluckinghen Palace. Hmmmm...I decide to stay downstairs so I won't wake Andy.
Eyes lids very heavy. Droopy droop. Book slides from hands. Head tilts back and over to one side.
'Chomp, chomp chomp.'
The sound is Pandora eating Terwilliger, the big fern that resides atop the faux wood burning stove.
'Will you stop eating Terwilliger,' I hiss into the darkness. The chomping stops. For twenty seconds.
'Chomp, chomp, chomp.'
'I said stop it!'
'It's not me,' says Pandora. 'It's Phoebe.'
'If you two don't leave the plant alone, I'll shut you back in the kitchen,' I threaten.
Eyes close. Head tilts forward so chin is cushioned on jim-jammed bosom.
'Chomp, chomp, chomp...'
'RIGHT! That's it!' I say, leaping up and chasing Phoebe and Pandora into the kitchen. No sign of Tybalt. He is sensible. He knows the best way to maintain freedom from the kitchen is to keep schtumm.
Although heart is pounding at sudden exertion, the eyes are insisting on sleep. I re-snuggle under blanket and try to regain previous comfy cushion position.
Two minutes later...
'Scratch, scratch, scratch...'
'What the f...?' I say. (You're allowed to swear in the darkest hours. God says so.)
'It's Phoebe,' says Tybalt, appearing from the gloom of the hall. 'She's trying to scratch her way out of the kitchen because she knows you are still downstairs. Pandora is egging her on,' he adds as an after-thought.
I crash open the kitchen door.
'What??' I say. Somewhere outside a dog is yapping. Yap, frigging yappity yap. And then a car alarm goes off. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!
'Is it time for breakfast?' says Phoebe.
'No,' I say and return to the sofa, leaving the kitchen door open.
Sleep is calling. My tummy has been comforted and settled by the mint tea.
Ten minutes later my nostrils are assailed by the unmistakable aroma of a wee small hour cat-just-done-a-poop smell.
'Just making room for breakfast!' calls Phoebe cheerfully from the 'conservatory'.
Wearily, I get up and clean out litter tray.
It is a quarter to six. I am almost asleep.
'COWABUNGA!!!!' yells Pandora as she jumps full square onto my head. I wonder how many paracetemol I need to take to achieve that fine balance between deep sleep and coma.
6.15. Get up, release and feed chickens, all the while keeping my eyes closed.
'You look awful,' says Miggins. 'You should get more sleep.'
'I'VE JUST LAID AN EGG!' yells Mrs Slocombe.
And now it is just gone 11. I have been awake for 8 hours. In real sleep time this equates to 2 in the afternoon. At this rate I'll be up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire by 6 p.m.
'Could you keep the noise down?' says Phoebe as my fingers trip clumsily and noisily over the keyboard. 'Only I'm trying to sleep.'
'Me too,' yawns a dozy Pandora Kitten.
Hold me back, folks. Hold me back!
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Keep on Writing
One of the more thrilling aspects of being a writer (and I speak as someone entering her second official writing year) is that you get woken up at 3.30 in the morning with a set of words buzzing around your head, insisting upon being written down immediately. And you have to write them down because if you say to yourself 'Oh, I'll do it when I wake up properly,' you know blooming well that those words will vanish into the ether, never to be seen or heard of again. That is until they pitch up in a best selling novel by another writer a couple of years down the line, because believe me, once you get a plague of words, those words won't give up until they find a home with a writer somewhere, so best to make it you.
In order not to wake Andy on these occasions by pinging on the bedside light in the wee small hours, (and emitting a tiny 'eekkk!' because sometimes it gives me a little electric shock) I slide out of bed and stumble bleary eyed to either the bathroom or, if I'm feeling particularly brave, down the stairs to my writing room. I say 'brave' because in trying not to wake myself up too much, I try to keep eye openage to a minimum. This can make writing tricky but I usually manage to get the rampaging words down with reasonable legibility.
However, managing stairs in the dark with semi-open eyes and the possibility of coming across three cats on the prowl can turn into an extreme sport. Usually I find Tybalt asleep on the sofa in my writing room.
'More inspiration?' he'll say, peering at me from beneath his black silk with purple ribbon trim eye mask.
'Yes,' I say.
'Is it time for breakfast?' says Phoebe, staring at me plaintively and holding up her bowl like Oliver Twist.
'No,' I say.
'What are you doing? Can I do it? Do you need any help? Let me help!' says Pandora, whilst clinging onto my flappy jim-jam bottoms in a game of 'Sharp Cat Claw Meets Soft Human Flesh so Who Screams the Loudest?'
Words committed to paper I return to bed. When I wake again two or three hours later I re-read my nocturnal ramblings. Sometimes they make sense. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes I think, where is my brain coming from. Occasionally, I panic about where my brain is going to. But usually I am glad I answered the call to write, whatever time of day it occurs.
It's been a tricky slog with my writing these last five or six weeks. Not writer's block, you understand, because I don't think such a thing exists. No matter how dire it turns out, I can always find something to write, just to keep the writing cogs turning. It may have been a mix of personal crisis and loss of confidence. It may have been sheer out-of-steamness given the intense year of writing I have just completed.
But something lifted yesterday. The heavy cloud has gone. And today I find myself newly invigorated and raring to go again. Hence my 3.30 am date with my notebook this morning.
'Right,' said the words, 'we've got this idea. Pen and paper ready? Once upon a time...'
In order not to wake Andy on these occasions by pinging on the bedside light in the wee small hours, (and emitting a tiny 'eekkk!' because sometimes it gives me a little electric shock) I slide out of bed and stumble bleary eyed to either the bathroom or, if I'm feeling particularly brave, down the stairs to my writing room. I say 'brave' because in trying not to wake myself up too much, I try to keep eye openage to a minimum. This can make writing tricky but I usually manage to get the rampaging words down with reasonable legibility.
However, managing stairs in the dark with semi-open eyes and the possibility of coming across three cats on the prowl can turn into an extreme sport. Usually I find Tybalt asleep on the sofa in my writing room.
'More inspiration?' he'll say, peering at me from beneath his black silk with purple ribbon trim eye mask.
'Yes,' I say.
'Is it time for breakfast?' says Phoebe, staring at me plaintively and holding up her bowl like Oliver Twist.
'No,' I say.
'What are you doing? Can I do it? Do you need any help? Let me help!' says Pandora, whilst clinging onto my flappy jim-jam bottoms in a game of 'Sharp Cat Claw Meets Soft Human Flesh so Who Screams the Loudest?'
Words committed to paper I return to bed. When I wake again two or three hours later I re-read my nocturnal ramblings. Sometimes they make sense. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes I think, where is my brain coming from. Occasionally, I panic about where my brain is going to. But usually I am glad I answered the call to write, whatever time of day it occurs.
It's been a tricky slog with my writing these last five or six weeks. Not writer's block, you understand, because I don't think such a thing exists. No matter how dire it turns out, I can always find something to write, just to keep the writing cogs turning. It may have been a mix of personal crisis and loss of confidence. It may have been sheer out-of-steamness given the intense year of writing I have just completed.
But something lifted yesterday. The heavy cloud has gone. And today I find myself newly invigorated and raring to go again. Hence my 3.30 am date with my notebook this morning.
'Right,' said the words, 'we've got this idea. Pen and paper ready? Once upon a time...'
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Money Matters and So Does Poop
Just as I had got used to not being in paid employment, paid employment is coming to find me. I've already picked up a monthly tutoring session starting in September - and then yesterday my friend Jane called and asked if I could do something about her neck using massage.
