Marching onwards

Fanfare please!

And here it is:

http://dmouse.typepad.com/marching_on/

Older than me!

Happy Birthday, dear Baron!

He has attained the grand old age of 28 today. And he is not too happy about that!

Stock-take

I am back on a diet. A proper diet. With exercise. I will lose this excess weight and keep it off.

I have booked Lila's puppy training classes. She isn't allowed out for another three and a half weeks but as soon as she has the all clear, her bottom is going to training and agility. In the meantime, we will continue as we are. Lots of training and games and marching round the garden on lead.

I will get a new lead for my amp and get back to playing my bass again. It is not that much fun without an amp.

The Baron will turn his socks out or he will have no clean socks.

I will finish my photo album of the Harvey Cat. I have picked the pictures, I just need some printer ink to print them.

I will get on with writing my book.

I will decide whether to stay at Blogger or move to Typepad. It's free here, but I like the features there, especially the referral stats.

I will get my hair cut.

Older and wiser?

I'm 27 now. Crap.

Things to be pleased about:

I live with my best friend and partner.
I have seven great pets.
I'm qualified (at last!).
I own my own house.
My family are reasonably normal.

Things that aren't so great/need work:

I miss my Harvey Cat.
I am three years away from thirty.
I wanted to have finished having children by thirty. I think aiming to have at least commenced trying by thirty is the best I can manage.
Getting the Baron to turn his socks the right way out.
Stopping Lila sneaking upstairs to piss on the carpet.

Charlie's adoptaversary

We've had Charlie one whole year.

In that time, he has gone from being a scared and vicious beast to a love bunny who wants to be held all the time. From permanently pissed off, to laid back and mellow. It is an amazing change.

Charlie's previous "owners" moved and left him behind. He lived on the streets for three months and was periodically fed by neighbours (when they could find him). During his street days he was kicked and beaten. By the time he reached the shelter he was almost impossible to handle. He bit all of the staff, and was days away from being put to sleep after a month long stay.

We were out in the vicinity and decided to have a look. I accidently turned onto the motorway instead of carrying on round the roundabout. But for some reason, I really wanted to go. I went to the next junction, turned around and came back.

There he was. A huge lump under the blankets in a cage, with a big notice asking people not to touch the cage. In blatent disregard, I tapped the cage to see who was in there. All I saw were the most beautiful amber eyes staring balefully out from the blanket. Pleading to get out of that cage.

I was not allowed to go in and see how he reacted to me - the staff refused to handle him. I looked at the Baron, and he just nodded. We took a huge chance, and said we would just take him.

He used to bite, hiss, scratch and growl at anything that moved, and a lot of things that didn't. He hid under the bed, and fought with the others (originally Harvey, Frankie and Ellie).

He hated me. He adored the Baron though and used to sit on his lap and hiss at me. Then one day, he sat on my lap. I rubbed his cheeks, he bit me but stayed sitting, and from then on, he has been my cat.

At this moment in time, he is stretched out upside down on my bed, in contact with not just Frankie, but Ozzy as well. He hasn't batted a paw at Oz once, and he is quite happy to share the bed with him. He tolerates Lila. Just.

He loves to have his head and face rubbed. In the last few weeks he has actively sought out belly rubs at night. He loves to lie on me when I am in bed, paws resting on my chin and whiskers tickling my face.

Happy Adoptaversary, Charlie. I hope we have many many more years together.

Biscuits

Never leave a small boy alone with biscuits. Ever. You would think that I knew that, but it slipped my mind.

The Boy was in the mood for biscuits. Not dancin'. Or romancin', even though it is Valentine's Day and he sent a card to his girlfriend.

So into the biscuit tin he went. Except he didn't fancy the whole biscuit. No, he wanted the cream in the middle. It is the best bit, after all.

The Boy selected his biscuit, broke it open, licked the cream off, and put the "clean" biscuits back in the tin.

Five times. Ten licked biscuits.

He confessed later that day, when it was noted that there were a lot of broken biscuit pieces in the tin.

The dog enjoyed his afternoon tea.

Lila

Dawg.

Naughty dawg. Just snuck upstairs and pissed on the floor.

Lila

Ozzy

The new one.

Handsome boy or what?!

He is very affectionate and very noisy. Likes to eat a lot too.

Ozzy

Ellie

This is proof positive that Ellie is possessed by something.

Ellie

Willow

Unusually, Willow is in her bed and not on the stuffed rottweiler. This is how she spends her days when she is not eating.

Very quiet girl, phased by little. Lila just paid a visit and Willow didn't bother to move.

Willow

Charlie

Still a little on the tubby side, my Charlie cat.

He is a little put out by the new arrival, being possibly the most possessive cat in the world. But he will survive and learn to share.

This was taken a minute or so ago. Charlie has taken to rolling around the floor when he wants attention. I like it more than Hollie's method of beating the crap out of me.

Charlie

Hollie

Hollie is still a little camera shy. However, she is a vicious thug who will beat up anything that gets in her personal space.

Or anyone who doesn't give in to her incessant demands for attention. For an old lady, she is tough. At this moment, she is standing in front of the monitor crying and bopping my hands.

When I get old, I want to be like Hollie.

Hollie

Frankie

Frankie, as of two minutes ago.

He is laying in the hall upstairs keeping watch.

Frankie

Loose ends

OK.

River Cottage is a TV show. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall upped sticks and went to live in the country. He grew all his veg, raised livestock and basically lived as a true smallholder. Great TV, and very inspirational for those into that kind of thing.

Ozzy is here and there will be pictures soon. For some bizarre reason all the cats are accepting him and he is currently stationed on my bed with the others. Frankie has already groomed him, which is pretty damn amazing. He is a sweet boy, and I am sure that Harvey had a paw in me finding him.

There will also be pictures of our new water feature soon, but the garden is in a mess because we had to remove a tree today. As you do. So when it is respectable, you will see the shrine to Star Wars.

I may have planted all those seeds, but Miss GreenFingers I am not. Most things I grow die, and I am not holding out much hope for the veg. However, the Baron is in charge of all plant stock as of now, under the supervision of my parents (Veg Growers Extraordinaire) and so hopefully we will actually get some veg out of all this.

Our garden isn't huge by any means (our garden is smaller than a double garage) but with a combination of raised beds, hanging baskets and lots of containers we are able to grow an awful lot. I also have some sunflowers to plant, and those will probably go out the front, near Harvey's grave.

The weather has been pretty mild - we have had daffodils already and a couple of trees have gone into bloom. It is great that we are able to start now, and we are really excited! I checked the seeds I planted during the week and my broccoli is looking good.

So other than the general election, this will be a good spring!

Cheery

This post will be cheery. I've been miserable for too long.

Well, I am still miserable, but if I think cheery thoughts, maybe I will become cheery.

So without further ado, I bring you.....the cheeriness.

1. My birthday present arrived from my parents today. A little early, but 9 whole hours of River Cottage is just what a miserable Mouse needs. That and brownies, and they are in the oven.

2. My cycle has returned to normal. At last.

3. Our newest addition, Ozzy, will be coming home on Saturday. He has had a lot of teeth removed, and is recovering nicely from surgery.

4. Lila is doing well, and is biting a little less. The Boy's class have requested I take her in one afternoon so they can all see her, and I'll take any opportunity to educate kids about good animal care!

5. I have planted all my seeds for a bumper crop. We have:

carrots;
potatoes (pink fir apple and maris piper);
broccoli;
cabbage;
cucumber;
lettuce;
garlic;
onions;
spring onions;
peas;
french beans;
runner beans;
tomatoes (two kinds);
peppers;
leeks;
courgettes;
artichokes;
strawberries;
gooseberries;
raspberries;
chives;
chillies; and
a million different herbs.

My orange and lemon trees are doing better now that Charlie has stopped using them as a temporary litter tray. The olives are good too.

6. I have sorted out some easy work for next week. It is half term for the Boy, Valentine's day (14th), Charlie's adoptaversary (15th), my birthday (16th), and the Baron's birthday (18th). So I need an easy week!

7. We only have one more extortionate council tax bill to pay (they forgot to charge us for the first three months we lived here, so we have been paying double to catch up) and one more career development loan payment to make. Then we shall have some more money. Nice!

8. We now have a Boba Fett water feature along side Dart Vader. The fish seem unimpressed.

I think that is enough cheeriness for one evening. I wouldn't want to overdo it!

Bloody subconscious

I had a horrible dream last night.

I dreamt that the Baron had only a few hours to live after being poisoned (and no, I hadn't been watching the Simpsons!). He was paralysed on our bed, and for some reason I was sent to Australia that day. As you are.

He just stayed in that limbo state, waiting to die, and I stayed with him (when I returned from Australia a few hours later - great transport!). Just waiting.

It was horrible. I just sat and held his hand, whilst crying.

The legacy of that dream has stayed with me all day. Everything feels a little off kilter, out of focus.

Has it only been....

...two days since I last posted? It feels much longer.

I will post some dawg pictures soon........I really will. Lila is simply gorgeous (if a little on the bitey side) and is growing like a weed. Or is it a wild flower?

In the meantime, we have been busy with socialising the young Miss. She is very taken with her uncle, and he with her. Very cute to watch a huge dog playing so gently with a puppy, even when that puppy takes incredible liberties. She clambers all over his huge head and he gums her. She steals his food. He sniffs her girly bits.

In cat news, Willow has taken to sleeping on the stuffed rottweiler upstairs. All the time. I'm not sure whether she actually gets up more than twice a day, which would conveniently coincide with feeding time. She just loves that rottweiler, and likes to be stroked whilst wrapped around its head. Hopefully this bodes well for her long-term relationship with the dawg.

Ellie appears to be possessed by Harvey. This is very strange, but she has picked up every one of his annoying habits with gusto. She likes to stand on the balcony and howl. She knocks things over when she doesn't get her own way. She bosses everyone around, and this has only happened in the last two weeks. It is nice to feel that he lives on here with us all, but luckily Ellie has kept all of her own sweet habits (and her less sweet ones, like trying to stick her arse in my face).

Charlie and Frankie are the same as ever. Laid back and lazy. My wonderful loving boys. They are always together now, and my fear of Frankie's face remaining forever unwashed has blown away after watching Charlie tenderly cleaning Frankie's face.

Hollie is brave. She still spends a little time under the bed, but mostly she she sleeps in the bathroom or on my pillow. She will corner Lila and whop her across the face before running. She still whops me in the face if I don't wake up at night and fuss her. She has a very loving heart, but a nervous body.

A cage in the local RSPCA centre may well be empty in the near future. A pure white boy with black splodges and a thirst for love and affection is awaiting the results of his blood tests. He is not a replacement for Harvey, but he reminds me of him in a very good way. Like the way I found Charlie, something led me there to find him.

In people news, the Baron is still off work with stress. At the moment, he is fart arsing around the garden and digging up the beds. He seems quite content and we will have an amazing vegetable garden come spring, thanks to his hard work.

Me?

Good days and bad days. The weekend, and last night were bad.

Today is a little better. But even now, as I sit here and look out over the gardens and fields, part of me expects a little white and tabby face to appear from behind the fence and come running in to me (Harvey would shimmy up the conservatory to come in at the window, miaowing and purring at the same time). And it hurts everytime I remember that he will never do that again.

The death of a cat is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. People say

"it was only a cat"
"these things happen"
"enjoy your other cats"
"you can always get another"
"its been two weeks, get over it"

but to me, this is a very real and painful loss. I loved that cat so damn much.

I do love all of my cats very much, and we are adopting another cat, but this doesn't in anyway stop the pain of knowing that my beloved, my first, my special cat is no more. It might have been two weeks, but that has just been two weeks in the rest of my lifetime that I will live without my HarveyCat.

It is hard.

Pooped

Lila spent the afternoon with her Uncle Sam.

She is fast asleep downstairs, Sam is in his basket at home, the Baron is dozing on the sofa and I am falling asleep over this report I am trying to write.

Pictures tomorrow....just think huge arse boy rottweiler and little fuzzball girl rottweiler and vast quantities of drool.

The water

Something odd is going on with the water. Everywhere but here, that is.

Vast numbers of women are succumbing. Virtually every woman I met today was pregnant (and the men I met had wives who were all expecting). It appears that the women of the forums I visit are falling pregnant at the click of a mouse.

Not here. My cycle is officially fucked.

I chart, but I have no idea what is going on. Harvey's death (I tear up just writing that) has left my cycle in limbo.

And yet, abortion is the main topic of the day in blogs I visit and forums I frequent.

Some feel that life begins at conception. Some do not. Some feel that that life must be protected at all costs - that a woman must sacrifice her body for nine months to bring forth life. Some feel that there are no good reasons to abort. Some feel that there are.

People have the right to believe whatever the hell they want. And to express those beliefs.

They do not have the right to hurt others. People like Holly, who uses Cecily's tragedy to further her own cause, regardless of how much pain that might cause. People like Holly, who hijack good and decent debates to attack.

I know where I stand on the issue. But I am not going to force my beliefs on to anyone, and insist that my way is the right way. It might be for me. It might not be for you.

Some might do well to consider that.

Irony

We moved here because we thought it was safer for the cats.

Not so. For obvious reasons.

Before he was killed, Harvey used to fight with a local cat. Pretty little girl - all black with white feet. Both wanted to rule the neighbourhood.

Guess who we found today?

Harvey's nemesis. Killed on the same stretch of road.

What are the odds?

I bet they are still fighting now.

Upstairs, downstairs

Lila has a tendency to wander upstairs.

We'd prefer her not to, just so as the cats can have a safe santuary upstairs. Lila wants to be with them, but they don't always share that feeling. Sometimes, but not always.

So we got a baby gate for the stairs. I spent a good few minutes putting it up securely.

I turned around to go up the stairs and she was already at the top of them.

Maybe she was on the stairs before I closed it? I'm sure I had left her on the other side..........So I took her back down, firmly shut the gate again (with her on the other side) and went on my way.

Ten seconds later Little Missy was upstairs.

It turns out that she can squeeze through the bars. I've caught her playing with Ellie, barking at Willow (who doesn't mind but just talks back) and looking for the others. She knows their hiding places already.

She also likes to chew the Baron's socks under the watchful eye of a wise looking Orange Cat.

What she doesn't know is that her head is still growing. So in a week or so, the upstairs world will be but a dream to her.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

A Week

It's been a week. Just one week.

This time last week, we were out searching for our errant cat. It was snowing, but we hoped he was just being naughty and following us.

The Baron thought he saw a little white face peeking out from under a tree. I felt him nearby. We were wrong.

Harvey was several hundred metres away, by the side of the road.

But we were right. We are both sure that he found us that night to say goodbye.

I can't believe it has been a week.

What was I thinking?

Miss Puddleduck lives up to her name.

Puddles everywhere.

I am so used to cats - just show them the tray and all is well - that I had overlooked this bit.

D'oh!

When will it get better?

The day started off so well. I didn't cry when Harvey wasn't there to trip me up. I smiled when I saw the obvious pleasure Charlie gets from being the first to eat. Ellie spent five minutes twisting around my ankles and Willow sat on my lap whilst I got ready. Frankie followed me everywhere I went.

Then the post came. All of the cats micro-chip certificates had arrived. Including Harvey's.

Fat lot of good that will do him.

I remember when I took him to have it done. I was holding him - it is one big fuck off needle they use - and he cried out. I held him whilst the vet finished all the paperwork. We hadn't moved yet, but to save the change of address fee we put down my new address. I joked that I'd better not lose him or he'd get there before we would!

He was micro-chipped. He had his vaccinations. He was wormed and de-flea'd. I treated his weak eye whenever it got inflamed and sore. I took care of his teeth. But none of it was enough.

I love all of my pets but I can feel myself pulling away from them. I cannot go through this with each of them.

All change

Harvey is gone. The house just doesn't feel the same without that little bugger and the way he ruled us all with a furry paw. I miss him so much it still hurts. I am having trouble eating and sleeping, and my concentration is shot to buggery.

Frankie does nothing but sit on the windowsill, looking down on Harvey's grave and crying. Charlie sits with him, and grooms his face. Harvey used to groom Frankie's face.

Ellie and Willow sit in the spare bedroom together, and Hollie comes out in the evening to check on me.

But things must move on.

We had arranged to pick up Lila on Saturday, before Harvey carried out his badly thought out attack on a moving car.

But we decided to bring that forward. Partly because the cats are so stressed anyway and partly as a distraction.

So, without further ado, I present to you:

Miss Lila!

Lila

The End

Harvey went missing on Sunday. The last I saw of him was him gleefully climbing the fence to look at the birds at next door's birdtable.

We called him intermittently all afternoon. As it grew closer to dusk, we went out and checked all around the neighbourhood.

All through the night we went out looking for him. He'd never been out after dark. It was cold and snowing, and he hated the cold. He wouldn't go outside if it was cold.

Even then I knew that something was wrong. He would have come if he could have.

