Marching On

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.

Bloody subconcious

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.

My house resembles 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.

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.

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 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.

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!

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.

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.

More counting

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!