'What have you done to it?' I asked.
'Oh, I don't know,' she said. 'But it's very stiff and knotty and it's becoming a permanent annoyance.'
'And how long has it been like it?' I asked.
'About a month,' she replied.
So I got out my massage couch, my almond oil and the lavender burner, Jane duly arrived and I pummelled and pressed her back, shoulders and neck until everything eased up.
'You should do this professionally,' she said as I was putting on the kettle for a cuppa. 'Now, how much do I owe you?'
'Don't be silly,' I said. 'I'm not going to charge you. You're one of my best friends.'
'Well, I'm going to pay you regardless,' she said.
'Okay, a fiver then,' I said.
Jane placed £20 on the table.
'No, no,' I said, because although that would have been the general going rate, you don't charge friends full whack when they insist on paying.
'I insist,' said Jane.
'So do I,' said I.
So we arm wrestled and settled on a tenner.
'I'm coming back for more,' she said. 'That was really good.'
Okay, I thought, as I was pondering this gradual turn of events that is happening in my life. Perhaps I'm supposed to do a little bit of tutoring and a little bit of massage therapy to support my writing. I can do that. It seems like the right thing to do.
We'd had an offer on the house earlier in the day. I didn't think the couple who came to view liked the place as the first thing the bloke said on seeing the living room was 'this is too small.' But it seems they liked it enough to consider buying. The offer they put in was rather low; we rejected immediately, having already decided on the minimum we were prepared to accept. The couple have gone away to 'have a think.' Whatever that means.
There's another viewing lined up for this afternoon and I am trying not to jump every time the phone rings.
'I am prepared to revise the minimum amount we are willing to accept,' said Andy, as he left for work this morning.
'I'm not,' I said,' I'm hoping to start a bidding war.'
Besides, I've done a boot fayre with Andy and I am fully aware how big a discount he is willing to consider to off-load our unwanted possessions.
'Of course we'll accept an offer of one hundred of your finest English pounds for our charming 3 bed semi,' I could hear him saying.
The man, as they say, needs watching...
Anyway, my other issue vis a vis house selling is the pooping of the cats. Because the cats are indoor cats, they have indoor toilet facilities. Their indoor toilet facilities are cleaned out daily, but that doesn't help when one of them decides to have a poop. Pandora isn't too bad; she's a first thing in the morning gal, so a quick dip with the pooper scooper sorts out her offering. Tybalt is more random but his poops aren't too niffy.
It's Madame Phoebe who causes me the biggest poop issues. Madame Phoebe is reliable with her pooping habits in that she will choose to poop either a) as we are about to eat a meal b) two minutes after we have started eating a meal c) ten minutes after a guest has arrived in the house d) three minutes after I've cleaned out the litter tray (or whilst I am cleaning out the litter tray if she can get away with it) and now e) 5 minutes before someone is due to view the house.
So yesterday I had to do a litter-tray-clean-out-and-air-freshen in three minutes flat with Phoebe sitting in the kitchen doorway looking at me a bit too smugly,I thought.
And as I don't like commercial aerosol air freshners because they just announce the fact that pooping has just occurred somewhere in the house by some creature or another, I have come up with a series of alternative aroma-poopa-disguisers. These are 1) a mug of freshly made hot coffee 2) a tin of beeswax furniture polish 3) an oil burner with lavender or rosemary or 4) constant baking of bread and cakes.
And keeping the conservatory windows open at all times.
Yesterday, our HIP arrived, in the form of a fairly thick A4 book. I had a bit of read. Very boring. Thin plot and no characterisation at all. And to think we paid £450+VAT for this pile of poo, I thought.
But then it's true, isn't it? That where there's muck, there's brass.
Today's blog was brought to you by 'Tying it in Tenuously, For All Your Tenous Blogging Needs.'
The managing director would like to apologise for the poor quality of this publication only she's bloomin' tired at the moment and really wants to sleep for a week and then some. Clever witticisms are the least of her current worries...
'What have you done to it?' I asked.
'Oh, I don't know,' she said. 'But it's very stiff and knotty and it's becoming a permanent annoyance.'
'And how long has it been like it?' I asked.
'About a month,' she replied.
So I got out my massage couch, my almond oil and the lavender burner, Jane duly arrived and I pummelled and pressed her back, shoulders and neck until everything eased up.
'You should do this professionally,' she said as I was putting on the kettle for a cuppa. 'Now, how much do I owe you?'
'Don't be silly,' I said. 'I'm not going to charge you. You're one of my best friends.'
'Well, I'm going to pay you regardless,' she said.
'Okay, a fiver then,' I said.
Jane placed £20 on the table.
'No, no,' I said, because although that would have been the general going rate, you don't charge friends full whack when they insist on paying.
'I insist,' said Jane.
'So do I,' said I.
So we arm wrestled and settled on a tenner.
'I'm coming back for more,' she said. 'That was really good.'
Okay, I thought, as I was pondering this gradual turn of events that is happening in my life. Perhaps I'm supposed to do a little bit of tutoring and a little bit of massage therapy to support my writing. I can do that. It seems like the right thing to do.
We'd had an offer on the house earlier in the day. I didn't think the couple who came to view liked the place as the first thing the bloke said on seeing the living room was 'this is too small.' But it seems they liked it enough to consider buying. The offer they put in was rather low; we rejected immediately, having already decided on the minimum we were prepared to accept. The couple have gone away to 'have a think.' Whatever that means.
There's another viewing lined up for this afternoon and I am trying not to jump every time the phone rings.
'I am prepared to revise the minimum amount we are willing to accept,' said Andy, as he left for work this morning.
'I'm not,' I said,' I'm hoping to start a bidding war.'
Besides, I've done a boot fayre with Andy and I am fully aware how big a discount he is willing to consider to off-load our unwanted possessions.
'Of course we'll accept an offer of one hundred of your finest English pounds for our charming 3 bed semi,' I could hear him saying.
The man, as they say, needs watching...
Anyway, my other issue vis a vis house selling is the pooping of the cats. Because the cats are indoor cats, they have indoor toilet facilities. Their indoor toilet facilities are cleaned out daily, but that doesn't help when one of them decides to have a poop. Pandora isn't too bad; she's a first thing in the morning gal, so a quick dip with the pooper scooper sorts out her offering. Tybalt is more random but his poops aren't too niffy.
It's Madame Phoebe who causes me the biggest poop issues. Madame Phoebe is reliable with her pooping habits in that she will choose to poop either a) as we are about to eat a meal b) two minutes after we have started eating a meal c) ten minutes after a guest has arrived in the house d) three minutes after I've cleaned out the litter tray (or whilst I am cleaning out the litter tray if she can get away with it) and now e) 5 minutes before someone is due to view the house.
So yesterday I had to do a litter-tray-clean-out-and-air-freshen in three minutes flat with Phoebe sitting in the kitchen doorway looking at me a bit too smugly,I thought.
And as I don't like commercial aerosol air freshners because they just announce the fact that pooping has just occurred somewhere in the house by some creature or another, I have come up with a series of alternative aroma-poopa-disguisers. These are 1) a mug of freshly made hot coffee 2) a tin of beeswax furniture polish 3) an oil burner with lavender or rosemary or 4) constant baking of bread and cakes.
And keeping the conservatory windows open at all times.
Yesterday, our HIP arrived, in the form of a fairly thick A4 book. I had a bit of read. Very boring. Thin plot and no characterisation at all. And to think we paid £450+VAT for this pile of poo, I thought.
But then it's true, isn't it? That where there's muck, there's brass.