I went to bed in the early hours. The Baron continued to search. At five, I felt a cat land on me. My heart soared - Harvey was home!

But it wasn't Harvey. It was Charlie taking over Harvey's job of waking me.I counted the minutes until the sun rose. Then I walked around the neighbourhood again, in my dressing gown. In the snow. The neighbours were surprised!

I had to leave for work. The Baron carried out on looking. He made a poster for us to put up.

Work was awful - I couldn't concentrate. I came home as soon as I could, and sped down the motorway.

We set off around the neighbourhood with our posters, torches and cat treats. Nothing like his favourite biscuit to lure him home.

It was so cold, it was difficult to push the tacks in to hold up the posters. We plastered the village from one end to the other. We put a few up outside the school, knowing that the children would want to help by checking garages and sheds.

We came home and waited. It didn't take long.My phone rang. It was a woman asking if I had put up the posters. I could feel hope spreading through me as she spoke. Then the two words.

"Bad news"

That was it. All over.

She came over to tell me in person.Harvey had been found on Sunday evening after a church meeting. He had been hit by a car on the sharp corner that brings you into our village. There wasn't a mark on him.

He was already cold, and there was nothing that could be done. They took his body out of the road and wrapped him up, so as not to upset the children the next morning on the way to school.They put notes through the houses nearest to explain, since Harvey would not wear a collar. Kept chewing them off.

The next day she saw us putting up our posters. And she knew who to call.

I collected his body and brought him home. The Baron didn't want to see his body, but I had to. I cuddled him whilst the Baron dug him a grave in the garden. The others came and sniffed him.

I didn't want to put him down again. He started to warm in my arms, and I could feel that his back had been broken. His end had come quickly. Too fucking quickly - he was two and a half.

The Baron left me to bury Harvey - he couldn't do it. I cuddled him and placed him in his grave. I threw the earth over his face first and I thought my heart would break. To see my baby, so full of life and mischief, lying in a hole in the fucking ground, still, cold and lifeless, was too much.I shut my eyes as I finished covering him.

I couldn't bear to see any part of him there. He didn't belong there, he belonged on my bed cuddling his brother.

And that was that.

We have marked his resting spot with some beautiful stones. White with black speckles, just like him. The Baron has made him a little headstone, and I have put my favourite cat ornament on his grave.Harvey is the first thing I see when I open my curtains in the morning.

I just can't believe that he is out there and not here with us. I can't believe that he is gone.

Harvey Cat. My first, my best, my soul cat.

Harvey

Harvey

My Baby Bat Ears

Harvey didn't feel the cold last night.

He sleeps in the garden next to his favourite tree, under the eyes of those who loved him best.

Harvey, my little furry angel, I will miss you forever.

Still

Still snowing.

Still cold.

Still the Baron is in pain.

Still no cat in sight.

As if things couldn't get any worse....

The Baron is in a lot of pain, and can barely turn his head, let alone walk. I just fused all the lights upstairs. And to top things off........

Harvey is missing. It is snowing and it is dark.

I hate this miserable fucking weekend.

Extremely close call

The Baron was knocked down by a speeding fork lift truck at work at lunchtime yesterday.

He was thrown a good fifteen feet through the air when it hit him (at about thirty miles an hour) and landed on his side, by the side of the truck where it finally had come to a stop.

He was knocked out on impact.

When he finally came to, he was taken, not to hospital as one might expect, but up to the first aid room to sign various pieces of paperwork. After an hour and a half they finally took him to hospital, which is where I was called from.

After lots of tests, X-rays and observation he was released late night. He has whiplash, scrapes from the forks, mild concussion, and severe bruising around his bones on the right side (which took the impact). He is understandably very sore, and is having a lot of trouble getting around.

He has been signed off indefinitely to heal. The leniency (trust me, this is leniency as opposed to common decency) comes from the fact it was the worst accident to date at the warehouse (and was also witnessed by a large number of staff) and that the driver of the fork lift truck was on his final warning for speeding.

Guess what he is most pissed off about?

The fact he has nary a scrape on his body! There are a couple of scrapes on his back, and that is it.

The doctor said that he must be made of steel to have walked away with so few injuries. It's true. He's never broken a bone in his body, so why start now when you get knocked over?

Very scary few hours.

Apologies for the drama. I wasn't given any information over the phone other than the name of the hospital and the fact that he had been knocked down, and of course I immediately assumed the worst.

Quickie...

I'm on my way to the hospital.

The Baron has been knocked down.

Nerd Alert!

Piss

I've been messing around trying to finish my new template.

So far so good.

But do you think I can import my posts here over there? Course not. It might help things along if I knew what a FTP was, let alone how to save my posts and then import them from that.

But I don't have a scooby.

I am reasonably intelligent. Sort of. Maybe.

So why can't I do a simple fucking import without someone to hold my hand?

If anyone wants to hold my hand, they can. I have ice cream.

Just because it so sweet.

Poseur!!

The Baron at Buckingham Palace.

Do you like my new mattress?

We honestly did not stage this this one!

Just relaxing.......

Three little cats........

Remember my sweet little kitten and her surrogate Mum in the form of a neutered and quite dopey Frankie?

Me and my holiday cat.

The horror!!!

Happy at last. We won the stuffed Hagrid's - after spending about 20 Euro's and winning all manner of other toys!

Pool tart.

Me and my Spideys.

Getting very cross

Now Blogger is refusing to show posts shown as published. As well as not updating the profile page, eating posts for breakfast and not always even opening.

My new template is nearly ready.

Change is in the air.............

Oh and......

....9 days to my dog!

The water is now very safe.....

.........as I have just flushed my contraceptive pills away as promised.

Ok, I haven't really. The environment is fucked up enough as it is.

But guess who is the first to know my cousin and his girlfriend are expected their second child?

Completely unrelated, but is anyone else finding blogger to be a pain in the arse of late? I am toying with the idea of moving to Typepad, but of course then I have to pay.

10 days to go....

.....until I have a dog.

A dog.

Me. With six cats. Going to have a dog.

I'm getting a wee bit nervous.

Will she eat the cats?
Will Harvey not so surgically remove her nose?
Will she eat the walls like her cousin Samson did?
Will the cats ever forgive me?
Will my bank balance ever recover?

But.........

I am also getting really excited. My very own dog.

Puppy puppy puppy!!!!!!

Unresolved

Firstly, I would like to say that I am pissed as a fart again. I just met up with some old school friends, who I haven't seen in eight years, and we had a really good time. We are going to meet up for a meal next week.

Naturally, one is pregnant (as is every single female I know of my age in real life barring my sister). So now I know two unpregnant women.

I feel so much better. End sarcasm.

The Baron is still somewhat shag-shy now that I am contraception free. Obviously, this isn't an area that he can be tricked into/forced into, but it deeply pisses me off. He has a slightly long record of saying things and then not following through (usually out of laziness) so this wasn't unexpected. I confess to be disappointed.

But I will ride it out.

Cecily kindly answered my question on declawing cats and animal rights.

I admit that I don't understand it and I don't think I will. It is partly cultural, as in we just don't do it here in the UK. Cats come with claws and that is just how it goes.

I'm not sure I would have it any other way. Apart from the fact I feel it is mutiliation, my cats just wouldn't be the same without their claws. My breasts would, since they like bare flesh, but with a toss up between intact skin and feeling their happy feet waking me up in the morning, I know what I would choose every time.

I do believe that if you want intact furniture to the point you would remove the top joint of a creatures toes, then you have no business owning said pet. That is my opinion. Of course, it doesn't necessarily make these people bad owners at all, but I simply disagree with their actions.

I would rather see cats declawed than put down for lack of a home. I really would, and I speak as someone with three rescue cats. But I stil believe that at the end of the day that cats deserve their claws.

And I am off to bed to sleep off an obscene number of double Bacardi's and Coke. Work tomorrow. Good night.

Mr Fickle

The Baron and I had a talk on New Year's Eve. A biggie.

We came to the decision that we would abstain from abstaining any longer and just see what happened. Whilst it wasn't a "let's get trying NOW" result, it was an improvement on the "so what does you chart say today? Can we shag?" conversations held in bed. Real mood killer, that.

He of course wants to be relieved whilst we are waiting for the danger to pass, and so wants my help. In fairness, he will reciprocate, but not with the good stuff. Unless I fancy some rubber action, which I most certainly do not.

So all well and good. I at least have the chance to hope, and we both get some loving out of it.

Fast forward to now. Day 7. Still (based on my cycles) far too early to start picking out names.

And the fucker has changed his mind. No loving in the DMouse House.

Not so

Going back to work was not peaceful. Or restful. I think I need another holiday already.

And an extremely heavy frying pan.

I woke up to the Litter Tray From Hell. I probably don't need to elaborate.

So I cleaned it. Whilst I got their breakfast ready, the little bastards proceeded to refill the tray. How, I don't know, since it looked like all six had already shat out their entire body weight, but clearly they had saved some back just for me.

So I cleaned it again.

Then discovered the Baron had eaten most of the contents of the fridge and left the rubbish in out in the living room. With a forced smile on my face (determined to start the day off properly) I cleaned that up.

After that came sandwich making time. This would have gone better if the Baron had not left the bread open, as personally, I prefer not to have stale bread. Took a handful of fruit instead.

I finally left. And got stuck in a major traffic jam, caused by a melting warehouse. One and a half hours to travel three and a half miles.

I arrived, busting for the toilet.

That is when I found out the lift weren't working and I had to drag my arse up three flights of stairs. With my laptop and file bag. With no lights working on the stairwell.

I got to the top, thinking I would nip to the toilet before going in.

No such luck, as someone has put a fucking keypad on the toilet door, and I have no idea what the code is.

So I go in. Drop my stuff, get that damn code and run to the toilet.

Several meetings later (where no-one knows anything) I am left alone. With nothing to do, as people are assembling the paperwork I requested (requested several times over the past month).

And then it is time to go home.

Sat on the other side of the traffic jam. Get somewhat desperate for the toilet (my bladder is beyond pathetic)

The Baron stole my parking space so I had to drive out again to find one. Walked home in the rain. Couldn't see the keyhole as the arsehole hadn't turned the outside light on. Nearly broke my neck tripping over the post that he didn't pick up.

Cleaned the litter tray again. Fed the monsters, who are clearly starving to death and must therefore cry piteously whilst I spend all of ten seconds getting their food out of the cupboard.

And the clincher?

"What's wrong with you? You seem in a bad mood"

I'm going to fucking kill someone.

My Plan

First things first.

Puppy! Meeting Lila was great. All the puppies were full of mischief and spent the visit trying to eat my jumper. They all look like little bears and I can't wait to bring her home. The cats probably could wait a lifetime for that.

Back to my Plan.

I go back to work tomorrow. I took some extra holiday so that I could get things done around the house after the holidays. My Plan was:

Paint the spare room - done.

Clean the house (top to bottom) - done.

Get up to date with the washing and keep it that way - done.

Make a list of all the food/bathroom/household supplies we have - done.

Sort out our filing system (monster task) - done.

Sort out a music practice schedule - done and started.

Create an exercise schedule - done but not started. Still getting rid of this cold.

Note down all of my books - done. That took forever!

Sort out my freezer - done.

Deal with all my work files - done.

Sort out my home office supplies - done. And I hoard this stuff so there was a lot.

Clear my To Do file of paperwork - all bills paid. The Baron's speeding ticket dealt with.

Register the cat's micro-chips - finally done. Thankfully I didn't lose any.

Set up my 2005 calendar - done.

Spend some time with the Boy - done lots of that.

Tidy and re-organise the cupboard under the stairs.

Watch Jerry Springer - the Opera - done. It was v funny, and I have some great new insults.

I suspect going back to work will be a nice rest.

Lila

We are going to visit her tomorrow. In three weeks time, we get to bring her home!

Doggy

Fucking sick

I am trying so hard to restrain myself on this.....

http://democracyforvirginia.typepad.com/democracyforvirginia/2005/01/legislativesen.html

What the fuck is wrong with this wankstain? Land of the free, my fucking arse.

Clearly this man has never had a partner who has lost a pregnancy. I'd be surprised if he has even had sex.

One good thing...

.. about this cold is that my jeans are now too big for me.

I like.

Hot cold hot cold hot cold

One minute I am cold, the next I am roasting alive in my own skin. Then just as I remove the last piece of clothing I can remove without flashing my wares to the world, I am plunged back into the icy depths. And so the cycle continues.

The Baron claims he is dying from a cold. He is currently dying on the sofa downstairs. Alone. I do not feel particularly sympathetic to his impending doom since I had to pick up the manky tissues he had strewn around the computer.

I'm also fairly sure that dying people do not eat two big bowls of lemon chicken soup, a packet of crisps and four peanut butter sandwiches whilst watching Star Wars. Just my gut feeling.

Cold begone!

Abnormal

I had a phone call last night from the Boy. No singing this time.

Boy: Hello Auntie, I am abnormal.

Auntie: I know that. Who told you?

Boy: The thermometer. I have a temperature of 89 and Daddy says I am dead.

Auntie: That's nice. Does your body know that?

Boy: I'm not dead (amidst lots of wailing), I'm abnormal. Mummy said so.

Auntie: Okkaaaaayyyyyyyy. But I don't think Mummy meant your temperature.

Boy: Nanny took it and it was........

Lots of whispers in the background

Boy: 98 and 60.

Auntie: But that is completely normal. Not freakish. Not dead.

Boy: So I am not abnormal?

Auntie: Yes you are, but that is nothing to do with your temperature. Go bug somebody else.

Boy: OK. Bye Auntie!

Hungover

Last night wasn't too bad at all. The fucktard didn't bother to show up. Quelle domage.

Those who did are our oldest friends, and we had a great night. Lots of drinking, eating, and chatting. Plus they all love cats, so we didn't have to keep them upstairs.

So I am somewhat hungover this morning, and I have the post party debris still to clear away downstairs. Our guests offered to help, but we decided it would simply be easier to leave it until morning.

Here's to a great 20o05!

New Year's Bloody Eve

The Baron decided he wanted a party in our new house.

So yesterday he invited a few people over. And then he told me about it.

I sighed, and mentally started planning. Drinks, food, kitty hidey holes, and cleaning.

Then he announced that he invited his fucktard brother over, and his wife.

Fucking great. Just the morons I want to welcome 2005 in with.

He went to work, I prepared for the party.

And tonight he announced that it is very likely that his fucktard brother will be staying over.

Wish me luck. I am going to need it to avoid starting New Year in prison.

Happy 2005, folks!

Cat-astrophe's

Frankie has been avoiding the pond like the plague and I can't say that I blame him. Charlie tried to push him in earlier, which sent Frankie running for the safety of my bed.

Hollie appears to have the plague, and is wandering around the house vomiting.

Willow has spent the day at war with her tail.

Harvey lived up to his reputation as Guard Cat and completely intimidated our visitor. He got him into the corner and growled menacingly. Once Harvey decided the threat had passed (in fairness to the cat, our visitor was an ex-Para, albeit a very small one) he allowed him to sit down, but kept him under control with a ferocious stare. Said visitor didn't stay too long.

Ellie has been Ellie. So she has eaten part of her favourite plant, chewed my book case, knocked down the candles and snorted a lot.

Charlie tried to push Frankie in the pond. He seems to have developed a very mischievous streak of late, culminating in him absconding at lunchtime with my iPod so that he could chew through my one and only pair of ear plugs.

So nothing too unusual here.

Back to normal

Things are indeed back to normal.

The tree and decorations are down. The turkey is gone - into bellies (human, feline and canine), stock and into the freezer.

My conservatory is once again a workshop. The Darth Vader water feature will soon be joined by a Boba Fett water feature. Stylish, or what?

The cats are scooting around the house like mad things. They haven't been out too much of late due to the weather, since they hate the cold, and due to the need to guard the turkey. But they are back in fine and demented form.

So as I say, it has been really cold. Today the pond froze over. I let the cats out this morning, and waited the obligatory five seconds before they realised that in fact, it was below freezing and a better course of action would be to reverse and go to sleep under my quilt.

Except Harvey saw the pond. And had to investigate............

So two minutes later Harvey was sat in the middle of the frozen pond, looking very very pleased with himself. Frankie and Ellie were fascinated (from the safety and warmth of the woolly blanket on the sofa and were watchng with huge eyes.

Harvey got up and walked around, in the middle of the pond. He realised the fish were still swimming under the ice. So he started to tap the ice with his paw.

It held. He continued to watch the fish.

Frankie could no longer contain himself and had to see how Harvey was performing this miracle of standing on the ice. He saw Harvey sit down on the ice. He then saw the fish under the ice that Harvey was sitting on.

And so he pounced.

At Harvey.

On the ice.

Harvey's eyes grew big. And he launched himself a clear six feet up in the air when he saw the black monstrosity flying towards him at full speed. He landed with grace next to the pond and ran for safety.

Frankie crashed into the ice. And then immediately crashed straight through the ice and into the frosty depths below. The fish scattered. Birds scattered.

He emerged several seconds later looking extremely shocked. He jumped out of the pond, and without a backwards glance flew into the house and hid.

Six hours later, he still looks shocked.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas!!!!

I have my hat on, the presents are opened (the Baron's parents gave him nose hair trimmers!) and the turkey is cooked.

Nothing else is, but never mind.

It is five minutes to the Queen's speech

My parents are here, and I am as pissed as a fucking fart.

So Merry Christmas!!!!!

My head is swimming

The Boy is staying overnight, to test the sofa bed out. In return, he is going to help with the preparations for the big lunch.

He is the next room talking to himself. It is 11PM and I have had enough of trying to get him to go to sleep, so he is just amusing himself.

All day I have answered a never ending stream of questions:

"Auntie, do you think I should keep my squidgy bum? Girls like squidgy bums, don't they?"

"Auntie, are there reindeer in the field (behind the house)? Can we catch one?"

"Auntie, you know that Trojan horse thing? How did they get in it?"

"Auntie, did you know my mummy is your half twin because you are sisters with different birthdays?"

Interspersed with conversations on Greek mythology, science, Harry Potter, mobile phones, religion, cake, and litter tray habits.

Is it any wonder my head is spinning?

The muttering from next door has stopped. I am hoping he is asleep now, as I would quite like to go to bed myself without any surprise visits from small blonde boys.

Harvey is standing guard outside his door. Harvey loathes him, so this isn't for the Boy's protection. It is to make sure the little bugger doesn't come out again.

I love my cat.

NTQ

Dear Right Ovary,

Please ovulate NOW. You are killing me.

In eager anticipation,

Rest of Body

3

I really would prefer the slow orgasmic death, but since no-one else has opted for that route yet.....

Three names you go by: Sarah, Pen, and Mouse.

Three screennames you have: dmouse007, penfold007, and themadcatlady.

Three things you like about yourself: eyes, my ability to talk to absolutely anyone and my love of animals.

Three things you hate/dislike about yourself: my weight, my inability to dye my hair to to the colour I intended and the fact I cannot stop my nails from breaking off.

Three parts of your heritage: Norman, Russian and Polish.

Three things that scare you: the current US administration, guns and snakes.

Three of your everyday essentials: mobile phone, Grinders and a bottle of water.

Three things you are wearing right now: glasses, catfur covered jumper and battered old jeans.

Three of your favorite bands/artists at the moment: Stone Temple Pilots, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Incubus.

Three of your favorite songs at present: Band Aid Feed the World, By the Way and The Reason.

Three things you want to try in the next 12 months: sticking to the speed limit, successful gardening and volunteering for cat rescue.

Three things you want in a relationship (love is a given): fun, trust and damn good sex.

Two truths and a lie: I can pick up any music instrument and play it (although not necessarily that well). My nose is pierced. I like the Baron's brother.

Three physical things about the opposite (or same) sex that appeals to you: Hands, eyes and height.

Three things you just can't do: Draw, cook well done steak and eat cheese.

Three of your favorite hobbies: Reading, cat stuff and learning my bass guitar.

Three things you want to do really badly right now: Piss, have a cup of tea and a brownie.

Three careers you're considering: My current career is more than enough.

Three places you want to go on vacation: Fiji, Iceland and South Africa.

Three kids names: Lily, Charlie and Alfie.

Three things you want to do before you die: Drive a race car, travel to the moon and see my hundredth birthday

Three people who have to take this quiz now or die a slow orgasmic death: Amy (although I think she'd definitely prefer the slow orgasmic death), Shelly and Stacey.

Procrastinating

So far today I have:

roasted a chicken;

started making some soup;

thought about writing a report;

given Charlie a very extensive haircut;

been bitten several times (see above);

done the washing;

thought some more about writing a report;

cleaned the kitchen;

played Spider Solitaire;

de-cat-furred the house;

got my laptop out in preparation for report writing;

baked brownies;

cleaned the bathroom;

thought a little more about writing a report;

chased Harvey around the neighbourhood;

played my guitar; and

given myself a manicure and a pedicure.

Bet you can't guess what I am putting off here!

Darth Take Two

Again, not brilliant, but you get the gist.

Fairly unique, I'd say!

Darth Vader

Here he is. It isn't the best shot, since it is about minus thirty outside and I have no shoes on. Water really does shoot out of his mouth, much to the goldfishes disgust.

He will shortly be getting a helmet and a lightsabre (which will also shoot water).

The lightbulb was painted red by the Baron to give our pond that whole Dark Side atmosphere. And from the conservatory, it does indeed appear as if our pond is evil.

This Week

Willow has been diagnosed with Feline Hyperesthesia. Which is a fancy way of saying she has a highly sensitive tail, which drives her to distraction. She has almost bitten the end off. The vet feels it may have been injured in her accident, and suggested mild sedatives if she persists in attacking it. I suggested a tranquiliser dart gun. I think it would make a great Christmas present.

The Baron has relinquished the conservatory at last. Leaving behind a totally ruined pine dining table.

He also relinquished his hair again, to reclaim his status as Slap Head.

The Boy phoned up to sing the Twelve Days of Christmas to me. It probably would have been better if he knew some of the words. It also would have helped if he could actually say "partridge". He prefers the little known version of the pear in the pear tree. He hung up when he had a giggling fit.

The Baron did some remodelling of the pond. We may be the only people in the world with a homemade Darth Vader water feature.

Spot the doggy

One of those cute little puppies is Lila. Future maniac in the house of Monsters.

Latest news from the DMouse House

I've done most of the shopping. This includes replacing the bought item we lost whilst doing the damn shopping.

Our puppy has been born. Delilah (or Lila for short) will be joining the Monsters in February. She is named for her future lover, my parents dog Samson. Not that the patter of tiny dog paws will be heard, since she is going to be losing her girly bits at the appropriate time. We will have enough claws in the house.

The Boy did not shoot the Christmas Star at this year's school play. Au contraire, he was very good. He did audibly direct most of the play, from his vantage point of "Man in Crowd" on stage.

The Baron bought me a ring. Romantic? Sort of. He bought me a 50p mood ring from a joke shop. According to my ring, I am lucky. Clearly - I have a man who thinks I am worth 50p!

Memoriam

Little request

Please light a candle and join bereaved families worldwide at 7 PM for one
hour on Sunday, December 12, 2004, for The Compassionate Friends Worldwide
Candle Lighting. Please do this to honor and remember all children who have
died too soon
. . .that their light may always shine.

(reprinted from Grief Digest, Centering Corporation, Omaha, NE 402-553-1200www.griefdigest.com)

This is an e-mailed request from Cecily, and it is the least I can do.

Amy, I am so sorry for your loss.

Consider the candles lit.

My head hurts

The scarlet hair fiasco was bad enough.

Fucking scarlet hair, but not all over. No, it was streaky. With reddy orange highlights, to provide that multi-tonal look.

I had to resort to a dark brown to cover the damage.

But that faded. To reveal the immortal streaky red. Which had not faded.

So I re-dyed it last night. Bloody L'Oreal again. It looked so good on the box. Chocolate brown with blonde hightlights.

They had a representative in the shop when I bought it. So, in the interests of not having hair that could light the way in a dark alley, I consulted her. She looked at my hair, and asked what I wanted.

I explained my situation and L'Oreal phobia, and she picked out what she called a "foolproof" colour for me - the chocolate brown with blonde highlights. It would be fine with my already coloured hair, she said.

So last night, I armed myself with the dye, some old towels, vaseline and I covered the mirror. Didn't want to scare myself.

The base colour went on beautifully. Then it was time for the highlights. I mixed it up and set to work. My carefully defined streaks were in place and I went off to play on the computer for the requisite 20 minutes whilst my streaks developed.

In my youth, I once decided that I wanted to be blonde. White blonde, to be precise. So I bought my bleach and set to work.

It turns out I do not have hair that likes bleach. It sort of lightened. Pelican crossing orange was not quite the look I was aiming for, but it was the best my hair would allow.

10 years later, my hair has not changed from that original stance.

I did not get chocolate brown hair with blonde highlights. I got chocolate orange hair with fucking orange streaks. That infernal fucking scarlet lives on.

But not for much longer.

In 15 minutes my dark "Brazilian Brown" will have had its alloted time and the fucking scarlet will be hidden once more.

Until the next time.

Take two

It is hair dyeing time.

The fucking scarlet is somehow showing through the chocolate brown I put on to hide it. How I do not know.

So it is time to hit the bottle again.

I am nervous.

Enough

I am not the only one struggling with the urge to batter my live in annoyance to a bloody pulp with a blunt object. See? And see?

I went to bed having left a tidy kitchen. I awoke to find the Baron had eaten half of the contents of the fridge. But had he put the remains in the fridge? Bollocks.

He had piled them on the counter directly above the cupboard that houses the bin.

He refuses to clean the cat litter trays. He doesn't clean the toilet. He doesn't even replace the toilet paper. He doesn't turn his socks out for washing, or empty his pockets. He has never ever done a load of washing.

All he does is work on his clay modelling project. Don't get me wrong, it is really good, but it is taking over the fucking house. The conservatory is completely unuseable as a room as he has taken it over. The house reeks of fiberglass filler. There is kitchen roll strewn about.

And this is after I asked him at the weekend to get it all into the garage. He spent the weekend fartarsing about, supposedly cleaning, yet nothing actually happened. The room is still unuseable.

And the final straw? He turned the thermostat up last night to help his model dry. I didn't know. I couldn't sleep because I was so hot. I finally got up as I was so miserable, and went downstairs to get a cup of tea.

The fucker had turned it up. Right up. The whole house was heated to 95F.

I have had enough.

My house looks like a brothel

It does. Honestly. Well, a cross between a brothel and a really bad eighties disco.

Someone, no names mentioned, may have got just a little carried away with the Christmas lights.

There is a tree this year, and despite the best efforts of six cats, it is still standing tall. It came with lights, which left all the more free to decorate the house with. Plus that same nameless someone also bought some lights for the willow tree outside and a string of angel lights because they looked cute.

Still, having a house that looks like a brothel isn't all bad.

It is colouful.

It is cheerful.

It gets you in the mood.

Harvey

This picture sums up the essence of Harvey.

Harvey is an evil cat. He hates people, and spends a lot of time plotting their downfall. He likes to hurt people.

He likes me. He snuggles in my arms like a baby. He puts his paws around my neck and purrs into my shoulder.

But make no mistake. He bites me too.

Frankie

We got Frankie to keep Harvey company.

Frankie was a very scrawny and smelly cat when we got him, mainly as he had been fed on sardines and kitten milk only.

Harvey didn't take well to the intruder. Frankie, coming from a place where he was the youngest of 15 cats, was quite accepting of Harvey as the boss.

Something that hasn't changed to this day.

Harvey and Frankie adore each other. But Harvey is the leader and of that there is no doubt.

Frankie is much bigger than Harvey and weighs a good three pounds more. But he meekly trots up to Harvey, pushes his face into his and asks for his face to be cleaned.

And Harvey does.

Frankie is a sweetheart of a cat, who just wants to be adored by everyone. He loves to be stroked and held and he purrs if you even look at him. He has a rusty red belly, and he folds his ears back before he grooms himself. He steals earplugs. He grooms my eyebrows.

He is a bugger to take a good picture of though.

Evil Ellie

Ellie was the sweetest little kitten. All fluffy and big blue eyes. Partly because it turns out she wasn't nine weeks like we were led to believe. No, she was five weeks old and far too young to be leaving her mother. Very cute, though.

Sure, she gave us a huge health scare by developing hypothermia and going into fits before lapsing into a coma, but she was a lovely little cat.

She never used her claws, she didn't bite (much) and she adored Frankie.

She never left his side. He nursed her, he groomed her, he taught her how to use the litter tray. and she worshipped him.

Then she started teething.

The nursing stopped. The destuctive phase had begun.

First the blinds. Then the bookcase. Then the bed. Then the next set of blinds.

After that she settled down somewhat. She took her latent aggressiveness out on the hapless Frankie and the catnip mice.

She accepted Charlie without too much fuss. Lots of hissing and puffing up, but since she does that at the hoover too, it doesn't mean that much. She allows him to groom her and chase her.

Same deal with Willow's arrival. Minus the grooming and chasing at the moment. We are still in puff up territory.

Another health scare later, and we have on our hands a very lively little lady. We await with bated breath the next Ellie adventure.

Evil Ellie

Lard Arse

Charlie came to me the day before my birthday.

We went for a drive that day. We bought some lunch, and realised we were near the RSPCA centre. I thought it would be nice to go and look around.

Being a little loopy, I took the wrong turning on the roundabout and ended up on the motorway heading home. But I really wanted to go, so got off at the next junction, turned round, and went back. Making sure I took the right exit.

I didn't see Charlie right away. We went through both wings of the cat centre and I wanted to go back to the first again. The Baron wanted to go home.

We saw the cage at the same time. It had a notice on it asking people not to touch the glass as the cat was very nervous of people. We went over, but we could see no cat. We saw a huge lump under the blanket.

Some children came in the centre and the door slammed shut. The blanket moved to reveal the biggest, and most evil looking cat I had ever seen. I looked at him, and he looked balefully back at me, thinking I had made the noise.

I looked at the Baron. He nodded.

We asked to have him taken out of the cage so we could meet him properly. We were refused. Charlie had bitten too many of the staff, and he was not allowed to be handled for health and safety reasons.

I said I would take him. I just wanted him out of that cage.

The assistant looked at me as if I was mad. "He bites, you know".

The home check was waived. They bundled him into a cage and let us take him straight away.

We didn't get on at first. He didn't like me, and he let me know it. With bites, scratches, hisses and spitting.

But now, nearly ten months on, Charlie is my special boy. He sleeps with me. He lays in my lap. He purrs like a rusty old motor. And he lets me rub his huge fat belly.

I love my Lard Arse.

Lard Arse

The One Eyed Wonder

I fell in love with Willow when she still had both her eyes. She had been hit by a car and suffered face injuries. Her eyes was inflamed and infected. She had signs all over her cage saying "I am beautiful", but people kept walking past her cage. There were kittens next to her so she didn't stand a chance.

I saw her and she marched up to me and headbutted the glass.

The Baron was with me, and said I could not have another cat. I said I was going to ask if they had any more information on her - whether she would lose her eye, whether anyone had shown any interest and what her blood test results were.

The Baron moaned and groaned. I was not to have another cat.

The RSPCA took my number so they could call me with her blood test results. No-one had shown an interest in her.

Days passed. The Baron pretended that we had not seen her.

The call came that she would lose her eye. She would need to stay in for a fortnight to recover and then I could take her home. Time to convince the Baron.

I used my feminine charms. Begged. Pleaded. Did a few things. And confirmed Willow's pick up date.

The day we arrived home from holiday, we picked up our newest kitty cat and brought her home.

The One Eyed Wonder

Introducing......Hollie

Here she is!

She has finally got brave enough to come out from under the bed. Right now, she is sat next to me, gazing up at me and rubbing her head on me to stroke.

She has a few problems, such as a bald belly from stress related overgrooming, but she is putting those behind her and is sporting a sweet fuzz.

Hollie came to us, because her owner couldn't keep her anymore. She was pregnant, planning to emigrate, and her partner was emphatically not a cat lover. Given Hollie's age (6-10) and her temperament (exceedingly shy and retiring) a shelter would not have been in her interests. So I said yes.

The Baron had steam coming out of his ears when I told him that I had agreed. He was furious.

I showed him her photo. He was smitten.

Which is unfortunate, as she is terrified beyond reason at his mere existence.

And that completes my pets.

For now.

The Boy

The Boy was in one of his sweet moods this evening. He cuddled up to me to read his school book, and stayed there to watch the Simpsons.

Every so often he would pat my hand and tell me that he loved me very much.

I love my little nephew.

The Beep

It started early this morning.

I could hear a faint beep when I went downstairs. I ignored it - with six cats to feed, two trays to scoop, sandwiches to make, expense form to submit and breakfast to eat, I didn't have time to track it down before I had to leave for work. I went to work and thought nothing of it.

But when I got home from work I could still hear it. It wasn't from the washing machine. It wasn't the heating or hot water. It wasn't the fridge. It wasn't the dishwasher. It wasn't the cats water fountain. It wasn't the tap - the water had been turned off due to mains work.

I was starting to get spooked. I stuck my head in the meter box. Not there. I tried the fuse box. No. I listened to every plug socket. Then I turned the electricity off to be sure that nothing was beeping.

I could still hear that damn beep.

The smoke detector was working. The carbon monoxide detector was working. I checked both my mobile phones, my laptop, my PDA, and my iPod. All were behaving.

The cats were following me around, but refused to go in the kitchen. Which was where the beep was the loudest.