Today's blog was brought to you by 'Tying it in Tenuously, For All Your Tenous Blogging Needs.'
The managing director would like to apologise for the poor quality of this publication only she's bloomin' tired at the moment and really wants to sleep for a week and then some. Clever witticisms are the least of her current worries...
Friday, 14 August 2009
Revamping the 'conservatory'
After I'd finished painting the technohub yesterday evening, there was a third of a tin of paint remaining. Hhmmmm, I thought. I could repaint the 'conservatory' with that.
Those of you who know Much Malarkey Manor will be aware that the 'conservatory' is a very grand term for what I would describe, if I was an estate agent, as a 'sun room' or 'lean-to'. I think calling a room where you can stand at the kitchen door and leap into the back garden in one enthusiastic bound a 'conservatory' is pushing the limits of description a little too far. However, that is what the estate agent who sold us this house called it, and so it has remained. (We added the inverted commas ourselves as a point of irony. No planning permission required.)
Re-painting the 'conservatory' however, required a bit of shifting and moving. This little space has become home to 2 cat litter trays, bags of chicken feed and cat litter, a desk, a kitchen trolley loaded with all sorts of gardening equipment and chicken potions, welly boots, bubble wrap and other things that we didn't quite know what else to do with. Andy was planning on taking the desk to the technohub to place with the desk already there thus creating an uberdesk, a bit like a Star Trek control panel. (If a picture of deep space appears in the window, I'll know that this was his motive all along.) The kitchen trolley I thought could go into the greenhouse, along with its assorted gardening equipment. Everything else I would deal with as I went along, mainly by shutting my eyes and chucking it in a bin bag.
All started well. Andy removed the desk, so I was able to clean one end and paint that with no problem.
And then the cats started taking an interest.
'What ya doin'?' asked Pandora, appearing around the corner of the kitchen door.
'Painting,' I said. 'And speak properly, please.'
'Is it like wallpapering?' said Pandora.
'No. It's much, much messier,' I said.
'In what manner?' asked Pandora. She was now sitting next to me on the floor where I was lying next to the skirting board trying to get a straight line with a much too big paint brush.
'In the manner of it being wetter and stickier and more attractive to cat fur,' I said.
'I can help if you like,' said Pandora.
'Thank you for kind offer,' I said,' but I can manage.'
'Ooooh, no need to get all huffy,' said Pandora.
'What's she doing?' asked Tybalt, appearing around the kitchen door.
'Getting all huffy,' said Pandora.
'I'm not getting huffy,' I said. A spider shot out from beneath the radiator and made me jump.
'SPIDER!!!!' yelled Tybalt and Pandora, and went in pursuit of it at the same time, caring not upon whom they trampled in their efforts to secure a piece of living protein.
I turfed the cats into the kitchen; a pointless pursuit as there is no door twixt it and the 'conservatory'. Pandora was back in a nano-second.
'What's that?' she said.
'It was the outlet pipe to the old tumble dryer,' I said. There is a hole the size of a saucer in the corner of the 'conservatory.' It is sealed from the outside but open from the inside. I'd had a quick look earlier on. It was full of dust, brick debris, dead spiders and hair. I'd quickly painted it over and left it.
'Ooh,' said Pandora,' does it go anywhere? Like Banarnia?'
'It's Narnia,' I said. 'And no,it doesn't its just...'
Too late. Pandora was into it head first.
'It's a bit dusty,' she shouted. 'And full of dead spiders.'
'Will you get out of there now,' I said.
And so she did. Covered in dust and debris and dead spiders and hair. And on her way out, she added a nice circle of wet paint, just to complete the look.
I stared at her and sighed.
'What?' she said. She looked like some raddled creature from the jungle. 'WHAT???'
And finally, a question to ponder over the weekend - 'Pumpkin - as big as my head? Or as big as Andy's?'
Those of you who know Much Malarkey Manor will be aware that the 'conservatory' is a very grand term for what I would describe, if I was an estate agent, as a 'sun room' or 'lean-to'. I think calling a room where you can stand at the kitchen door and leap into the back garden in one enthusiastic bound a 'conservatory' is pushing the limits of description a little too far. However, that is what the estate agent who sold us this house called it, and so it has remained. (We added the inverted commas ourselves as a point of irony. No planning permission required.)
Re-painting the 'conservatory' however, required a bit of shifting and moving. This little space has become home to 2 cat litter trays, bags of chicken feed and cat litter, a desk, a kitchen trolley loaded with all sorts of gardening equipment and chicken potions, welly boots, bubble wrap and other things that we didn't quite know what else to do with. Andy was planning on taking the desk to the technohub to place with the desk already there thus creating an uberdesk, a bit like a Star Trek control panel. (If a picture of deep space appears in the window, I'll know that this was his motive all along.) The kitchen trolley I thought could go into the greenhouse, along with its assorted gardening equipment. Everything else I would deal with as I went along, mainly by shutting my eyes and chucking it in a bin bag.
All started well. Andy removed the desk, so I was able to clean one end and paint that with no problem.
And then the cats started taking an interest.
'What ya doin'?' asked Pandora, appearing around the corner of the kitchen door.
'Painting,' I said. 'And speak properly, please.'
'Is it like wallpapering?' said Pandora.
'No. It's much, much messier,' I said.
'In what manner?' asked Pandora. She was now sitting next to me on the floor where I was lying next to the skirting board trying to get a straight line with a much too big paint brush.
'In the manner of it being wetter and stickier and more attractive to cat fur,' I said.
'I can help if you like,' said Pandora.
'Thank you for kind offer,' I said,' but I can manage.'
'Ooooh, no need to get all huffy,' said Pandora.
'What's she doing?' asked Tybalt, appearing around the kitchen door.
'Getting all huffy,' said Pandora.
'I'm not getting huffy,' I said. A spider shot out from beneath the radiator and made me jump.
'SPIDER!!!!' yelled Tybalt and Pandora, and went in pursuit of it at the same time, caring not upon whom they trampled in their efforts to secure a piece of living protein.
I turfed the cats into the kitchen; a pointless pursuit as there is no door twixt it and the 'conservatory'. Pandora was back in a nano-second.
'What's that?' she said.
'It was the outlet pipe to the old tumble dryer,' I said. There is a hole the size of a saucer in the corner of the 'conservatory.' It is sealed from the outside but open from the inside. I'd had a quick look earlier on. It was full of dust, brick debris, dead spiders and hair. I'd quickly painted it over and left it.
'Ooh,' said Pandora,' does it go anywhere? Like Banarnia?'
'It's Narnia,' I said. 'And no,it doesn't its just...'
Too late. Pandora was into it head first.
'It's a bit dusty,' she shouted. 'And full of dead spiders.'
'Will you get out of there now,' I said.
And so she did. Covered in dust and debris and dead spiders and hair. And on her way out, she added a nice circle of wet paint, just to complete the look.
I stared at her and sighed.
'What?' she said. She looked like some raddled creature from the jungle. 'WHAT???'
And finally, a question to ponder over the weekend - 'Pumpkin - as big as my head? Or as big as Andy's?'
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Doing the Rounds
It takes quite a while to perform the home farming duties at Much Malarkey Manor now, what with the various changes to hen accommodation and the addition of Pandora Trumpet Trousers to the equation.
Up at 6, it's open the South Wing, refill Slocombe/Poo water bowl, check status of food and replenish as necessary. Check nest box for eggs and state of straw. Then into the North Wing, open up the Dowager Cottage, refill Pumphrey/Miggins water bowl, check status of food and replenish if necessary. Add extra oyster shell and grit for Miggins. Check nest box for eggs and state of straw. Check hen health - feathers growing, eyes clean and bright, all clucking, all bottoms where they should be. Pick lettuce from Miggins's raised veg bed and add to chicken breakfast.