I ran. Convinced my new house was now possessed, I did the only sensible thing. I went to my Mummy.

She laughed at me.

My father laughed at me.

My sister laughed at me.

The Boy laughed at me. Then offered to call Ghostbusters.

I suspect that the dog laughed at me.

After much pleading and bribery I persuaded my sister to come back with me to my newly haunted house. We set off, through the dark and foggy streets. Very eery. Very fitting, given my house was now possessed by an evil beep.

We got in, and straight away she could hear it.

We headed in to the kitchen. The cats hovered in the doorway, heads tilted to one side and staring into space.

We were at a loss. We searched through every electrical appliance I own. All were beep free.

We both saw it at the same time. The Baron's tool case. His pride and joy. We advanced on it slowly, one one each side. Like it would spring to life. We prised open the lid, held our breath.....
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
and turned off the Baron's fucking metal detector.

He is doing the washing tonight.

My cup overfloweth

We are finally done in the living room. The lighting isn't great, but the floor and walls are done, the new sofa's are in and I have got my books back on their shelves. It isn't finished yet - more books must be put away and all the ornaments (cats, of course) and pictures (cat related paintings) need to go back up.

You will not note a small one eyed cat in one picture relaxing on the sofa, because I attached the wrong picture. She is a naughty one eyed girl. No fewer than 10 seconds had elapsed from her seeing the new (and expensive) leather sofa's to her scratching the new (and expensive) leather sofa's.

Still my living room.

My living room

Bad girl

For I am sooooo bad.

Did I get you all excited?

Sadly it is an ovulator predictor stick, but at least I work half right! This is the tail end of my LH surge. I threw away the the surge stick as the Baron would have had a coronary if he had seen two clear lines on any stick, but it was a beauty of a surge!

Evil

Damn this cold. It is evil.

The Boy has it too. He claims it is his cold that made him break his ruler over his leg in school yesterday and then hide it. It was also the fault of his cold that he was very rude to his teacher.

The Boy is evil too. Clearly.

Harvey is evil. He stuck his nose on my freshly painted wall. So I have a nose print, and a cat with a blue nose.

Ellie is evil. She has chewed the entire corner of my bookcase.

Hollie is evil. She likes to sit and growl at the others. Even when they are fast asleep and have no idea she has left her evil empire.

The Baron is evil. He has stained my new sink with paint.

I am evil. For many reasons.

A letter from the Boy

Dir arnty

I hop all yor cats ar well but giv huve a good cice up the bum

from me

It's my turn now

Happy Blogversary to me!

One year old today.

(And a huge thank you to Jeevan at Haloscan, for restoring to me all my old comments. You are truly fab!)

The Size of a Teabag

When sperm and egg meet they must enter into some serious negotiations for the zygote contract. Everything must be just right, as the contract must be delivered to exact specifications.

Picture the scene, about 27 and a half years ago, if you will. Mr Sperm is sat at one end of the table, and Ms Egg at the other. The hour is late, and the other sperm have called it a day. Ms Egg is the sole representative for her company.

Egg: I must pass on the ability to eat an entire packet of biscuits in one sitting. This is a vital skill, and cannot be lost.

Sperm: You have got to be joking! No way. Not going to happen. Why on earth would anyone NEED that skill?

Egg: Tough luck. No biscuits, no contract. That is how it must be.

Sperm: Fine. If you get that, then I want to pass on the ability to drink beer until it hurts.

Egg: Bloody pointless skill, if you ask me. But ok, what the hell. What's left? Are we nearly done?

Sperm: Hum. Only the unimportant bits, I think. Grey eyes ok?

Egg: They'll do. How do you feel about musical skills?

Sperm: If you get to pass on musical skills, I want to pass on the love of reading.

Egg: Deal. I like that. Last two. You get one and I get one.

Sperm: All I have left to pass on is short sightedness and an inability to map read.

Egg: Does that explain why you had trouble finding the venue today?

Sperm: Haha. You don't have a real sense of humour to pass on then?

Egg: I have a bladder the size of a teabag, and a clicky elbow left. Let's toss.

Sperm: I find that to be a deeply offensive remark. It is offensive to my millions upon millions of compatriots who met their end through tossing.

Egg: Shove it up your arse.

Sperm: I'll ignore that. I'm going to go with short-sightedness.

Egg: I choose the bladder the size of a teabag.

Sperm: But we agreed on the ability to drink beer until it hurts!

Egg: It will hurt now. Never let it be said I do not have a good sense of humour.

And that is how I got my teabag sized bladder.

The Crazy Chronicles

Everybody has quirks. Strange habits. Odd phobias. Peculiar sayings.

I, for example, have a long standing fear of car washes. I also must have the toilet roll going under, and not over.

The Boy does not believe in blisters. He does not get blisters. He gets splinters in his feet, and that is that. He also dips biscuits into cold Ribena.

The Baron is fairly strange in most respects, but even he has his oddities. He always leaves the last few mouthfuls of Coke in the bottle. He doesn't just stub out his fags, but obliterates them into little heaps to prevent the raging inferno that may occur in the ashtray. Oh, and he likes peanut butter and houmous sandwiches.

My mother is the queen of peculiar sayings. "Okey dokey, lemon soaky" is one that the Boy has caught onto, but there are countless more. "Better a pole in the eye with a dead stick" springs to mind.

My father is currently crusading against the Times, for removing his beloved broadsheet format. He will not read the paper in tabloid format.

The Baron's father believes that it is a personal affront if the Baron doesn't answer the phone immediately. Even if he is at work.

Even the cats are in on the weirdness.

Harvey will tap me repeatedly in the night until I roll over and cuddle him. Try as I might, I cannot ignore him as the taps turn into bops, and then if I am still so impertinent as to ignore his demands, he will claw me.

Yet, if I am awake when he comes up, he wants nothing to do with me.

Frankie cannot groom himself without first folding back both of his ears. He also likes to scatter litter over a 5 mile radius, to ensure that everything is covered.

Ellie cannot remain silent even when stalking prey. She crouches low and starts hunting. Then she forgets herself, lets out a little chatter and her prey runs away (her prey being invariably the hapless Frankie, who can hear her chatter as he has forgotton his ears are still folded back).

Charlie will roll over and show his belly. Then he takes your hand with his paws, as if it let you stroke him, and then he bites. Hard. And then glares malevolently at you.

Willow watches foood cooking in the oven. It doesn't matter how long it is in for, she will watch it. We are thinking of spit roasting a pig, just to see if she will watch that. I've taken to leaving UKFood on for her when I am out, just to keep her occupied.

Hollie just likes to be in small spaces. In fact, the smaller the better.

My parents dog chases his own leg. In his defense, he doesn't have a tail to chase, but even so, that is one of the weirdest things I have seen. When he catches it (!) he actually tries to gnaw it like a bone.

So.....share your quirks!

Whoops

There was a big accident on the motorway over the weekend - a petrol tanker overturned after a crash, killed the driver, and spilt petrol all over the motorway. Unsurprisingly, the road was closed for a long time, and it needs to be resurfaced.

By this morning, they had opened one lane of the motorway. The traffic was therefore horrendous, according to the traffic report that woke me up. And it was where I was due to be travelling to.

So I did what any sane person would do - I decided to work from home. I e-mailed the client to say I would not be starting the on-site work until tomorrow, and then settled back in bed with my laptop, a pile of paperwork and an even bigger pile of files to review.

Well, in all honesty, the Baron was still in bed, so we settled down to something a little more fun than work, but since I am not paid to do that, we'll gloss over that bit and get to the work part.

A little while later, I started to update my calendar to reflect the change in plans. It wasn't a big deal, since I had five days allocated to the review, and in all likelihood only needed three to complete. Then it hit me.

Fanfuckingtastic. I had cancelled the wrong review. Same client, but different departments. I had e-mailed the department relating to next week's work to tell them I wasn't coming in today. Since they weren't expecting me, that probably didn't come as a great surprise to them.

However, the department under review this week were still expecting me. And I need all five days allocated to this review as it is highly technical, time consuming, and mind numbingly boring. Since I have a tender presentation to give on Wednesday I am seriously running out ot time on this review already, and I haven't even started. But since I am at the same client the following week, I can probably do the two reviews concurrently and fit everything in.

I called them to tell them I would be starting tomorrow. Only to find out that no-one is free until Thursday, but it was good since no-one was around today to actually do the review with.

So, in a roundabout way, things have worked out well. I can stay at home until Thursday, and catch up on other bits and pieces (the pile of ironing the size of Wales springs to mind) and my clients are happy with the change in plans.

Just call me the Penfold of the auditing world. I have the T-shirt.

The Well Fed Cats

I sometimes roast a chicken just for the sake of it. We buy organic chickens, so this isn't a weekly occurrence - much as I would like to have roast chicken every week, at around £10 a chicken, it simply isn't going to happen.

I rubbed it with garlic infused oil and sprinkled it with sea salt and rosemary. I stuck a lime up its bottom (and pricked the lime for extra flavour), along with more garlic, and roasted it until crispy, golden and cooked just right. Willow sat and watched it cook for an hour and a half, as is her wont.

It was left to cool on the side. The chicken guardians were relegated to the other side of the door for safety. Best not to leave tempation in the form of a freshly cooked chicken in their path.

I told the Baron to keep the kitchen door shut whilst it was cooling down. But he couldn't resist the crying Willow, and so went and got some for her. Sucker. She knows who to beg to.

I yelled down to him to make sure that the door was closed when he came out. He replied it was, and disappeared back to the conservatory, where he is engaged in making a clay model of some sort.

I came dowstairs a little later, frustrated with my mp3 player, which has decided that it must give my computer the cold shoulder and claim not to recognise it. So my plans of an early night listening to music have been replaced by a late night dreaming of destroying stroppy electrical items.

No cats were in sight, and the house was quiet. This, as all feline fans will know, is a BAD SIGN. No cats, and no noise usually means that mischief is afoot. I went to the kitchen with a deep sense of foreboding, and a sneaking suspicion that the Baron was going to be in big trouble.

The sense of foreboding was justified. The chicken was gone. All gone. Not a morsel remained.

Harvey and Willow were sat licking their lips and looking very smug, and Frankie and Ellie were arm wrestling for the last crumb on the kitchen floor. Charlie is above such stealing and was slumbering in my chair, unaware of the Great Chicken Theft. Hollie would have been in on it, if she wasn't hiding under the bed again.

The Baron swears blind that he shut the door behind him. But smart though my cats are, they have not yet worked out how to open doors. Cupboard doors yes, but not internal doors. They are working on it, but success is not imminent.

I think the Baron did not shut the door behind him. I think he left it wide open. I think I may have to beat him around the head with what remains of the chicken carcass.

So, to recap:

Cats - One large, slow grown organic chicken for tea.

DMouse - Cup of tea for tea.

The Baron - no tea at all.

Where art thou?

Please come back to me, my sweet comments.

The rant from Katie.

The musings of the Evil One.

The newly Evil Pez's wise words.

Snapper's snippets.

And the comments from everyone else. I would link more, but dinner is burning!

Shit bugger fuck bollocks

This is why posts and comments should be saved. Whilst playing with my template, I have somehow lost all my comments.

All of them.

Bits and bobs

The bedframe arrived over the weekend, and has been built. It is so comfortable! We built the bedside tables as well.

The olive tree has been planted. The chilli's have yielded a great harvest, and the lemon trees are doing pretty well.

I am all better now. A day of simple relaxing (the first in a long time, what with work, the Boy, moving house, the cats, clearing the garden and the like) and a good night's sleep (in a bed, and not a mattress on the floor) worked their dependable magic.

The Baron is enjoying playing with all his new gardening tools. He is determined that everything we grow will be edible in some manner, and so is spending hours clearing the beds and working out crop rotation plans.

The Boy was awarded with "Achiever of the Week - Year 2" for actually completing his week's work in the time allotted (rather than talking to his harem of girlfriends). Nice one, Boy!

Harvey has been accepted into the Feline Gymanstic Team (UK), after a stunning performance with Da Bird, kindly sent by Pat from Minnesota. We can't get them in the UK, so I will have to keep troubling fellow cat fanatics to buy and ship them on the cat's behalf. At the moment, he is sleeping after his latest training session.

Frankie has learnt that he cannot walk down the stair bannister. He has also been caught snuggling with Willow on the new bed.

Ellie has had some digestive problems. Probably caused by sampling the chilli harvest. Silly girl! She still eats my plants, but has taken to sitting on the Baron's lap late in the evening.

Charlie is just wonderful. He is a whole new cat. When we brought him here, he realised we had moved but had not left him behind. The newfound level of trust is astonishing, and he has started training with Harvey for the Feline Gymnastics Team (UK) . He may lose some weight now. I caught him cuddling Harvey last night as well.

Willow likes to walk along the fences in the garden. She looks so beautiful sat in the trellis work. She is a lovely girl, so friendly and trusting, despite having been knocked over and left.

Hollie has lost a lot of weight, but has started to eat again. She still likes to hide, but is currently on the windowsill above the radiator and is watching the world go by. However, since I live in the bottom of a cul de sac, there isn't too much for her to watch.

The rottweiler puppy is due to be born the first week in December. We just need to find out whether she has enough dogs for those on the list. She is expecting 8 puppies, but the sex isn't known yet. Puppy ultrasounds just aren't that helpful!

The fish are swimming in the pond.

Ill

I am at home. A shocking head cold, coupled with the first period I have had in ten years without the comforting barrier of artificial hormones has wiped me out.

Well, technically it is the strong painkillers I have taken that have knocked me out, but who is splitting hairs? Not me.

So I am snuggled on the sofa in my woolly blanket and whichever cats feel like a cuddle - that is one of the great things about having six cats is that there is always a furry hotwater bottle to be had. There aren't that many great things about having six cats that you wouldn't get with a more normal number of beasticles, but that is one.

I have to look after the Boy this evening as my parents need to take their dog to the emergency vets. I'm not looking forward to it, but I suspect Sam is looking forward to his appointment even less. Still, it is only for a couple of hours and then I can return to bed.

So from my sofa, I raise my cup of tea to all of you who don't have the luxury of taking time off sick and have to get on with it. Because the kidlets are getting on with it.

Related to fucktards

The Baron's brother is a waste of good oxygen. He is selfish and lazy, cheap beyond belief, and moans like an old woman constantly about everything. The last trait seems to run through all the males in that particular line..............but I digress. He is a fucktard.

This is the same brother who, not content with dragging us all out to Ireland for the wedding and refusing to help pay for his parents (leaving us to pay), is still demanding a wedding present. Not asking, but demanding. An iPod, to be exact. I don't fucking think so, you tight fuck. Manners mean nothing to this arsewipe.

He has been moaning that the Baron never goes down to visit him and his wife. The Baron has offered on numerous occasions, but as his wife has her family over constantly, it is not deemed appropriate for the Baron to visit, who has unsurprisingly stopped offering to visit.

We moved house three weeks ago. The Baron's brother has not been here. In four and a half years he visited our previous house once. His wife was in the area over the weekend, and he came to pick her up. Did he come over to see his brother? Did he bollocks!

He did have the nerve to phone us and ask us to pick her up and take her home (an hour's drive each way) because he wanted a nap and to watch the X Factor. But once over in the area, he couldn't be bothered to come here. Too much fucking effort.

But naturally we should be willing to make the drive down to see them whenever it suits his wife's family diary.

So tomorrow is the Baron's day off. Guess which fucktard relative he is going to visit? His parents were initially coming over for a visit (so according to the Baron, I should be frantically tidying up. I don't clean for my parents, so why he thinks I am cleaning for his, I don't know), but since they found out that the Baron is going down, they are going to. No doubt to avoid paying for their own petrol.

I will be working. I planned to work at home tomorrow and was being forced into the visit, but luckily for me, a major fraud has been detected at one of my clients and so I have to go back to London tomorrow to start the investigation off.

I've just had a phonecall. Turns out that fucktard's little wifey (She of the low self esteem who married a turd she knew had cheated on her) left her glasses at her aunt's house this weekend. Like you do. Guess who has to go out of his way this evening after work (when he finishes at midnight) to collect them?

The same person who always gets taken advantage of by his family.

The one, the only, the Baron.

Bereavement

It is with great regret I announce the passing of the Baron's car.

Our Escort, circa 1991, has served us faithfully (barring the electrical systems, which have been a pain in the arse).

It has taken us to France. To the supermarket. To the North of the country. To the pub.

It has provided endless entertainment. The "when is the horn going to stop blaring?" competition was always a delight. The spontaneous horn sounding also had its moments - outside Holloway prison, stuck in traffic in a notorious gang zone, and behind a police car are just some of the precious memories we shall cherish.

It shall be missed. Not least because I must now share my car with a confirmed crap driver.

Farewell, Escort. May you rust in peace.

New boots

The emotional pain has now been superceded by physical pain.

I am the proud owner of a new pair of Grinders. Sounds kinky, no?

My Grinders are 14 eye, black leather steel top capped monster Doctor Marten boots. Supposed to be the first boots to be designed that will not give you blisters.

Bollocks.

My feet are bleeding, red and sore.

But they look damn good!

Bugger

I feel ill. And saddened.

Goodbye clean air.

Goodbye to a meaningful right to choose.

Goodbye to any real homosexual rights.

Goodbye to civil liberties.

Goodbye to more lives lost in a meaningless war.

Still, people get what they vote for. And if people vote for a smirking little fucktard who can't string together a meaningful sentence, and wouldn't know the truth if it was smacked round his smirking little face, well that is what people get. And deserve. Well done, USA.

It is s shame that the rest of the world must suffer the consequences. War on terror my arse. The world's biggest terrorist has just been given free reign for another four years.

Thanks.

The Fruitful Garden

We've cleared the garden out. We now have some fantastic beds ready to become a fully productive vegetable garden come spring.

The compost bin arrives tomorrow, my orange, satsuma, lime and olive trees are due to arrive later this week, and my chilli's are thriving, as are my herbs. Minus the bits that the cats have chewed out of them. I am also growing some catmint at the moment, and will start a tub of catnip off in the spring to keep them away from the other plants.

What else? Oh, a good friend of mine, and former neighbour, has just announced her pregnancy. I am very pleased for her, and we shall gloss over the small pangs of jealousy occurring. We are meeting up this week (though not for a drink as we normally would). She moved a few weeks before I did, and we haven't seen each other for quite a while.

I have signed the Boy up for a gymnastics class. He has been asking to go to it ever since he saw the Olympics, and since he found out I broke my arm in gymnastics class when I was little (why that is an incentive I don't know, but I don't pretend to understand the mind of a six year old boy). We have an hour's trial lesson on Wednesday afternoon. He doesn't know yet - it is a surprise.

Off to soak in a hot bath. Gardening is hard work, and my legs are starting to mutiny.

Peace and Quiet

Harvey is prowling around upstairs in my bedroom. I can hear him knocking my candlesticks around. He is happy.

Frankie is fast asleep on my giant stuffed rottweiler. I hope that is a good omen for the new puppy.

Ellie is in the conservatory watching the goldfish outside. I light the pond for her every night, she likes it that much. She sits on the cat tree and talks to them.

Charlie is glaring at me. He hates my laptop, as he feels my lap is for him and him alone.

Willow is eating. If she isn't eating, she is sleeping. She is an easy cat.

Hollie is currently hiding in the mechanism of the chairbed. She likes the foam.

The Baron is working late.

It is quiet.

There are no street lights at all in our village, and as a result it is dark. We have been using our telescope most evenings since we moved here. I have no idea what I am looking at, but it is fun. I've seen lots of shooting stars this evening. I am going to join the library and get some books out on astronomy.

I have my vegetable garden all planned out. My herbs are starting in the kitchen, my lemons and peppers in the conservatory. My orange tree is ordered and on its way, and I am expecting my lime tree to follow very shortly. The Baron doesn't know yet - it is a surprise for our anniversary tomorrow.

We plan to start the garden this weekend. There is so much to clear up and get rid of, before we can start preparing the beds. We have been looking forward to having a garden for so long, and now we can start work on the garden we have talked about for so long.

I love this quiet time in the evenings. It feels so much relaxing in this house - almost as though the extra room in the house is giving me extra room to think. I can play my instruments whenever I want without disturbing anyone else. I finally have my piano back after nearly five years. I'm not as good as I used to be though.

I have just ordered some rare breed meat from an online farm shop. I am planning a huge roast dinner at the weekend to thank my family for all the help they have given with this move. I also got some traditional bacon from the same rare breed. I am looking forward to my Sunday bacon sandwich in bed now!

I now have room for all of my books. I have several thousand books, some of which I haven't seen in nearly five years. I had to store them in the loft of my parents house. I love to sit and read in the conservatory, with a cup of tea and a cat. It is so nice.

Hope everyone else is having as nice an evening as I am having. Peace and quiet to you all!

Checking in

I am sat in my conservatory, surrounded by cats, lemon trees and pepper plants. I have a cup of tea and slice of ginger cake on the go.

Bliss.

The move went well. We broke two wineglasses and two minature ceramic tureens. We are pretty much unpacked and straight. The bed arrives in two weeks, and the leather sofa's in four. We have a phone line in, and satellite tv is being installed on Wednesday. My new oven is in, the shower, kitchen sink and tap are going to be put in soon. The new bathroom floor tiles will be completed in four-ish weeks.

The only bad thing? We can't get broadband. I am suffering with 26.2K dial-up at the moment, and the best we can hope for is 512K. We just left behind 1.5M. Sob.

The cats are well. Harvey was delirious when we retrieved him from cattery. They were all a little quiet when we got home, but all are settled in well. Hollie has become a brave little lady and wanders around the house and sleeps in bed with me and the other five. Charlie has been caught snuggling with Frankie, Willow is in love with my new oven (probably because I have been testing it with a succession of roasted chickens) and Ellie is just Ellie. By which I mean she careers round the house in a wave of destruction.

We're back!

Moving Day minus 12 hours

Everything is packed bar the computer. The house is clean, the cars are loaded and we are ready to go.

This is DMouse. Over and out.

I changed my mind

Current result is negative. Half of me wishes to sigh in relief and the other half wants to go and and cry in the bathroom.

So I have made a decision. I am not going back on the pill. This is something I have been thinking about for a while now.

I have been switching my diet over to organic only for the last few months to avoid pesticides, hormones and other shit, and the irony is not lost on me that I voluntarily pump myself full of them on a daily basis.

And the Baron has packed my last packet anyway. He is supportive of my decision to come off of it for the reasons above, and so that is that.

Sorry for the drama.

I need a drink

I am not a happy bunny this evening.

The cats are in cattery. The Baron is working late, and I am lonely. I miss my babies.

The house is depressing. Boxes and bags everywhere. I want out. The pub sounds fantastic. Open roaring fires, and copious amounts of alcohol.

Except.........there has been a noticeable lack of roof falling this week. Enough to have prompted a little test. Which has so far not proved anything conclusive as the first fucker didn't work. The second was negative but since I am on the pill (with some big accidents this month) I can't be sure of dates. So I daren't drink until I am sure.

And, oh God, do I need a drink.

A letter to my cats

Dear Cats,

You know we are moving house. At least, I assume you do. Perhaps you think we are creating a giant playground for your convenience? You are half right. We are doing this to ensure you have even more space to take over.

We have some news for you, but I will get to that in a moment.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you, Harvey, for kindly tearing the skin down my finger in an effort to wake me up. It did. The pouncing on me once I had gone back to sleep was a nice touch too. But it was lovely to wake up and find you snuggled into my neck. Thank you.

Frankie, sweetheart, earplugs are not a major food group and should not been considered a regular starter. Also, I would be able to feed you a lot quicker in the mornings, if I didn't have to search so hard for clean underwear. Stop stealing my knickers.

Ellie. Just stop eating the boxes. You are not teething. Neither are you a bird, so you can't fly. I don't care how many times you throw yourself off of the shelves, it isn't going to happen. It is lovely when you come for a snuggle in the night. However, to make it a little more pleasant for me, could you please stop putting your bottom in my face?

Charlie, I promise we aren't going to leave you behind. Promise. You are coming with us. I will never leave you. So can I please remove you from my leg? I can't feel it anymore.

Willow. You get fed. Please refrain from stealing food from my plate. Also, whilst I have your attention, I appreciate that your eye socket might itch from time to time. It would be nice if you found another way of relieving it. People don't like having their noses pushed into empty and furry eye scokets. It just feels a little odd.

Hollie. Please come out from under the sofa. We'd love to see you. It's been 16 days.

Love,

Your slaves.

PS. You are all off to cattery tomorrow.

Nearly there

We've nearly finished the packing. The house is empty, yet filled to bursting with boxes. Five days to go.

The cats are in feline heaven - they think we have spent all this time crafting a playground for them. Every open box houses a cat. Every box bears the scar of a cat attack, be it teeth or claws.
Keeps them amused.

A bad idea

So the kitchen is packed up. And this is BAD. I thought packing would be a good thing, seeing as I move in eight days time. But no, it is really, really BAD.

For I am hungry. And the fridge is empty. There is not a morsel of food in the house. Unless you count the cat food. Not that it matters, since I have also packed all the plates, utensils and cutlery I possess.

I did consider this whilst packing, but since I wasn't hungry at the time it didn't seem such an issue. But once all the shops shut, the tummy rumbles commenced, and packing up the kitchen seemed like a BAD idea.

I also accidently packed the HarveyCat. I unsealed him as soon as I worked out which box he was inhabiting, but have now run out of tape. So the little git is back in the box, laughing at me.

He might not be laughing so hard if I eat his cat food.

Just keep packing...

Just keep packing.........just keep packing.

Shish kebab

We thought Hollie escaped. Hollie, the indoor only cat, who deigns not to have a name. It was completely my fault. I opened the cat flap the wrong way so instead of them being able to come in and not get out, they had free access. When I ran upstairs to grab my phone, I heard the flap go.

Hollie was gone.

So, after an hour of wandering around the neighbourhood in tears (with Harvey at my heels - which somewhat hampered the rescue efforts, as everytime I asked if they had seen a tabby cat, they invariably replied there was one behind me. I suspect my image as mad cat lady has been well reinforced), I discover the bitchbag has wormed under the bath behind the panel AGAIN.

Despite the fact I have to move house in ten days, I have been forced to destroy the bath panel to get her out. She is now back under the sofa.

I've tucked the sofa skirt up so I can see her. Unfortunately, now all the cats can see each other so I am writing to the cacophony of feline hissing, yowling and growling.

I was trusted to take her from her home, and I so nearly terminally fucked it up. If she had gone, there would have been no way I could have got her back. She doesn't respond to her name, she doesn't trust me and she has no idea where she is.

I am so grateful she is safe, but I feel awful.

Counting game

10 days to go to the move.

9 days until the cats are in cattery.

8 days until my sister buggers off to Tenerife and leaves me the Boy.

7 boxes packed.

6 cats driving me to the brink of madness.

5 working days left before my leave starts.

4 cat baskets to de-hair.

3 reports to write this weekend.

2 cans of diet coke left.

1 nervous breakdown underway.

Help!

Blame Katie

This is Katie's fault. It came from this site.

You say "the city" and expect everyone to know which one. (Is there another that matters?)

You can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Shepherds Bush to Elephant & Castle at 3:30 on the Friday before a long weekend, but can't find Dorset on a map. (I can find it. Just. And Shepherd's Bush to Elephant is easy peasy)

You step over people who collapse on the tube. (Generally. Especially if a can of Special Brew is being clutched)

You've considered stabbing someone. (not lately. After Tom, stabbing is a tad more real. It's usually beating people with my laptop)

Your door has more than three locks. (Yes)

You consider eye contact an act of overt aggression. (Hell yes! You do not look at people on the Tube)

You call an 8' x 10' plot of patchy grass a garden. (it's all I have, dammit!)

You know where Karl Marx is buried. (Highgate Cemetary, and very pretty it is too)

You consider Essex the "countryside" (That is where we are moving in 13 days time. Very countryside.)

You think Hyde Park is "nature." (Well, what else could you call it?)

Shopping in suburban supermarkets and shopping malls gives you a severe attack of agoraphobia. (K-mart was just plain scary. Way too big, with way too much unnecessary crap. How much choice does a person really need?)

You've been to Tooting twice and got hopelessly lost both times. (I used to work there, and got lost frequently. Icky place, but it is south of the river)

You pay £3 without blinking for a beer that cost the bar 28p. (Blinking isn't going to bring the price down, and I am not going on a beer diet)

You have 27 different menus next to your telephone. (Yes. I have a folder for them all)

The UK west of Heathrow is still theoretical to you. (I suspect it is theoretical to the bods in charge of the roadworks on the M25 coming up to Heathrow too)

You're suspicious of strangers who are actually nice to you. (Too weird)

Your idea of personal space is no one actually standing on your toes. (Alas, but is it just a dream?)

£50 worth of groceries fit in one paper bag. (Sadly, this isn't exclusive to London)

You have a minimum of five "worst cab ride ever" stories. (All involve alcohol, unsurprisingly)

You don't hear sirens anymore. (Except on football nights when it sounds like the end of the world)

You've mentally blocked out all thoughts of the city's air quality and what it's doing to your lungs. (But I don't get hayfever in the city. Works for me)

You say 'mate' constantly. (Guilty. Even the Boy has picked that up now)

Anyone not from London is a 'wanker'. (Except a few select people. My mum, for starters)

Anyone from outside London and north of the Watford Gap is a 'Northern Wanker'. (Again, except my Mum and a few others. But everyone from the city knows civilisation ends at the Watford Gap)

You have no idea where the North is. (Sadly I do, as I have been. I don't wish to again)

You see All Saints in the Met Bar (again) and find it hard to get excited about it. (I haven't seen them. Here, we see Posh and Becks (lucky us) a lot. No-one cares)

Somebody speaks to you on the tube and you freak out thinking they are a stalker. (You don't talk, unless you are drunk, or walk into someone. General chitchat is weird, and marks you as a desperate perv. Or a tourist. I'm not saying which is worst)

Oh yeah, baby!

Thank fuck for that.

We are exchanged! Can I hear a big OH YEAH BABY!!!!

Legal limbo.

We are still in legal limbo. The exchange still hasn't taken place.

Fuck.

Teeny Weeny Bit Stressed.

The exchange of contracts still hasn't taken place, and we are supposed to be moving in two and a half week.

I haven't packed a damn thing yet.

Hollie will not come out from the sofa.

The Baron is being a pain about all of the above.

My sister is planning on leaving her partner (my friend) and is being a bitch about it. Leaving your partner of four years, whose best friend has just died, BY PHONE is evil.

I have run out of chocolate.

To The Citizens of the United States of America

In the light of your failure to elect a President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective today.

Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchial duties over all states, commonwealths and other territories. Except Utah, which she does not fancy.

Your new prime minister (The rt. hon. Tony Blair, MP for the 97.85% of you who have until now been unaware that there is a world outside your borders) will appoint a minister for America without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire will be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed. To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:

1. You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Then look up "aluminium". Check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how far off the mark you were. Generally, you should raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. Look up "vocabulary". Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. Look up "interspersed".

2. There is no such thing as "US English". We will let Microsoft know on your behalf.

3. You should learn to distinguish the English and Australian accents. It really isn't that hard.

4. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as the good guys.

5. You should relearn your original national anthem, "God Save The Queen", but only after fully carrying out task 1. We would not want you to get confused and give up half way through.

6. You should stop playing American "football". There is only one kind of football. What you refer to as American "football" is not a very good game. The 2.15% of you who are aware that there is a world outside your borders may have noticed that no one else plays "American" football. You will no longer be allowed to play it, and should instead play proper football. Initially, it would be best if you played with the girls. It is a difficult game. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which is similar to American "football", but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like nancies). We are hoping to get together at least a US rugby sevens side by 2005.

7. You should declare war on Quebec and France, using nuclear weapons if they give you any merde. The 98.85% of you who were not aware that there is a world outside your borders should count yourselves lucky. The Russians have never been the bad guys. "Merde" is French for "sh*t".

8. July 4th is no longer a public holiday. November 8th will be a new national holiday, but only in England. It will be called "Indecisive Day".

9. All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap and it is for your own good. When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean.

10. Please tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us crazy.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Hollie

Hollie and I have returned from our epic journey. I am shattered, and she is hiding under the sofa.

(Upon arrival she squeezed into an impossibly small place and ended up under the bath behind the panel, requiring the trashing of my bathroom. So I'd say she is tired and stressed. Makes two of us).

So I have been a-trawling through the blogs. In the main this is a fun exercise, but every now and again there is a post that makes me want to pull out my own hair/beat my head against the wall/beat the writers head against the wall. And I found it this weekend.

ARRGGGGGHHHHH.

I feel better now.

Bored

So. Very. Bored.

Things I have learned this week

According to the Boy, Jesus was killed because he told everyone he could feed a party with four fish, two apples and some bread rolls.

Cats look really silly when they fall in the toilet.

Sod's Law dictates that when you are less than four weeks away from moving, your crappy heating unit will die and require vast injections of cash to resuscitate.

Mentioning solicitors to your annoying neighbours clears up disputes really quickly.

Agreeing to take in your sixth cat four weeks early isn't a good idea. Your cats won't thank you for it.

It is impossible to buy a pressure canner in the UK.

Bluetooth is bloody annoying.

Catch up

OK. Everyone comfortable? Shall we begin?

The week began with a visit to West London. Not the easiest of treks from my house, it involves an overground train, then an underground train, a walk, a bus and another walk.

Monday.