Water greenhouse plants. Check outdoor plants (Mother Nature is watering them at the moment so that saves me a job.) Pinch out side shoots of tomato plants, pick strawberries from hanging baskets.
Back in doors, it's refill cat water bowl and feed Tybalt and Phoebe. Into my writing room, release Pandora from her sleeping quarters, change litter, feed her kitten food. Chase after Pandora into kitchen as she turns nose up at kitten food in favour of proper grown up cat food. Swap grown up cat food bowl with kitten food bowl. Pandora eats. Phoebe returns for round two breakfast. Swap kitten food bowl for proper grown up cat food bowl. Pandora decides she hasn't had quite enough breakfast so swap grown up cat food bowl for kitten food bowl.
Pause to give back a rub. (Mine, not the cats.)
Tybalt wanders in. He has decided he likes kitten food. Swap kitten food bowl for grown up cat food bowl. Tybalt gives it a sniff and walks off with his nose in the air. Will return later when I've lost track of which bowl is currently available to which cats, in the hope of catching me out and getting the kitten food.
(We play swap the cat food bowls ALL DAY. I'm going to stop describing the whole rigmarole now as I think you've got the gist and are probably getting bored.)
Today was 'stir up the wormery' day. Generally, I find that engaging worms in a discussion about neo-classical art versus the merits of Picasso gets them sufficiently stirred up (the worms' eye view favours Picasso) but thought I ought to do the job properly today. Fetch wormery, don rubber gloves, give it all a good stir to add oxygen, add crushed up egg shells (you should see the size of the teeth on these worms - it's amazing what a bit of added calcium can do) , top off with fresh layer of damp newspaper, chuck in some more waste food (this morning - carrot peelings, a mouldy tomato, broccoli stalk and a couple of tea bags for luck), check sump and replace wormery.
And on top of all this, I am having to plan, very carefully, our meals for the week, nay FOREVER. This is because my brother, who is younger than me, had just been diagnosed with diabetes and has therefore flung me into another dread and fear panic vis a vis my health, Andy's health, everybody's health, we're all going to die, I'll never meet my grandchildren unless our spirits cross in the ether whilst I'm going up to heaven and they are coming down, oh my God, we're all DOOOOOOOOOMED!! I called Heather yesterday who is ill and sounds awful. I said 'Go to the doctor, just so I can be reassured you haven't got dengai fever or however you spell it.' I shall be calling her later today to check she has followed orders and woe betide her if she hasn't.
So I'm trying to make sure Andy and I eat healthy well-balanced meals. I mean, REALLY trying, and not trying for a bit and then giving up and eating cake. Poor Andy. Not only is he highly stressed at work at the moment (I know this because he was on the interwebbly looking at jobs on Monday night and it is a rare thing for him to do this. He also mentioned moving to France again so things must be bad), he can't come home and eat cake for comfort.
'Have a yogurt,' I say, 'or a banana. Bananas are good for potassium which is good for your blood pressure,' but I can see in his eyes that neither yogurt or banana, no matter how much potassium it contains, is no recompense for a slice of chocolate chip and banana cake, or lemon cake, or chocolate fudge cake. It's been like looking at a starving puppy dog.
So here I am at nearly 10 a.m and I haven't even started writing yet. I've been given another book title by the writing genie, which is - 'Merrily, Kissed by An Angel' - which I had to start over the weekend despite 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' being only half complete, because when I get given a title, the writing genie makes me sit down and write, write, write on the back of the new title until I've got at least 3,000 words under the belt, just so I don't lose the idea. (This would make the writing genie tut and sigh and say, 'Am I wasting my breath?') And I must remember to do some more anatomy revision today, too.
My cousin popped in for a visit yesterday. 'Don't you get bored, being at home on your own all day?' she asked.
I nearly fell off my chair laughing.
Up at 6, it's open the South Wing, refill Slocombe/Poo water bowl, check status of food and replenish as necessary. Check nest box for eggs and state of straw. Then into the North Wing, open up the Dowager Cottage, refill Pumphrey/Miggins water bowl, check status of food and replenish if necessary. Add extra oyster shell and grit for Miggins. Check nest box for eggs and state of straw. Check hen health - feathers growing, eyes clean and bright, all clucking, all bottoms where they should be. Pick lettuce from Miggins's raised veg bed and add to chicken breakfast.
Water greenhouse plants. Check outdoor plants (Mother Nature is watering them at the moment so that saves me a job.) Pinch out side shoots of tomato plants, pick strawberries from hanging baskets.
Back in doors, it's refill cat water bowl and feed Tybalt and Phoebe. Into my writing room, release Pandora from her sleeping quarters, change litter, feed her kitten food. Chase after Pandora into kitchen as she turns nose up at kitten food in favour of proper grown up cat food. Swap grown up cat food bowl with kitten food bowl. Pandora eats. Phoebe returns for round two breakfast. Swap kitten food bowl for proper grown up cat food bowl. Pandora decides she hasn't had quite enough breakfast so swap grown up cat food bowl for kitten food bowl.
Pause to give back a rub. (Mine, not the cats.)
Tybalt wanders in. He has decided he likes kitten food. Swap kitten food bowl for grown up cat food bowl. Tybalt gives it a sniff and walks off with his nose in the air. Will return later when I've lost track of which bowl is currently available to which cats, in the hope of catching me out and getting the kitten food.
(We play swap the cat food bowls ALL DAY. I'm going to stop describing the whole rigmarole now as I think you've got the gist and are probably getting bored.)
Today was 'stir up the wormery' day. Generally, I find that engaging worms in a discussion about neo-classical art versus the merits of Picasso gets them sufficiently stirred up (the worms' eye view favours Picasso) but thought I ought to do the job properly today. Fetch wormery, don rubber gloves, give it all a good stir to add oxygen, add crushed up egg shells (you should see the size of the teeth on these worms - it's amazing what a bit of added calcium can do) , top off with fresh layer of damp newspaper, chuck in some more waste food (this morning - carrot peelings, a mouldy tomato, broccoli stalk and a couple of tea bags for luck), check sump and replace wormery.
And on top of all this, I am having to plan, very carefully, our meals for the week, nay FOREVER. This is because my brother, who is younger than me, had just been diagnosed with diabetes and has therefore flung me into another dread and fear panic vis a vis my health, Andy's health, everybody's health, we're all going to die, I'll never meet my grandchildren unless our spirits cross in the ether whilst I'm going up to heaven and they are coming down, oh my God, we're all DOOOOOOOOOMED!! I called Heather yesterday who is ill and sounds awful. I said 'Go to the doctor, just so I can be reassured you haven't got dengai fever or however you spell it.' I shall be calling her later today to check she has followed orders and woe betide her if she hasn't.
So I'm trying to make sure Andy and I eat healthy well-balanced meals. I mean, REALLY trying, and not trying for a bit and then giving up and eating cake. Poor Andy. Not only is he highly stressed at work at the moment (I know this because he was on the interwebbly looking at jobs on Monday night and it is a rare thing for him to do this. He also mentioned moving to France again so things must be bad), he can't come home and eat cake for comfort.
'Have a yogurt,' I say, 'or a banana. Bananas are good for potassium which is good for your blood pressure,' but I can see in his eyes that neither yogurt or banana, no matter how much potassium it contains, is no recompense for a slice of chocolate chip and banana cake, or lemon cake, or chocolate fudge cake. It's been like looking at a starving puppy dog.