A glorious day. My bag was heavy, so I thought I'd leave the umbrella at home. Ha! As soon as I left the underground for my walk to the bus stop, I saw the clouds, which before were beautifully white and fluffy, were now lead grey. And lower in the sky. Much lower.

I got to the bus stop. There was no shelter, so I had to stand in the drizzle. After an eternity, the bus arrived and I got on with all the other miserable and wet people who had been waiting.

I got a seat. That is unusual, to be honest, so I wondered why.

Not chewing gum on the seat. Not unidentified gunge. Not a broken seat.

The reason the seat was empty was the man sat next to it. He looked fine. He wasn't obviously mad (a particular hazard on London transport).

His problem was of an odiferous nature. The man smelt like a bag of rotten potatoes. I know the smell of rotting potatoes, as the Baron likes to move any bags out of his way and so puts them on top of the fridge. I am five foot two, so I am not likely to see them unless I happen to be on stilts, and I only realise

a) when we have run out of potatoes and it is a mashed potato emergency

or

b) I can smell them.

So the stench enveloped me. Being a polite Brit, I try not to say anything. It might not be his fault. Then nausea overcomes me and I cough. And stand up near the exit, in case the reek embeds itself in my skin.

The man stares straight ahead, oblivious.

I arrive at my destination, wet and smelling slightly of potatoes.

I sign in and wait for the receptionist. I tell her I am here to see Mr Liar Liar Pants on Fire in Finance. Ok, maybe that isn't his real name, but it ought to be.

This review was booked months ago. After an ill-fated visit where he told me there was nowhere to sit in the office and so I should rebook. I had an empty diary and allowed him to pick the most convenient day for him. And so it was noted. In my diary, in his diary, and in my pissed off managers diary.

Mr Liar Liar Pants on Fire has buggered off on holiday. When I retrieved my jaw from the floor, I asked to be taken to the department to speak to someone.

Twenty minutes later someone finally comes over to take me through security (no-one wants to mess with pissed off tenants, and I am beginning to understand why they need such stringent security. I want to hurt people - after the last debacle I had called ahead to confirm - that morning - and no-one thought to tell me of the change in plans).

No-one is willing to help me or tell me anything. So I write an extremely snarky note and inform them I will be back tomorrow when Mr Liar Liar Pants on Fire returns. This is agreed, and I wend my way home.

The Parcel Force Man has been and gone, leaving me a little card saying I should go to the post office to retrieve my parcel. Great. It is pension collection day and the old folk do so like to make a whole day of it, catching up in the post office queue. Fab.

But it is my new PDA and I WANT IT NOW! Even auditors can act like Veruca Salt when necessary.

So to the post office I away. There is nowhere to pack, so I block a car in and head off. The only people likely to park there are going to be in the post office, and since I WANT IT NOW! I don't give a flying fuck anyway.

The queue is stretching out the door. Old people for as far as I can see. One man my age stands behind me for ten minutes and then stomps out, muttering about old people today.

I start twitching. I haven't had a great day, and I need a shower. Fortunately the potato smell isn't so noticeable, as one of the people in the queue reeks of urine. A woman of about ninety behind me starts complaining that pensioners have all day to go in so why do they choose lunchtime? I try to keep a straight face and sympathise. I WANT IT NOW! so I will endure.

Almost an hour later I get my parcel. Woohoo! I get to the car to find the car I blocked in was gone, and yet not a mark on mine. Magic? Who cares! I have a PDA!

I race home, shedding packaging as I run into the house. Tearing off the final layers I can hardly wait. I have been looking forward to this for so long.

Guess what? I bet you have. No fucking PDA. It was some books that weren't due for another few days.

Monday's score. Five hours of travel. No work done. No PDA. Serious nasal assault. One seriously pissed off person.

Tuesday

Tuesday dawns. The sun is shining. I pack my umbrella. No PDA is delivered, but Amazon promises, cross its heart and hopes to die that it will be there tomorrow.

I am optimistic that today I will get lots done. I will kick auditing bottom.

I take the train. Uneventful. The Tube. Boring and hot. Walk. No rain and I pick up a yummy sandwich from my favourite shop - I am in that good a mood.

The bus. Well, it was nearly empty. I got a seat and stared out the window, mentally planning my days work, without the assistance of my PDA.

We got a couple of stops down the road, and a young man gets on. Looks normal, but I am used to public transport and so stare straight ahead and chant in my head

"sit somewhere else, sit somewhere else, sit somewhere else, not next to me.".

And he did. But it didn't make a difference.

I clean littertrays on a regular basis. Five cats produce a lot of pee. It isn't a pleasant job, but it has to be done. And when he sat down behind me and my eyes started watering, I wished I had a nice cat littertray to sink my nose into.

His feet were the worst smelling I have ever had the misfortune to smell. My eyes are watering now even thinking about it.

This wasn't a case for politeness. This was a get the hell up and off that bus as soon as possible situation.

I walked the rest of the way, rejoicing in the comparatively sweet polluted Ealing air.

Mr Liar Liar Pants on Fire had returned from his holiday.

But had scheduled meetings all day. He took five minutes out of his busy day to thank me for coming back, but could I please reschedule as it wouldn't be possible to conduct the review after all.

AAARRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

So after telling him I would still be charging for all my wasted time, and that I would not be coming back ever, I left. In a film, I would have been walking down Ealing Broadway into the sunset, discarding my laptop, files, calculators etc to the wind. Since it was reality, I flounced out, tripped over the cobbles outside, and landed on my arse outside Blockbuster Videos.

No smelly people on the way home. Just a typical man who felt the need to sit with his legs open as wide as possible. Encroaching on my seat space, and then hogging the armrest. I smacked his leg with my laptop, shoved his arm off my armrest, reclaimed my space and glared at him until Liverpool Street.

I got home to find that the litter tray needed cleaning.

After a cup of tea and a biscuit, I decide to tackle a report. All well and good. Then Charlie sat on my file. I tried to move him. The little bastard spat at me. I tried again. He bit me. I booted the little git outside with the others and decided that another cup of tea would be a good idea.

I went to retrieve the cats. Four cats sat on the roof of my car. Only one cat was one of my collection. Bizarre, but it explains the cat paw print in the mud decoration I sport. Ellie was chewing my aerial, which is probably why it doesn't work anymore. I grabbed her, and pulled her down. And my aerial, which was still in her mouth. She went in.

Charlie was sleeping in an empty cement mixer in the sun. He doesn't bear grudges with me, so he waddled over and headbutted my bitten hand. He went in as soon as he could smell food.

Frankie was under the car playing with a spider. He goes in when you tell him to. He took his new playmate with him. I believe Ellie ate it later that evening.

Harvey. Harvey. My troublemaker. I called, and called him. No response. I rattled his biscuits. Nada. Twenty minutes later, I went in. I discovered Harvey fast asleep in a towel on the bathroom floor.

Tuesdays score. Four and a half hours travel. No work done. GBH committed against my nose. No PDA. Bite marks in my hand. Criminally deranged person.

Wednesday.

I stayed home.

At 7.30AM my PDA finally arrived. I spent Wednesday setting it up and syncing it with the desktop and the laptop. Oh, and trying to keep the Baron's sticky mitts off my new toy!

Wednesdays score. No travel. No work. PDA!!!!!!! Happy person!

Irony.

My last post I complained I had nothing to say.

Now I have so much, and yet no time. The matchsticks are failing me.

I shall return, post slumber, and relate my week. It's funny if you don't actually have to live it.

Tar

There are days that I sit down to write, and my mind is overflowing with things I want to say. And then there are days like today. Where my mind feels like it is felt with slightly gooey tar.

I mean, things have happened today that I could talk about. For example:

I discovered the manufacturers lied about the top speed of my car. They told me it should be 107 but in reality would not be more than 105. I clocked 108 today. Ha!
My sister discovered the truth in the old saying "a drunk speaks the truth of a sober mind". She was crying on the phone today after a so-called friend ruined her 25th birthday party last night.
Willow seems to like Charlie and Frankie. Two more to go.

But I can't be bothered to write as I can't form proper sentences.

So I am off to imbibe beer until I have achieved fake fluency, and then collapse in bed.

Au revoir, mon petite choufleurs.

Decisions, decisions

We have to make decisions every day. Stuff like:

"What shall I have for lunch?"
"Do I want tea or coffee?"
"Should I move over for the police car behind me?"
"Should we elope to the Carribean?"
"Do I want children?"
"Should I wear the black or the red shirt?"
"Is 105mph a little too fast to be driving?"
"Is new white Daz really better than improved Persil with scented fabric conditioner?"

Some decisions are bigger than others. But I encountered the biggest and hardest decision of all today. A humdinger of a decision. A potentially painful decision, with far reaching consequences.

"Should I stop for the toilet now, or press on homeward and hope there is no traffic?"

You see? This isn't a decision that can be made lightly. If I stop, I have to get off at the next exit, find a toilet, park and go. Not necessarily as easy as it sounds. What if I can't find a toilet - some exits lead straight onto other motorways.

Or should I wait? Drive as fast as I can get away with and hope that there are no accidents further down causing a delay. Can I last until I get home? Can I last if I hit traffic?

What is a girl to do?

Make an attempt on the landspeed record (M25 version), that's what.

I made it home in time.

Peace

'Twas a peaceful weekend.

What else could you ask for?

Brief update

Slices of pollo ad astra pizza scarfed - 4

Cat beds thrown downstairs by feline reprobates- 2

Dead spiders - 1

Reports written - 0

Regrets over amount of pizza scarfed - 0

I tried to be good but the cats got in the way

I've done the washing. I answered the e-mails. I ate my dinner, even all the peas I cooked myself, and I don't even like peas. Why did I cook them? Issues.

But everytime I sit down to write a report, Charlie makes himself at home on either my laptop, or the file I am reviewing. And he has a face full of love. I can't boot that face off. I tried, but I felt so guilty that I still couldn't work.

And now there is a HUGE spider somewhere downstairs. I didn't do anything when I saw it as the cats were all around and I thought one of them would catch it and torture it.

Did they bollocks.

The five of them, yes all five, bopped it and then ran away when it came towards them. It disappeared under the TV stand. Useless creatures. So now there is a HUGE spider roaming around the house.

So I sat back down to do some work. Ellie decided to dive bomb my file - she wanted to play with the laser pen and she is coming up with more and more outrageous stunts to get me to try and distract her from her naughtiness with the laser pen. I started to pick up my scattered papers.

Within milliseconds, Charlie leapt off of the cat tree, where he was pouting, and was taking up both my seat and my laptop. I gave up.

So here I am. Avoiding both the HUGE spider and the report that I really should be writing.

Not that things are much saner up here. Harvey is sleeping in a box. Not a box designed for cats, but just a random cardboard box filled with odds and ends. Sounds normal? This box is half his size. He does not fit in the box by any stretch of the imagination. No limbs are in the box, his tail is draped across the floor and his throat is laying on the edge of the box, making him produce some very strange noises. I probably should be wearing ear plugs. But I can't. For reasons I shall get to.

Willow is sleeping in my dressing gown, on the loft bed. Tabby cat. In a cream dressing gown. Tabby cat. Known to bite when comfortable and forced to move.

Frankie is stealing my clean underwear. He thinks I can't see what he is doing, but I can. He is slowly advancing along the bannister where they are drying , and then he steals them, and runs back with my little lacy numbers to stash in his catbed. Along with the socks, earplugs, boxer shorts and mousies that he has stolen today. I have a kleptomanaic cat.

Help!

The counting game

One recovered kitty.

Two piles of washing waiting to be washed.

Three reports to write.

Four other kitties driving me mad.

Five bags of shopping to put away.

Six weeks until we move.

Seven cooked chicken breasts in the fridge (leftover from my sister's BBQ) that I need to use up.

Eight reviews scheduled between now and moving.

Nine e-mails I need to answer.

Ten minutes until my dinner is cooked.

Perhaps it is time to stop reading my bookmarked sites!

On the mend

My blood pressure has now left the triple figures.

Ellie was discharged late this afternoon. They have no idea what caused her problems, although an upper respiratoty tract infection seems to be setting in now. Her belly is better though.

She still has a high temperature and and increased respiratory rate, so she is on medication for those as well as antibiotics, just in case.

However, she has chased the laser pen, eaten and beaten up her brothers after some intimate and clearly unwelcome sniffing. So hopefully that is a good sign she is on the mend.

So my breathing rate can decrease as well. I need a stiff drink.

Bastardos

The hospital are refusing to give me an update on Miss Ellie.

I've just called, and all they will say is that it would be better for me to speak to the admitting clinician. Who won't be in until twelve.

When I pressed them on whether she had had a good or bad night, they simply repeated the above. And then again, for good measure. Just in case I am stupid and didn't understand the first two times they told me.

I don't think this bodes well.

Until noon.

Looks like it will be a long night

Ellie has been taken ill. She is vomiting (well, there was vomit on the floor and given the rest of the list below I'd say she is the prime suspect), listless, has a high temperature and her nictating membrane is showing. Most worryingly, she is growling if I try to pick her up or touch her belly.

And as luck would have it, it is the Bank Holiday. Bloody typical.

I've called my vet. Answerphone. They have an emergency session tomorrow morning. If we can wait until 10AM tomorrow, we will be first in line.

I don't think we can wait. I suspect a trip to the emergency room of the animal hospital may be in order - something is very wrong.

Bollocks.

A lead

Looks like they have a lead of some sort.........fucking little shit.

The memorial service is a week tomorrow. The choir of the school he (and I, as well as most of his close friends) used to attend will be performing.

It is now officially Bank Holiday weekend. Three days off!

Summary

It's Thursday. One more day, then it is Bank Holiday weekend!! No work for three days.

And my client next week told me to bugger off as everyone was on leave, so I have a light week next week. Great, since I have loads to catch up on.

This of course means more time at home packing and mooching around with the cats. In the name of working from home. Work will be done (I have enough that needs doing) but cutting out the travel leaves me with pottering time rarely seen.

However, the cats are driving me bonkers.

1. Harvey keeps miaowing to go out. Every live long second he is in the house. Then he wants to come back in.

2. Frankie keeps tormenting Ellie.

3. Ellie keeps knocking things off shelves. And laying on the keyboard when I am typing. She wants fuss and attention, and usually she would climb on the bed. That isn't possible (see below) so she tries in lots of other ways to get it.

4. Charlie has rectal bleeding again and needs to go back to the vet tomorrow. I hate taking him as he gets so stressed. Other than the bleeding he is doing great - I can pick him up for a proper cuddle now!

5. Willow won't let any cats on the bed. And she bit the vet yesterday. She is lovely, but she is terrorising all the other cats and I think we are all a little frazzled. She also attacked my foot in the night, which wouldn't be such a big deal except that I have somehow manage to get an infected scrape on my foot which hurts to buggery even without cat claws sinking in.

So work seems somewhat blissful. It isn't, but compared to packing and vet visits, I'll take work.
R just popped round for a visit. I sent him a text asking how he was doing, and he walked over to reassure me in person since he had no credit left on his phone. He has been asked to do a eulogy at the memorial next weekend.

The Baron is still smoking. He gave up for nearly three weeks, but started again on holiday. I think he is going to try to give up again soon.

The Boy is in EuroDisney. Peace and quiet. Until tomorrow.

That will do. It is gone nine and I haven't had dinner yet.

Oh dear!

I washed the Baron's mobile phone.

I put it through the economy cycle. Forty degree's.

It is very clean.

Drained

I've just returned from the pub, where I dropped off my sister's boyfriend. They are holding the party they planned weeks ago for the birthday of their murdered friend, in his memory.

We talked on the drive down. Whilst I didn't know him well in person, I knew him through the stories that good friends tell about each other. And so I listened to those stories again. Laughed. Tried not to cry.

I've never seen R look so broken. He is mourning his best friend of 18 years. Taken in a completely senseless attack. Left to die on a cold and dirty pavement, lying in his own blood.

And so tonight, they celebrate his life, and his lost birthday.

Sad and senseless

We had some sad news this morning.

A good friend of my sister and her partner was found murdered yesterday morning. He would have been 28 years old today.

I personally didn't know him very well. He did attend the school I went to, but was several years ahead. However, he came along to several of the Boy's birthday parties and in fact bought him his treasured set of goal posts as his second birthday present.

Sad news.

Strike that

Charlie the Drowned Rat Cat has come home.

He has promptly climbed under my quilt to warm up and get dry, but he is home. I will be sleeping on the dry sofa tonight.

(That is the true test of a mad cat woman. I am so pleased he came in, I don't care about the bed, extra washing or sleeping on the sofa!)

Rain, rain go away

The remnants of Hurricane Charley are apparently battering us as I type. We have had non stop rain since late afternoon. Thunder and lightning too.

As if I haven't seen enough of that damn storm. Bad enough to sit tight as it passes overhead. Then to fly over it in one of the most turbulent flights I have ever experienced. Then it have it visit home. Our gutter is not coping well with the onslaught of water.

The storm's namesake - my evil orange cat, has taken off in fright at the thunder and is refusing to come in. It is ten at night. I don't think I shall see him again until morning.

Piss on a stick.

Note to self

After three weeks with no playing, it is unreasonable to expect to play your guitar without developing a ginormous blister.

Lesson learned.

Home!

At long bloody last.

Highlights:

Meeting Katie and Evil One;
Celebrating the Boy's sixth birthday (and yes, I can attest that he is a handful!);
Not working;
Feeling some heat;
Watching the Boy on the rollercoasters
Watching the Boy punch Dopey on the nose;
Watching the Boy improve his swimming; and
Coming home to not just my four monsters, but my newest addition - my sweet one eyed girl;

Lowlights:

Having my flight cancelled by BA due to the hurricane, and then being told to effectively bugger off by BA when trying to ascertain arrangements for getting home;
Sitting in Polk County with the eye of the storm passing overhead;
Watching a tornado pass by;
Seeing the house opposite get struck by lightening and realise there is a fire;
Being told that I have to wait until the 23rd for a flight home. And no, BA will not pay for accomodation and meals in the meantime. Tough luck that their rivals chartered a plane to get their stranded passengers home. Policy decision, you know.....;
Driving two days to Atlanta, at our own expense to catch a flight home. Nothing like a bored and tired six year old to make a journey speed by;
90 other people on the flight who have made the same journey to Atlanta at their own cost. 90 other people who have been told to bugger off by BA; and
The extra cost of boarding four cats past their departure date.

I haven't slept since Sunday morning. It is now late Monday afternoon and I have been working all afternoon since I hadn't taken today as holiday. So I feel postively murderous towards BA.

So what does BA stand for?

British Arsewipes?

Barely Adequate?

Bozo Airways?

Bollocks Airways?

If I've missed any, let me know.

Rod Eddington..........your company is shite. I won't be flying with you again. Ever. And I will make sure as many people as possible know why.

I'm leaving on a jet plane........

Charlie finally slunk home when his tummy rumbles started to give away his hiding place.

Thank fuck for that. He came out of the bushes and gave such a relieved miaow when he saw me - I suspect he got scared when it got dark and was too frightened to come out of his hidey hole.

I didn't know whether to risk lacerations and scoop him up for a cuddle, or shake him for all the worry he put us through! I opted for a scoop up and a feed up.

All my kitties are safe and sound in cattery. The house seems so empty without them here. I was cleaning and the black bag wsa rustling in the wind. I could have sworn I saw Frankie standing there.

But alas. I shan't see them now until 14th August.

My bags are packed. Florida, here we come!!!!!

Bad day

I've just spent ten minutes trying to send an e-mail. That is the pattern my working life has taken there last couple of weeks.

Turn up for a centre regularity review. No manager.

Go to a meeting, which I have waited for all damn day, and can't do anything until I have the information due to be revealed. Person is off sick and no-one thought to let me know.

And now, to top off everything, Charlie has gone missing. It seems that the trauma from the vets and the forced pilling has been too much, and he has disappeared.

Fuck.

Poor Charlie

My big fat baby has been deemed to be very fat. Stunningly fat. Now I did know this - it is somewhat hard to miss, and we don't call him Lard Arse for nothing. He was this way when we adopted him, and he still wolfs food down like there is no tomorrow as if he were still stray. Charlie looks a few pounds short of collapsing to form a black hole as a result of this.

The vet feels that his bleeding is due to:

acute colitis of an unspecified nature.
chronic something. Very helpful, but hopefully his sample will reveal the something.
stupendous fatness.

So I am under orders to diet Lard Arse and have been given a special diet food for him. And the bugger will not touch it. Neither will the others, so if Ellie is refusing it, it must be absolutely foul!

To make matters worse, she has put him on antibiotics as a precaution. I have to pill Fat Boy twice a day, and due to his sheer mass, he needs two tablets a day. And he bites.

The vet has helpfully suggested that I coat his tablets in cream cheese to make them more palatable - yes, the same vet who wants him on a strict diet. I can't see it working, but for the sake of my fingers, I'll try anything. Thankfully, the cattery will have the responsibility for the last three days of his course.

I have been holding off putting him on a diet, simply because with the combination of cattery, moving house, and two new cats I thought that would be enough stress for all of us without trying to feed them all separately and restricting the food of the greediest cat alive.

However, the bleeding means that he needs to start losing weight now rather than later. I'm sure he'll cope with it all. It can't be worse than living on the streets for him.

In more uplifting news:

as yet, my hair remains;
we have our holiday money. Not exactly a vast personal fortune, but not too shabby;
I bought 60 organic free range eggs today (the only eggs I eat) for a mere fraction of the price because someone buggered up when ordering them. I'm going back for more later.
The Baron has still not touched a fag. It turns out he doesn't have an ulcer after all (great news) but had a bout of gastritis.
Our suitcase is packed. I know it is early, but Mum did it as I have so much work to finish this week. I'd like to point out she offered, I didn't ask.
I've just finished a report. One more and I am done for the day.
Willow passed her blood tests and is reserved for me. I spent half an hour in her cage with her on Friday and she is the sweetest, friendliest cat I have met. She isn't bothered at all by her eye, which is removed tomorrow.

Happy weekend, people!

Little whine

You are all more than welcome to skip on by and do something more fun. I feel a bit sorry for myself this evening. Take five minutes and I'll be done moaning.

Charlie is passing blood. He seems fine in himself, and he has always suffered from bowel problems. The blood is new, and I am worried. Not just because we are leaving for the US next week and he will be in the cattery, but he has already been through so much.

If he needs treatment, he needs to be taken to the vets. And that means the carrier. After having been trapped, caged, transported, caged again and then brought here, he is terrified whenever it comes out. His breathing is affected and you can see sheer terror and panic in his eyes. It is so hard to do that to him. He doesn't hold a grudge, but he finally trusts me, and I have to do that to him. I'm scared that he will lose that trust and we will back at square one.

Charlie needs me in a way the others don't. They have known nothing but a secure and happy home. Charlie knows what things can be like, and he has learnt to trust me. Trust that I will feed him. Trust I will let him in the house whenever he wants to come in from outside. Trust that I won't hurt him. So it hurts to think that I might have to do some things that although with the best of intentions, might hurt and scare him.

The Baron is also driving me mad. I know that giving up smoking is hard - I don't doubt that for a minute. But his constant mood swings and persistant whining is just doing my nut. And of cours, I can't say a word. All I can do is hold his hand, hug him, kiss him and tell him how amazingly well he is doing.

And he is. I am so proud of just how well he is doing. I just need to have some time by myself, but he is suffering little panic attacks when the cravings hit hard and he doesn't want to be alone. So I am finding this tough. Not as bad as him, of course. And he can't know.

There you have it. Moan over.

In other news, I am debating chopping all my hair off.

Holy crap!

The Baron has given up smoking too! So far he's managed 48 hours without a fag, or any of those give up smoking aid thingies.

Heaven help us both!

(and the latest from the RSPCA is that Willow is to lose her eye on Monday. Along with her girly bits too.)

Hum

I thought a little guitar practice would cheer my soul. It did, at least until something in my wrist snapped.

This isn't as bad as it sounds, by the way. I have highly suspicious hands and wrists - several breakages, several dislocations and two confirmed torn tendons on top of eighteen years of playing musical instruments have left me with creaking, clicking and snapping joints that don't always behave as they should

So the guitar will be resting on its stand for a little while, whilst my badly behaved wrist goes into detention.

Instead, I shall cover the cat tree in nip and watch the madness unfold. That is always good for a giggle.

Justification

It appears that the majority of the world thinks I am mad. Let me explain a little.........

Hollie was the first of the two additions. Neither have arrived yet, but she was the first new furbaby on the horizon.

Her owner cannot keep her any longer, and was looking for a new home for her. I stupidly buggered up my laptop and had to take it to head office to have it repaired. Since all the staff know about my "thing" for kitties, I was told all about the lovely lady. She is nine years old, and is basically a tabby version of Charlie. So no-one bugger in their right mind is going to take her....since I am not in a right mind I am the perfect candidate.

So it was agreed that after my move in September, Hollie would come and live with us.

So far, so good.

But over the weekend we were a little bored. And decided to visit the RSPCA centre. Now, the Baron banned me from going there alone, as last time I returned with Charlie. but he felt he would be a calm, restraining presence.

Was he bollocks!

Willow is a one year old tabby, who has lived mainly as a stray. She was brought into the centre with her eye hanging out of the socket, by a single thread. It was stitched back in, but isn't looking very good at all. And she was surrounded by cages and cages of kittens.

No-one was looking at her at all - everyone wanted kittens. And she is so beautiful.

She has had her blood tests today, and we shall hear soon if she can mingle with my monsters. Wednesday will seal the fate of her eye, and then she still must be spayed. So if everything works out, she should come to us shortly after we get home from holiday. But she is not certain - our move may be too much for her on top of the loss of her eye (which is how it is looking) and we may have to leave her open for adoption. Of course, if she is still available once we have moved, then that is another story.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my justification. I guess you have to love cats to agree with me on this one!

Confession time

Our household is about to grow. Oh yes. It has happened.

I've adopted two more cats! So that makes six. Proof that I have indeed completely lost my mind.

In other news, Miss Ellie is one today. Happy birthday, Smellie Ellie!

Ulcer

The Baron has been diagnosed with a peptic ulcer. Which is odd given he went in with earache.

So he is to give up Coca Cola. He of the two litres a day habit. And he is to give up smoking - after 13 years of twenty a day. I am thrilled! Not with the ulcer per se, but the lifestyle changes it has wrought.

The Baron is actually embracing these changes - which means he must actually be in some pain.

In sympathy I am renoucing diet Coke. I do have some niceness in me after all.

Househunting

We have found a house we like, offered and been accepted. We did a fair bit of paperwork today relating to that to speed things up. And to celebrate, we went to peek at our future house.

The current owners were outside, and saw us. Not only did they see us, but they recognised us, and so we have spent the afternoon drinking tea, being shown round in detail, going through the fixtures and fittings that will stay and getting the gossip on our future neighbours.

The draft contract relating to the sale of our house went out today, so we should exchange before we go away.

So not only is it two weeks to a holiday (on Friday), but our move is looking a lot closer.

Can I hear a huge WOOHOO??!!!!!

(As for gossip........not much. Our new neighbours are the daughter and son in law of the current owner)

Three weeks to a holiday

Three weeks to a holiday. Three weeks to a holiday.

That is today's mantra.

'Tis official

I am a small child magnet.

Five minutes ago, I heard childish mutterings outside the front door. Aimed at Harvey.

Now, remember. Harvey is pure evil. During daylight, he bites, he scratches, he hisses and he swats. If you are under five, he does this after dark too.

So fearing an angry mob and their weapons of choice, I go to warn the kidlets not to bear tender young flesh near the psycho cat.

Not only are they trying to poke him out, they are chasing Miss Ellie round the garden. Frankie and Charlie are hiding under the car. There is no angry mob in sight, let alone any responsible adult. Hehehe.

I'm mentally preparing my child friendly tirade, when......

"You're the cat lady? You have so many cats! Do they poo a lot?"

Shit. Even children under five in the neighbourhood know of my reputation, as a cat shit shoveller. Methinks that letting them try to poke Harvey will be sweet.

But do they continue? No. I'm more fun to torment.

They sit on my doorstep and tell me about their cat, Tigger. I know Tigger. Tigger sneaks in the catflap and eats my cats food. I know all about Tigger.

(In fact, I plan on stealing him.)

Then the conversation moves on to my cats. My car. My overgrown front garden. My rather cool nail varnish.

I am sat on the front doorstep with a five year old and a three year old (in snazzy Bob the Builder 'jama's) and there are no parents in sight. I was watching the delivery of a set of triplets on tv, and they had just made the first incision. Can I leave them? Can I?

Bollocks can I leave them. So we sit and tell cat stories. I show them how Harvey plays catch and fetch. Normally we do this with flowerheads, but thanks to my new friends, we found out that Harvey will chase a plastic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

We chat about how important it is to be nice to animals (might as well indoctrinate them early) and then I see Daddy in the distance chatting.

Thanks mate! You enjoy your evening, whilst I prevent your kidlets from being savaged by the Wild Beast of the West. I don't mind. Well, actually I do.

So I watch the kidlets trot off to Daddy. Peace. In I toddle and start feeding the cats. I turn around and.......

The kidlets are back. In my house. Shit. It's like a bad dream brought to life. I really must remember to shut the damn front door.

As if that wasn't bad enough, they settle down on my sofa and start watching the tv. What the hell do I do?

Finally, luck shines upon me and Daddy is at the door calling them out. Thanks Daddy.

Why do I always get left with other people's kids? The Boy. The children at the wedding. The strange little girl from up the road. Now these little boys. Do I emit some honing signal that they tune into? Answers on a postcard if you will.

The bird is gone

Frankie was the reprobate who brought it in. Sadly for the bird it was very much alive.

Ever seen a deer caught in the headlights? That was the look on Frankie's face when the bird started trying to peck him. So the bird escaped and hid under the sofa. Frankie ran outside and hid under the bush for the remainder of the afternoon.

Birdy was retrieved with a dustpan and brush, and an empty box and removed to the outside world. I stood guard whilst I tried to call the Small Animal Rescue Centre.

I'm not cut out for guarding. One of the little girls from down the road came over, and in trying to keep her away from the bird to avoid any further distress (birdy was going into shock), Harvey Cat pounced.

So the bird went back into the house. Harvey wasn't bothered by the pecking and the crying and carted him on a sight seeing tour of the house.

A quick stop in the study came first. Well, it isn't a study so much as laptop on the sofa, but Harvey thought it as good a place as any to stop for a breather. He left a feather sticking out by the space bar.

Next was a whistlestop tour of the bedroom, mainly since I was chasing him at that point. Up the ladder, across the bed, down the bookcase and down the stairs to the kitchen. Across the worktops and then out the door.

Birdy was still alive.

But not for much longer, although I'm sure the bird would argue it didn't come quickly enough. Harvey finally did him the kindness of finishing him off, after a little bird torture.

Bloody cats. Remind me why?

There. Is. A. Bird. In. My. House

Get it out.

I hate birds.

Could it be true?

We've sold the house again, subject to contract of course. Third time lucky we hope.

So now it is back to searching for a house.

Someone please just put me out of my misery!

Crap crap crap

England are out. The Pond is undergoing a mini rampage.

And I'm out of beer.

Updates from the DMouse House

Sister and partner are attempting a reconciliation.

House stuff is still unresolved.

Dad had his first flying lesson and loved it!

Got given an awful lot of free furniture for the new house, when we find one.

Cats are still bonkers.

Hair is still fucking scarlet.

For once, I wish I could have something nice to say...

Not going to happen.

My sister broke up with her partner of four years today. She isn't doing so well, and he is crushed. I'm hoping that they can work things out.

The house we were going to buy was put back on the market today. So it looks like that dream is over.

Actually, I do have one good bit of news. My probation period at work is finally over. Six months gone already!

Absent, presumed sneezing

Me and my gravity defying boobs are still here. Just.

Hayfever makes me want to curl up in a ball and die. Medicine does nothing and the doctor sees so many hayfever patients that he doesn't care.

So life depends on the pollen count.

Defying gravity

My new tops with the built in engineering arrived this morning. Some of us need that extra welding to keep things as they should be.........

So at the moment I am defying the laws of gravity. I am not however defying the laws of cat hair. I look half cat - white male tabby to be precise, although a certain bitey ginger whinger has left his mark.

Still, I went to a farm shop today whilst on my travels. Not only do I have a bunch of the finest organic English asparagus, but I have a punnet of the finest organic English strawberries. They were freshly picked - still warm from the sun and they are so sweet and juicy.

Dessert? A meringue nest filled with whipped cream and fresh strawberries. Who's coming over?

House Hell

So.......

We lost our buyer last week. The people we are buying from gave us a week to find another buyer before they would put their house back on the market. That expires tomorrow.

We sold the house last night. But.......it puts us in a chain, and the people we are purchasing from need to move quickly. Never mind that the legal stuff is nearly all complete. Never mind that we have spent nearly a grand in getting to this point.

It looks like we may well lose the house, unless our buyer can sell this weekend.

Fuck.

D Day

"This is D-Day. This is the day."

And 60 years ago today, the liberation began.

The List

Like Homer, I have a list.

Not that Homer. I doubt he had time in between wandering around Ionia dictating poetry. Still, you never know.

I mean the other Homer. My hero. The beer swilling doughnut eating maniac.

The list is growing, and for good measure, I have noted what I am going to do to them all as well. I'm not a vengeful soul, well not all the time, but some things cannot go unpunished.

My list:

1/ George Bush/ Tony Bliar. 'Nuff said. I shall impale them on crosses and make them eat the Bible for breakfast.