So here I am at nearly 10 a.m and I haven't even started writing yet. I've been given another book title by the writing genie, which is - 'Merrily, Kissed by An Angel' - which I had to start over the weekend despite 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' being only half complete, because when I get given a title, the writing genie makes me sit down and write, write, write on the back of the new title until I've got at least 3,000 words under the belt, just so I don't lose the idea. (This would make the writing genie tut and sigh and say, 'Am I wasting my breath?') And I must remember to do some more anatomy revision today, too.
My cousin popped in for a visit yesterday. 'Don't you get bored, being at home on your own all day?' she asked.
I nearly fell off my chair laughing.
Monday, 8 June 2009
Useful things to do with a kitten including musical theatre
I sometimes stand in the kitchen and look at the fridge. It is a big fridge - one of those tall jobbies with no pointless icebox taking up valuable courgette storage space in the summer and goose storing space at Christmas. It fits very snugly between two pull out larders with a bridging cupboard over the top. I think, 'I ought to pull the fridge out and clean/ dust/ hoover/ sandblast under and behind it.'
But it is a big fridge, which would require much huffing and puffing and heaving to shift it, especially as I am a mere girl, with girly muscles and lacking in any technical-mindedness. And then I would have to avoid dropping it on Phoebe and Tybalt who make it their mission to get under my feet when I'm pulling the freezer out for a clean and defrost and our freezer is only half the size of the enormous fridge so you can imagine the chaos, can't you?
I've tried to get various implements down the tiny gaps either side of the fridge. Mop, broom, hoover crevice nozzle, j-cloth-on-a-stick, cotton bud, but to no effective avail.
What I've never tried is a kitten.
Kittens work very well. Firstly, they are tiny, bendy and stretchy and can make themselves long and thin and get into all awkward spaces. Secondly, they are covered in fur which gathers up all sorts of fluff, dust, cobwebs, dried apple cores, stray cereal and sunflower seeds and other unmentionables that have succumbed to various stages of decay. Thirdly, they think it's a great game to be going places that they shouldn't be going, so the more you say 'Pandora, come out of there IMMEDIATELY,' the more Pandora will not do as she is told and the cleaner your gaps between the enormous fridge and the cupboards will become.
You see, it works on so many levels. All you have to do is catch the kitten as she exits the fridge/cupboard gap before she rushes off to spread detritus around the rest of the house, give her a bit of a shake and a brush and everyone is happy. Pandora has had fun learning more about the world she has lived in for a mere 9 weeks, I've saved my back from having to heave an enormous fridge half-way across the kitchen and Phoebe and Tybalt have escaped Death-by-Fridge Crushing.
'It's cheap labour,' says Tybalt, who is starting to take a bit of a shine to Pandora because a) she is showing 'race-around-the-house-like-a-loon' potential and b) she spends a lot of time following him around and gazing adoringly at him, my hero-like.
'And what's wrong with that?' says Phoebe, who shows turns of speed only when she is being chased by Tybalt or has had a sniff of catnip.
'Well, it's not right, is it?' says Tybalt. 'It's all a bit Victorian sending-the-child-up-the-chimney, isn't it? We're in the 21st century now. We should be valuing our young. Every Kitten Matters, and all that.'
Phoebe eyes the chimney in the living room. 'There's a thought,' she says to herself and gives a quiet chuckle 'MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'
'What's so funny?' says Pandora, returning from her latest game of 'let's play behind the enormous fridge with the dust bunnies.'
'Nothing, nothing,' says Phoebe. 'Tell me, do you like musical theatre?'
'Ooooh yes,' says Pandora. 'I love 'Annie.' THE SUN'LL COME OUT, TOMORRA! BETCHA BOTTOM DOLLAR THAT TOMORRA....'
'Yes, yes,' says Phoebe. 'What about er, 'Mary Poppins', for another example?'
Pandora shrugs. 'Dunno,' she says, 'not heard of that one. I like 'The Sound of Music.' HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE PANDORAAAAAAAAA? HOW DO YOU CATCH A CAT AND PIN HER DOOOOOOOOOWN!!!? HOW DO YOU...'
'You've never heard of Mary Poppins?' says Phoebe, amazed, because it's her very favourite, even more so than Starlight Express. (I bet you thought I was going to say 'Cats'? Come on now, I wouldn't be THAT obvious, would I?)
'No, but I've heard of cows,' says Pandora, 'ahahahahahahaha!'
Phoebe sighs. 'That joke's already been covered at Much Malarkey Manor. I suggest you do a bit of back reading to avoid any more social faux pas.'
'AND NOOOOOOOOW IIIIIIIIIIIIIIT'S..........SPRING-TIME.....FOR HITLER....IN GERRRRMANEEEEEEEEEEE....'sings Pandora. 'I love 'The Producers' too. Especially 'Haben sie gerhert das Deutscher Band? MIT A BOOM, MIT A BANG, MIT A BIM-BAM-BIM-BAM BOOOOOOM!!!!'
Phoebe looks at Tybalt and Tybalt looks at the Phoebe. For the first time in many years, united they stand. Or sit, in Phoebe's case.
'She's going to be hard work, isn't she?' says Phoebe.
Tybalt nods. 'I don't think you should tell Denise you are planning to teach her 'Chim-chimminey, chim-chimminey, chim-chim cheree,' though, ' he says.
But it is a big fridge, which would require much huffing and puffing and heaving to shift it, especially as I am a mere girl, with girly muscles and lacking in any technical-mindedness. And then I would have to avoid dropping it on Phoebe and Tybalt who make it their mission to get under my feet when I'm pulling the freezer out for a clean and defrost and our freezer is only half the size of the enormous fridge so you can imagine the chaos, can't you?
I've tried to get various implements down the tiny gaps either side of the fridge. Mop, broom, hoover crevice nozzle, j-cloth-on-a-stick, cotton bud, but to no effective avail.
What I've never tried is a kitten.
Kittens work very well. Firstly, they are tiny, bendy and stretchy and can make themselves long and thin and get into all awkward spaces. Secondly, they are covered in fur which gathers up all sorts of fluff, dust, cobwebs, dried apple cores, stray cereal and sunflower seeds and other unmentionables that have succumbed to various stages of decay. Thirdly, they think it's a great game to be going places that they shouldn't be going, so the more you say 'Pandora, come out of there IMMEDIATELY,' the more Pandora will not do as she is told and the cleaner your gaps between the enormous fridge and the cupboards will become.
You see, it works on so many levels. All you have to do is catch the kitten as she exits the fridge/cupboard gap before she rushes off to spread detritus around the rest of the house, give her a bit of a shake and a brush and everyone is happy. Pandora has had fun learning more about the world she has lived in for a mere 9 weeks, I've saved my back from having to heave an enormous fridge half-way across the kitchen and Phoebe and Tybalt have escaped Death-by-Fridge Crushing.
'It's cheap labour,' says Tybalt, who is starting to take a bit of a shine to Pandora because a) she is showing 'race-around-the-house-like-a-loon' potential and b) she spends a lot of time following him around and gazing adoringly at him, my hero-like.
'And what's wrong with that?' says Phoebe, who shows turns of speed only when she is being chased by Tybalt or has had a sniff of catnip.
'Well, it's not right, is it?' says Tybalt. 'It's all a bit Victorian sending-the-child-up-the-chimney, isn't it? We're in the 21st century now. We should be valuing our young. Every Kitten Matters, and all that.'