2/ The people who backed out of buying our house and have put our purchase into jeopardy. Not the show. They shall be baked into a pie to feed homeless cats and dogs.

3/ Lorry drivers. Especially the three who hogged all three lanes of the motorway (when they aren't allowed in the outside line) causing several people, myself included to get trapped and miss the junction. And then have to travel seven miles down to get to the next to turn around. They shall spend eternity trying and failing to overtake lorries doing 50 mph.

4/ L'Oreal. For giving me fucking scarlet hair. I'm going to drown them in a vat of 3.46.

5/ Charlie's previous owners. For moving and leaving him homeless on the streets. In fact, any miserable fucker who has inflicted pain on others. They deserve something really special, and I shall not disappoint. I shall insert a cattle prod into their rectums and blast them with several thousand volts.

6/ The Irish fucktards I had to endure at the wedding. I'll send them to the Middle East to see how long they dare bang on about their precious religion being the only way. And arm the Arabs. Hang on, Bush and Bliar have saved me the trouble there.

7/ The Spice Girls, for crimes against music. I shall have them garroted with guitar strings.

8/ The pharmaceutical industry, for failing to produce an anti-histamine that actually works. I think they should have to endure a perpetual country music festival in an open field, with genetically modified plants that produce 100 times more pollen than the average plant. And have only their pitiful drugs to alleviate their suffering. See how they bloody like it.

9/ People who do nothing but spew ill informed bollocks. And do it in abysmal English. They shall be beaten over the head alternately with a dictionary and an encyclopaedia. It won't work, but it will be satisfying.

10/ Bill Gates. I hate XP with a passion. I'll make him personally visit every poor soul who has XP to apologise in person.

That is as far as I have got.

Have I missed anyone?

Not as bad

Today isn't any better.

But I haven't broken or set fire to anything. Yet. It is 19.03 so there is still scope for disaster. I'll keep trying.

To add to my woes, I have the concentration span of a lemon.

Never mind.

Not the best day ever...

Laugh away......

Yesterday, I:

- woke up and sneezed thirteen times in a row;

- broke the bed;

- spilled tea all over my working papers;

- broke a photocopier. Not unusual;

- split my trousers bending down to mend said photocopier;

- bruised my arm in mending said photocopier;

- set fire to it......I really am not sure how that happened;

- burned my arm in removing burning portion of said photocopier;

- lost the buyer of our house. That was the icing on the cake;

- made an emergency dash to put boxes in storage so we can show the house at the weekend;

- The Baron ran out of petrol on the motorway; and

- got home and sneezed eleven times in a row.

Today doesn't appear to be starting any better. I woke up and sneezed twelve times in a row.

I'm staying home today. I can't face going to work, so I shall work from home. Seems wise!

Bollocks

I have my first ever speeding ticket. It was only a matter of time. I was caught doing 89mph in a 70mph zone and am now the not so proud owner of three points on my licence.

Bugger.

The Baron went out last night. He went to a work party (I really didn't want to go with him), and I went and had Chinese with my sister and her partner. She went to bed early and we sat up drinking, talking and listening to music. I had a fun night.

The Baron did not. He drank a little too much - ok, far too much, and lost the contents of his stomach. Repeatedly. And then passed out. In the pool of stomach contents.

Lovely or what? Luckily, he had a good friend with him who didn't abandon him, but stripped him, got him in the car and brought him home. He deserves a medal.

I got home to see Harvey's face peering out of the catflap, looking somewhat desperate for someone to come home and get the smelly thing out. The Baron was passed out on the sofa. I put a blanket on him, put his clothes in the washing machine and went to bed.

But other than cleaning the house at 3AM, I did have a pleasant evening.

It was strange walking home at 2.45AM. So quiet and calm. It was clear and I could see lots of stars as one of the street lights was out. Birds were singing. I always find that strange whenever I am out at that time - I just don't expect birdsong.

One of the songs we listened to last night was "Blues for Meister" by the Chili Peppers. Because I am learning the bass guitar, I listen to a lot of their music, but this one had eluded me. It is a tribute written and sung (badly) by the bassist, Flea, to his cat.

"Have some respect, for my cat,

"Who got squashed by the wheels of a Cadillac"

and

"Me and my pussy, we lost our flow,

"Goodbye my sweet little calico"

Very sweet, if slightly strange. Very cool bass line. Not typical rock and roll behaviour, but a very heartfelt song. The kind of sappy thing I'd do for one of my bunch.

Speaking of whom.........Ellie has taken to talking to the insects as she commences torturing them. Little chirrups and grumbles from deep down in her throat. I caught her torturing a spider by removing its legs, one by one. And she was talking to it. Knowing her, she was telling the poor bastard exactly what she was going to do to it.

It's raining. Time to get the washing in, methinks.

Cars

After seeing Katie's behemoth of a car, I thought I'd show off my baby. Except mine is flame red.

Where is my home?

The house is a mess of half packed boxes; books disgorging themselves in a stream across the bedroom floor and a lonely pillow has been removed from a box by a cat in need of a comfy snooze in the pool of sunlight on the floor.

I can't wait for this move to be over and to get rid of the boxes that dominate the landscape of home.

I want my home back. We still live here in this house, but mentally we have moved. This is now just a house, filled with boxes and furniture, and stuff to be moved. We want our home again.

Snapshot

Hot sunny days. Sitting on a bench in London Fields chatting to an old man. The countryside around Aylesbury shimmering in the heat and haze. Cats chasing leaves in the grass. Cool drinks after a BBQ. Waking up and feeling a cool breeze through the skylight. A purring cat sleeping next to me, paws holding tightly onto my hand. Playing football with the Boy. Feeding the birds with the Boy.

Jobs

I just checked the cats ideal job.

Harvey's ideal job is a Satan. I'm impressed. Independent confirmation that my cat really is the devil. Charlie should be an evil boss, and again the truth is not a million miles away.

(Frankie should be a traffic warden , and Ellie a kids tv presenter (she is crazy enough))

The Baron? He should be a Prime Minister. He is going to love that when I tell him!

I wish

Apparently my ideal job is that of a trained assassin.

This courtesy of Job Predictor.

Not bad. Sounds more fun that being an auditor.

France and the First Catch

France was fun. The ferry was late, so we had a mad dash to Belgium, bought the fags from the highly suspicious (but legal) shed behind the cafe and then dashed back to France to to the shopping. Good day.

Harvey Cat caught his first ever bird yesterday. He came trotting in, smile all over his furry face, and left it reverently at my feet. I decided the best course of action was to get it the hell out of my house.

Naturally, Harvey had other ideas. That was his dinner. So promptly took off with his bird.

Imagine, if you will. Scarlet headed (it hasn't faded that much yet) mad woman armed with a pooper scooper and a black bag chasing a cat carrying a dead bird by the wing through the streets. Fucking scarlet hair and dead bird body flapping in the breeze as the sun beats down. The ice cream van can be heard making its approach. Puctuated by:

"Give me the bird Harvey." Mioaw. I think that means he doesn't want to.

"Give me the bird you deranged killing machine." Rwarp. My bird.

"Give me the fucking bird you little shit." Hiss. Bugger off, bitch.

Time for a change of tactics. Does reverse pyschology work on cats? Does it bollocks. No, something else will have to do. But what?

Harvey's eyes glint dangerously. He is under his favourite bush, which is in full bloom now. Think bees. Lots of bloody bumblebees dancing above my head. I hate bees.

So I get on the ground, giving any passers by a great view of my arse. Cheap thrill for someone, I'm sure.

The bird lies between us, guarded by one off white paw. Claws fully unsheathed. Now I love my cat, and I know he loves me, but since he is somewhat mentally disturbed, I know that he will happily use those claws, in love, to prevent me stealing his beloved, and mangled, birdy.

Harvey the Hunter King is still watching me intently. But something catches his eye. A bee. The dilemma is clear: should he get the bee, or guard the bird? Basking in his glory as bird catcher extraordinnaire, Harvey decides that the bee is a sufficient challenge to his neutered manhood. And out he shoots.

Almost immediately he remembers the bird. Too late. Birdy is loaded onto the pooper scooper. A sad little moan from Harvey, and the birdy is out of his reach. He cries piteously, circling my ankles, but he isn't getting it back.

Now what to do with it?

Birdy isn't going to get a full burial, although there is a ready made hole in the front garden from where the "For Sale" sign used to live.....Ellie got her head stuck in it a couple of days ago. Hole = place where cat must be. In the genes, you know. I suspect that a burial will only lead to a disinterment later in the day so burial isn't an option.

Birdy may have one final experience of flight though, as my neighbour, the owner of a formally lethal bird chaser, sadly now too overweight to hunt, recommends lobbing birdy to his final resting place in the dense bushes near the house.

I don't like that idea either. Harvey is quite good at fetch.

Birdy's final resting place? Black bag in the bin. Thank God the binmen come on Tuesday.

Vet Woes.

I'm going to France tomorrow. With a swift foray into Belguim as well.

It's the annual crossing for cheap fags and booze. The crates of beer from the last trip have all been drunk, the fags have been smoked and the garlic is nearly all gone. And I'm out of my favourite biscuits that I can only get in France.

We catch the ferry at lunch, so we shall dock and head off towards Belgium to find a sleepy little restaurant to have a late lunch. The Boy is coming, determined to learn a few words of French and he has been told that lunch will NOT be McD's in Calais.

But that is tomorrow.

Today.......well not so pleasant.

Four cats. Two cat carriers. One trip to the vet.

Not only do I have scarlet fucking hair with red highlights, I now have scarlet streaks on my arm, face and hands. Harvey took offence to be being shoved head first into a carrier (believe me it was the only way).

Still, it gives me a chance to sport my eclectic plaster collection. On the left arm we have Harry Potter, and on the left hand we have a bug (thumb) and Buzz Lightyear. On the right arm we have a spaceship, and on the hand, a bandage covering my palm where Harvey ripped a two inch (and at least half a centimetre deep) gash across my palm.

I restrained myself and have not put a plaster on my cheek. I used to wear a plaster on my nose when I worked in McD's (many moons ago) when I refused to take my nose stud out. I've tired of that look.

But all the cats are in good health, which is all that matters. Charlie took some catching though....I had to draft my neighbour in to help get him in the carrier. Her cat is a psycho bitch, so she understands. Charlie sat on Ellie the whole way to the vets, but they didn't fight at all. Harvey and Frankie always go together and snuggle, but their carrier is too small for the pair of them, so I am on the look out for a bigger one.

Charlie is obese and has ear mites. Quelle surprise. This is the rescue cat who hoovers up all leftover food and refuses to go outside without me in case I don't let him back in. So we are to instigate an exercise programme, consisting of Charlie chase the laser pen, and regular ear cleaning with my new handy dandy cat ear cleaner. Note that it doesn't come with asbestos gloves. Because of his history we will just take things very slowly with him. He is doing so well that it isn't worth rushing him to lose a little weight.

Harvey needs his teeth cleaning. He isn't even two yet, but no matter what we try, his teeth are unhealthy and will need to be cleaned. My poor little boy.

Ellie is finally big enough to move off of kitten flea treatments. She is very small still. The vet refuses to comment on her mental state. ;.)

Frankie is perfect. Great teeth, lost all the weight that he gained due to cattery, and is just perfect.

Result!

My hair

I want to tell you about my hair.

I have hair. Lots of fine hair all over my head. Not that unusual.

The vast amounts of static I generate are noteworthy, but still not that unusual. Painful at times though.

The cut is shoulder length (ish) with layers. Nothing outlandish.

Colour? Now we are talking. My hair is chocolate brown naturally, and last summer I had some highlights put in, but they are almost all grown out. Again not, not hair that turns heads.

So, in the interests of making my hair that bit special, I invested in some permanent hair colour. By L'Oreal. Because I am worth it.

I chose dark brown, and the dye came with highlighting equipment for "multi tonal depth". Or some bollocks like that - I should read packets with more care.

I checked the colour swatches, and checked the examples on the box. WIth chocolate brown hair, I could expect beautiful glossy brown hair with lighter brown highlights. Lovely, and just what I wanted. I've been most colours of the rainbow, and am happy with nice brown. I just fancied something a little more sultry.

My sister and I and slapped the dye on. We waited the requisite 25 minutes to allow the colour to develop, washed it out, towel dried it and applied the highlighting cream to well chosen strands of my hair. We waited the 20 minutes that took to "develop a natural colour" and rinsed. Conditioned. and looked in the mirror.

I do not have glossy brown hair with lighter highlights. Oh no. That dream died when I looked in the mirror.

I have fucking scarlet hair with dark red highlights. I look like a 16 year Goth with severe angst. Scarlet bloody hair. With red highlights.

I have to go to work tomorrow. And all I own are black suits that makes my hair glow like burning embers. I won't be hiding in an office tomorrow - my hair shall light the way to wherever I hide.

Piss to L'Oreal.

Words from the Boy

The Boy is here.

Reading over my shoulder. As far as he can - for a five year old he is pretty good.

And it is an improvement from him trapping Harvey in the corner and hissing at him, before Harvey has a chance to. 'Course, Harvey hisses back, scratches the Boy and runs away. The Boy then does his drama queen routine and claims that he will die from incipient blood loss - his words, not mine.

The Boy has a few words that he wants to say. He is dictating, so I apologise in advance........

"Hello Katie. How are your little girls? I want to see you all when we come to Florida. Can we play ping pong?" He is looking forward to going, and pretty little twin girls is his little dream come true! A premature perv, perhaps?!

"Hello Chris. How are your children?"

"Hello everyone else. I don't know your names yet. "

That is it for him. He is in the bathroom trying to get the cat fur off of his school uniform. Best of British to him.

So off we go. I am spending the evening at his house (the Baron is on lates) with him and my sisters boyfriend aka the bass guitar teacher. And lots of beer.

Catch you all tomorrow. My beer awaits!

Heaven help me

The update is here - I just haven't summoned the mental energy up to relive it before now.

Suffice to say that that is three days out of my life that were wasted, and I doubt the Baron's parents will invite me around for Christmas dinner this year. And if they do, well, I shall be busy.

The highlights:

The Baron's father moans a lot. And walk slowly. Both his parents do.

The Baron's father doesn't understand that when on a plane, you do not constantly grab the chair in front.

The Baron's father (BF for short) doesn't understand that it is not pleasant to see/listen to someone eat with their mouth open. I know I have issues in this department, but I tried, I really tried.

The BF thought it was ok to fart in the car. In fact, anywhere he felt like. And thought we should find it funny.

I finally escaped to my own room for some peace and quiet whilst they went to theirs. 10 seconds later, they turned up in our room as theirs wasn't ready. No "do you mind if we sit in here for a while"; they just wandered in and made themselve at home. I went and got very drunk.

The Baron's parents were harder work than a small child. His mother (who in fairness, is mentally compromised since her brain haemorrhage) doesn't go to the toilet until she is fit to burst, and that is naturally when there are no toilets around. In fact, on one occasion (and this of course was my car and not the hire car) there was a minor accident. I keep blankets for a reason, but that isn't it.

Due to the Baron's parents toilet habits we missed two airport buses to the car park. As a result I missed a long planned BBQ, and the Boy fell asleep before dinner. An apology? Don't be stupid.

The groom made a sick speech about marriage, when the only reason he got married is that he was caught out shagging his secretary. He may well love the Bride, but to pretend he asked out of love is crap.

The Irish contingent were a cliquey bunch of self righteous arses.

The Bride's father waited until half way through the first course to say grace. When everyone was eating. And did it in a holier than thou to

Marching onwards

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Fanfare please!

Friday, February 18, 2005

Older than me!

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Stock-take

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Older and wiser?

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Charlie's adoptaversary

Monday, February 14, 2005

Biscuits

Sunday, February 13, 2005

Lila

Ozzy

Ellie

Willow

Charlie

Hollie

Frankie

Saturday, February 12, 2005

Loose ends

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Cheery

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Bloody subconscious

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Has it only been....

Sunday, February 06, 2005

Pooped

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

The water

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Irony

Upstairs, downstairs

Sunday, January 30, 2005

A Week

Saturday, January 29, 2005

What was I thinking?

Friday, January 28, 2005

When will it get better?

Thursday, January 27, 2005

All change

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

The End

Monday, January 24, 2005

Harvey

Still

Sunday, January 23, 2005

As if things couldn't get any worse....

Extremely close call

Saturday, January 22, 2005

Quickie...

Friday, January 21, 2005

Nerd Alert!

Piss

Getting very cross

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Oh and......

The water is now very safe.....

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

10 days to go....

Unresolved

Friday, January 14, 2005

Mr Fickle

Monday, January 10, 2005

Not so

Sunday, January 09, 2005

My Plan

Friday, January 07, 2005

Lila

Fucking sick

Thursday, January 06, 2005

One good thing...

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Hot cold hot cold hot cold

Monday, January 03, 2005

Abnormal

Saturday, January 01, 2005