Phoebe eyes the chimney in the living room. 'There's a thought,' she says to herself and gives a quiet chuckle 'MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'
'What's so funny?' says Pandora, returning from her latest game of 'let's play behind the enormous fridge with the dust bunnies.'
'Nothing, nothing,' says Phoebe. 'Tell me, do you like musical theatre?'
'Ooooh yes,' says Pandora. 'I love 'Annie.' THE SUN'LL COME OUT, TOMORRA! BETCHA BOTTOM DOLLAR THAT TOMORRA....'
'Yes, yes,' says Phoebe. 'What about er, 'Mary Poppins', for another example?'
Pandora shrugs. 'Dunno,' she says, 'not heard of that one. I like 'The Sound of Music.' HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE PANDORAAAAAAAAA? HOW DO YOU CATCH A CAT AND PIN HER DOOOOOOOOOWN!!!? HOW DO YOU...'
'You've never heard of Mary Poppins?' says Phoebe, amazed, because it's her very favourite, even more so than Starlight Express. (I bet you thought I was going to say 'Cats'? Come on now, I wouldn't be THAT obvious, would I?)
'No, but I've heard of cows,' says Pandora, 'ahahahahahahaha!'
Phoebe sighs. 'That joke's already been covered at Much Malarkey Manor. I suggest you do a bit of back reading to avoid any more social faux pas.'
'AND NOOOOOOOOW IIIIIIIIIIIIIIT'S..........SPRING-TIME.....FOR HITLER....IN GERRRRMANEEEEEEEEEEE....'sings Pandora. 'I love 'The Producers' too. Especially 'Haben sie gerhert das Deutscher Band? MIT A BOOM, MIT A BANG, MIT A BIM-BAM-BIM-BAM BOOOOOOM!!!!'
Phoebe looks at Tybalt and Tybalt looks at the Phoebe. For the first time in many years, united they stand. Or sit, in Phoebe's case.
'She's going to be hard work, isn't she?' says Phoebe.
Tybalt nods. 'I don't think you should tell Denise you are planning to teach her 'Chim-chimminey, chim-chimminey, chim-chim cheree,' though, ' he says.
Friday, 6 February 2009
Pester Power
For Christmas, we bought our cats a new scratching post. Not any old scratching post, oh no! This is the Rolls Royce of scratching posts. Three storeys high, covered in fur fabric with balls attached to elastic and tiny toy mice hiding in holes, it has proved to be a hugh source of entertainment for Phoebs and Tybs. Phoebe has taken possession of the lowest tier. She has arranged one of Andy's old jumpers, nest-like, between the three uprights that support the whole structure and that is where she spends a vast majority of her day sleeping. Tybalt perches on the second tier, casually dangling a paw over the edge so he can poke at Phoebe if he is feeling in a particularly minxy mood. The second tier gives him easy access to the balls-on-elastic-on- a-tree type appendage and sometimes he sits there twanging the balls a la Swingball.
The third tier is in the shape of a giant cat paw and is used occasionally by either cat. It is on a level with the kitchen worktops so provides Phoebe with easy access to the upper levels of the kitchen and saves her having to struggle onto a chair and then wobble precariously for half an hour on the back of said chair whilst she decides if she can make the eight inch leap forward or whether she will plunge to certain death below. Generally, this state of affairs reaches the point where neither Andy or I can bear it any longer and we pick her up and put her back on the floor which brings about much angry tail lashing because she has to start the whole process again. In this mood, she reminds of a Peanuts cartoon I once saw of Charlie Brown picking up a stone and throwing it into the sea. Linus looks at him and says 'It took 10,000 years for that pebble to make it up the beach.'
To go with the scratch post we also got them a giant kipper-sized kipper that is filled with cat-nip. Tybalt goes mental for catnip. He indulges in much kipper wrestling with the cat-nip filled kipper and it's starting to look a bit raddled. It's also absorbed a lot of cat spit as kipper wrestling makes Tybalt produce excessive amounts of saliva. Phoebe prefers a smaller catnip toy in the shape of a pepper. She will carry this around as if it is a kitten, whilst making odd miaowing sounds at the same time which suggests to me she may have some latent ventriloquist talent. She's doing it right now. She looks a right numpty.
So last night, Andy arrived home from work with a big bunch of flowers for me because he said I'd been looking sad for a few days (what a lovely, lovely man I have! And no, he's mine, all mine and you can't have him, so get back!) and a pot of catnip bubbles for the cats. He blows a few bubbles as I am dishing up dinner. Tybalt watches bubbles. Tybalt pats a couple of bubbles. Tybalt leaps into air at bubbles. Tybalt goes cat-nip bubble crazy. Tybalt pesters us incessantly for the rest of the evening. 'Blow me MORE cat-nip bubbles. NOW!' he says. 'MORE, MORE, MORE!!!!' It's like having a toddler in the house again.
And did you know that when cat-nip bubbles land on the floor they make a really loud 'POP!' ?? 'POP DIDDLY POP POP POP!' they go like soapy rice krispies attached to megaphones. I kid you not. They're not the kind of bubbles you'd want to blow if, for example, you were a burglar. Half -way through helping yourself to someone else's property you might see this pot of bubbles and think, 'I'll just blow a couple of bubbles before I make off with my swag.' Well, think again. Because if you did, everyone in the house would be awake in a nano-second, disturbed by the noise the cat-nip bubbles make as they land. No, my moronic low-life, burglar friend. Cat-nip bubbles would be your downfall.
I have to go now. Tybalt is sitting in front of me, his nose five inches from my face. He is staring really hard. He's got that catnip crazy look in his eyes.
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The third tier is in the shape of a giant cat paw and is used occasionally by either cat. It is on a level with the kitchen worktops so provides Phoebe with easy access to the upper levels of the kitchen and saves her having to struggle onto a chair and then wobble precariously for half an hour on the back of said chair whilst she decides if she can make the eight inch leap forward or whether she will plunge to certain death below. Generally, this state of affairs reaches the point where neither Andy or I can bear it any longer and we pick her up and put her back on the floor which brings about much angry tail lashing because she has to start the whole process again. In this mood, she reminds of a Peanuts cartoon I once saw of Charlie Brown picking up a stone and throwing it into the sea. Linus looks at him and says 'It took 10,000 years for that pebble to make it up the beach.'
To go with the scratch post we also got them a giant kipper-sized kipper that is filled with cat-nip. Tybalt goes mental for catnip. He indulges in much kipper wrestling with the cat-nip filled kipper and it's starting to look a bit raddled. It's also absorbed a lot of cat spit as kipper wrestling makes Tybalt produce excessive amounts of saliva. Phoebe prefers a smaller catnip toy in the shape of a pepper. She will carry this around as if it is a kitten, whilst making odd miaowing sounds at the same time which suggests to me she may have some latent ventriloquist talent. She's doing it right now. She looks a right numpty.
So last night, Andy arrived home from work with a big bunch of flowers for me because he said I'd been looking sad for a few days (what a lovely, lovely man I have! And no, he's mine, all mine and you can't have him, so get back!) and a pot of catnip bubbles for the cats. He blows a few bubbles as I am dishing up dinner. Tybalt watches bubbles. Tybalt pats a couple of bubbles. Tybalt leaps into air at bubbles. Tybalt goes cat-nip bubble crazy. Tybalt pesters us incessantly for the rest of the evening. 'Blow me MORE cat-nip bubbles. NOW!' he says. 'MORE, MORE, MORE!!!!' It's like having a toddler in the house again.
And did you know that when cat-nip bubbles land on the floor they make a really loud 'POP!' ?? 'POP DIDDLY POP POP POP!' they go like soapy rice krispies attached to megaphones. I kid you not. They're not the kind of bubbles you'd want to blow if, for example, you were a burglar. Half -way through helping yourself to someone else's property you might see this pot of bubbles and think, 'I'll just blow a couple of bubbles before I make off with my swag.' Well, think again. Because if you did, everyone in the house would be awake in a nano-second, disturbed by the noise the cat-nip bubbles make as they land. No, my moronic low-life, burglar friend. Cat-nip bubbles would be your downfall.
I have to go now. Tybalt is sitting in front of me, his nose five inches from my face. He is staring really hard. He's got that catnip crazy look in his eyes.
Royalty Free Music and Sound Effects Download the music and sound effects you need for your multimedia project today at Partners In Rhyme.
Monday, 2 February 2009
The Indoor Water Feature
There's only one water feature that I want and that's a duck pond with ducks on it. And geese. Preferably outside. So I was none to pleased to find a puddle in the kitchen this morning. I was pleased, though, that I was wearing my most absorbent socks.
'Before you start casting aspertions,' says Tybalt, 'it wasn't me.'
And I knew it wasn't Phoebe because we regularly do our pelvic floor exercises together to 'Queen's Greatest Hits' and our bladders are as watertight as a crocodile's backside.
I call up to Andy. 'We've got a puddle in the kitchen.'
'Was it your cat?' he called back.
'No,' I say.
'Was it mine?'
'Again, no.'
'So it's water then?'
'I imagine so,' I say.
A big sigh ensues followed by mutterings about 'that flippin' washing machine.'
We've lived in this house more than four years now and we've always had troubles with leaky washing machines. Not massive flooding, but the occasional dribble that causes much anxiety and a damp floor. The leaks generally occur on Sundays or Bank Holidays when calling a plumber would be cost prohibitive so we've become adept at mending leaks ourselves with anything from insulating tape to treacle. This particular leak had co-incided with a heavy snow fall. I go outside to release the hens from their Eglu whilst I consider the problem. Mrs Miggins stands in the doorway.
'What' s this?' she says, eyeing the ground suspiciously.
'It's snow. You've experienced snow before,' I say.
'Not this deep I haven't,' says Miggins. 'If I step into this I'll disappear up to my buttocks.'
'OUT YOU GO!' yells Mrs Poo who had been standing impatiently behind Miggins. She gives her a good hard shove and Miggins is flung unceremoniously into the drift. Poo, Pumphrey and Slocombe stampede over her, springboard style, thereby avoiding the snow and landing safely on the ground that is under the raincover and therefore snow-free. And then Pumphrey stampedes back over her again into the nest box due to the imminent arrival of an egg. Miggins gives me a look that says 'I told you so,' and goes into the greenhouse where she keeps her supply of dry long-johns.
Back in the kitchen Tybalt is standing by the washing machine with a Jack Russell terrier. The Jack Russell is wearing a flat cap. He's scratching his head and sucking breath in through his teeth.
'This is Nugent,' says Tybalt. 'He's my plumber.'
'You have a plumber?' I say.
'Well, I know I'm highly talented in many areas,' says Tybalt, 'but I think plumbing the jacuzzi into my bachelor pad is beyond even my capabilities.'
I'd been meaning to have words with Tybalt about his Jacuzzi plans. I've tolerated the arrival of the snooker table and the juke box, but Jacuzzis= more water problems.
Nugent has stopped sucking breath through his teeth and is now tutting.
'What do you reckon, Nuge?' says Tybalt.
'Floor'll 'ave t' come oop,' says Nugent. I look in dismay at my lovely and only recently laid tiled floor.
'Ist damp outside?' continues Nugent.
'Of course it's damp outside,' I snap. 'It's snowing.'
'Ah well, there's yer problem,' says Nugent. 'I reckons you've got an underground water table flooding problem. Flood plain here, is it?'
'No, of course it isn't,' I say. 'We're on a hill.'
'Well, y'say you're on a hill,' says Nugent. 'But are y' really?'
'Yes,' I say firmly, because we are. 'And I think the problem is the washing machine. I expect the inlet pipe has juggled itself loose again.'
Nugent laughs loudly. 'Oh, you ladies,' he says. 'Always comin' oop with simple answers t' complicated plumbing problems. ' He prods Tybalt in the ribs and tips him a manly wink. Tybalt gives a nervous laugh. I pick Mr Nugent up by his collar and dump him outside the front door into the snow.
'Not today, thank you,' I say, primly.
'Ere! Wot about my call out charge?' calls Nugent through the letterbox.
'Ha!' I say and stomp off back to the kitchen.
Andy has pulled the washing machine from its station beneath the workshop. Phoebe is already investigating.
'It's your inlet pipe,' she declares, emerging covered in cobwebs and dust and wiping her paws on one of my best tea-towels.
'Thought so,' I say, with an element of triumph in my voice.
'Pass the treacle,' says Phoebe.
'Before you start casting aspertions,' says Tybalt, 'it wasn't me.'
And I knew it wasn't Phoebe because we regularly do our pelvic floor exercises together to 'Queen's Greatest Hits' and our bladders are as watertight as a crocodile's backside.
I call up to Andy. 'We've got a puddle in the kitchen.'
'Was it your cat?' he called back.
'No,' I say.
'Was it mine?'
'Again, no.'
'So it's water then?'
'I imagine so,' I say.
A big sigh ensues followed by mutterings about 'that flippin' washing machine.'
We've lived in this house more than four years now and we've always had troubles with leaky washing machines. Not massive flooding, but the occasional dribble that causes much anxiety and a damp floor. The leaks generally occur on Sundays or Bank Holidays when calling a plumber would be cost prohibitive so we've become adept at mending leaks ourselves with anything from insulating tape to treacle. This particular leak had co-incided with a heavy snow fall. I go outside to release the hens from their Eglu whilst I consider the problem. Mrs Miggins stands in the doorway.
'What' s this?' she says, eyeing the ground suspiciously.
'It's snow. You've experienced snow before,' I say.
'Not this deep I haven't,' says Miggins. 'If I step into this I'll disappear up to my buttocks.'
'OUT YOU GO!' yells Mrs Poo who had been standing impatiently behind Miggins. She gives her a good hard shove and Miggins is flung unceremoniously into the drift. Poo, Pumphrey and Slocombe stampede over her, springboard style, thereby avoiding the snow and landing safely on the ground that is under the raincover and therefore snow-free. And then Pumphrey stampedes back over her again into the nest box due to the imminent arrival of an egg. Miggins gives me a look that says 'I told you so,' and goes into the greenhouse where she keeps her supply of dry long-johns.
Back in the kitchen Tybalt is standing by the washing machine with a Jack Russell terrier. The Jack Russell is wearing a flat cap. He's scratching his head and sucking breath in through his teeth.
'This is Nugent,' says Tybalt. 'He's my plumber.'
'You have a plumber?' I say.
'Well, I know I'm highly talented in many areas,' says Tybalt, 'but I think plumbing the jacuzzi into my bachelor pad is beyond even my capabilities.'
I'd been meaning to have words with Tybalt about his Jacuzzi plans. I've tolerated the arrival of the snooker table and the juke box, but Jacuzzis= more water problems.
Nugent has stopped sucking breath through his teeth and is now tutting.
'What do you reckon, Nuge?' says Tybalt.
'Floor'll 'ave t' come oop,' says Nugent. I look in dismay at my lovely and only recently laid tiled floor.
'Ist damp outside?' continues Nugent.
'Of course it's damp outside,' I snap. 'It's snowing.'
'Ah well, there's yer problem,' says Nugent. 'I reckons you've got an underground water table flooding problem. Flood plain here, is it?'
'No, of course it isn't,' I say. 'We're on a hill.'
'Well, y'say you're on a hill,' says Nugent. 'But are y' really?'
'Yes,' I say firmly, because we are. 'And I think the problem is the washing machine. I expect the inlet pipe has juggled itself loose again.'
Nugent laughs loudly. 'Oh, you ladies,' he says. 'Always comin' oop with simple answers t' complicated plumbing problems. ' He prods Tybalt in the ribs and tips him a manly wink. Tybalt gives a nervous laugh. I pick Mr Nugent up by his collar and dump him outside the front door into the snow.
'Not today, thank you,' I say, primly.
'Ere! Wot about my call out charge?' calls Nugent through the letterbox.
'Ha!' I say and stomp off back to the kitchen.
Andy has pulled the washing machine from its station beneath the workshop. Phoebe is already investigating.
'It's your inlet pipe,' she declares, emerging covered in cobwebs and dust and wiping her paws on one of my best tea-towels.
'Thought so,' I say, with an element of triumph in my voice.
'Pass the treacle,' says Phoebe.
Thursday, 22 January 2009
Cats on a diet
Recently, Andy has been taking manly charge (grrrrrr!) at work, mainly because 'things' have occurred there which have caused him a huge amount of distress (resulting in much comfort cake eating at home) and in order to preserve his sanity he has been trying to make daily life as simple for everyone as possible until 'things' are resolved and normal service is resumed. Ha! I say 'Ha!' because I would have liked to have marched in there ages ago and 'git fings sortid' in my Cockney Eastenders Philippa Mitchell kinda way. In fact, when the 'thing' first occurred and Andy was in danger of taking off into space under the power of his super-high blood pressure, he had to tie me to a chair each morning in order to stop me coming with him. He'd then make a dash for the car and by the time I'd struggled free from the ropes he'd be well on his way and I'd need three cups of tea and a shortbread just to recover from the struggle.
'What has this to do with cats on a diet?' I hear you cry. Not much actually but I feel better for the rant especially as I experienced a moment of lane rage whilst swimming this morning but that's another story and I'll tell it when I've reguritated the 3 litres of water I managed to swallow.
So, Andy being manly at work has had a knock on effect at home and he's decided that Phoebe and Tybalt need to go on a diet. Now I can see that Phoebe could lose a kilo or two. Currently, she is modelling the 'I've swallowed a whole melon' look. She registered 53 steps on her pedometer yesterday and 40 of those were from her bed to the food bowl and back again. She is thirteen years old. I'm not sure how old this is in human years - you'll have to ask Andy; he's a vet and knows the formula for working out these things. So yes, Phoebe does need to slim. But Tybalt? Okay, so he does have a baggy underhang but that's down to a hernia he had when he was but a likkle ikkle fluffy kitten. (No it isn't,says Andy. Yes it is, says Denise. Who's the vet? says Andy. You are, says Denise, but do you want any cake in your lunchbox tomorrow? Okay you win, says Andy. Thanks darling, says Denise).
And Tybalt is active. Although he is a house cat, he races around, darting up and down the stairs like a gazelle on speed. We have kipper wrestling sessions. He plays 'pat-the-pasta-shape.' He dances with Mr Light in the kitchen (only not today because it's raining and Mr Light doesn't appear without the sun). But no, Andy has declared my cat is getting fat so I agree to supervising their calorie intake in an attempt to tone them up.
This is how it has gone so far. I rise in the morning and put a measured amount of dried cat food in the bowl. Phoebe and Tybalt both start breakfast. Tybalt eats about four kibbles, drops one on the floor, loses interest and goes into the front room for a surreptitious chew on Terwilliger, our gi-normous potted fern (yes, the plant has a name - you got a problem with that???). By the time he comes back, Phoebe has eaten all the food so he sits and stares at me until I put some more in the bowl. And when I say stare, I really mean STARE. Phoebe is conditioned to go to the bowl every time she hears food landing in it (dried cat food is very noisy - perhaps that's where we're going wrong? Perhaps she needs ear-plugs??) So she joins in for breakfast number 2. Then, at regular points during the day, Tybalt will stare at me and I will put six or seven kibbles in the bowl which he will eat, then wander off only to return half an hour later to do more staring and so the cycle continues.
IT'S DRIVING ME NUTS! I know what they are thinking, these cats of ours. They are thinking, 'We refuse to be starved like this. Let's make such a nuisance of ourselves that she'll go back to filling the bowl up properly, like in the good old days, so we can help ourselves whenever we want.' And then Phoebe added that perhaps Tybalt could do the half hour staring thing because she is getting old after all and it's a bit of a slog walking around with a whole melon in your stomach.
'What has this to do with cats on a diet?' I hear you cry. Not much actually but I feel better for the rant especially as I experienced a moment of lane rage whilst swimming this morning but that's another story and I'll tell it when I've reguritated the 3 litres of water I managed to swallow.
So, Andy being manly at work has had a knock on effect at home and he's decided that Phoebe and Tybalt need to go on a diet. Now I can see that Phoebe could lose a kilo or two. Currently, she is modelling the 'I've swallowed a whole melon' look. She registered 53 steps on her pedometer yesterday and 40 of those were from her bed to the food bowl and back again. She is thirteen years old. I'm not sure how old this is in human years - you'll have to ask Andy; he's a vet and knows the formula for working out these things. So yes, Phoebe does need to slim. But Tybalt? Okay, so he does have a baggy underhang but that's down to a hernia he had when he was but a likkle ikkle fluffy kitten. (No it isn't,says Andy. Yes it is, says Denise. Who's the vet? says Andy. You are, says Denise, but do you want any cake in your lunchbox tomorrow? Okay you win, says Andy. Thanks darling, says Denise).
And Tybalt is active. Although he is a house cat, he races around, darting up and down the stairs like a gazelle on speed. We have kipper wrestling sessions. He plays 'pat-the-pasta-shape.' He dances with Mr Light in the kitchen (only not today because it's raining and Mr Light doesn't appear without the sun). But no, Andy has declared my cat is getting fat so I agree to supervising their calorie intake in an attempt to tone them up.
This is how it has gone so far. I rise in the morning and put a measured amount of dried cat food in the bowl. Phoebe and Tybalt both start breakfast. Tybalt eats about four kibbles, drops one on the floor, loses interest and goes into the front room for a surreptitious chew on Terwilliger, our gi-normous potted fern (yes, the plant has a name - you got a problem with that???). By the time he comes back, Phoebe has eaten all the food so he sits and stares at me until I put some more in the bowl. And when I say stare, I really mean STARE. Phoebe is conditioned to go to the bowl every time she hears food landing in it (dried cat food is very noisy - perhaps that's where we're going wrong? Perhaps she needs ear-plugs??) So she joins in for breakfast number 2. Then, at regular points during the day, Tybalt will stare at me and I will put six or seven kibbles in the bowl which he will eat, then wander off only to return half an hour later to do more staring and so the cycle continues.
IT'S DRIVING ME NUTS! I know what they are thinking, these cats of ours. They are thinking, 'We refuse to be starved like this. Let's make such a nuisance of ourselves that she'll go back to filling the bowl up properly, like in the good old days, so we can help ourselves whenever we want.' And then Phoebe added that perhaps Tybalt could do the half hour staring thing because she is getting old after all and it's a bit of a slog walking around with a whole melon in your stomach.
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