Marching On

Sick

I have tonsillitis.  When I feel ready to leave my bed, I'll be back.

Hasta la vista, bloggers.

I am an Evil Witch

I might not be able to cast spells, but by God I am a witch today.

I am in a vile mood, and I cannot shake it.  Absolutely everything and everyone is pissing me off.

So for everyone's safety, here are a few guidelines:

1.  If you are a dog, do not crap on my floor.  Do not throw up on the sofa.  Do not eat everything that you see when we go for a walk.

2.   If you are a cat, don't pull my laundry bin over.  Stop dropping your food on the floor and stop howling to go outside, then to come back in and then to go back outside.

3.  If you are newly pregnant, I do not wish to know right now.  Really.  And if you need to post about it, please don't make a point of inserting it into every single fucking post thereafter.

4.  If you are the Baron, don't call me a sad bitch for buying a children's toy because I don't have children.  You're the one who doesn't want them at the moment, so don't have the cheek to get pissed off when I point out that small fact.

5.   If you are my mother, please don't call from Spain to remind me of all the things I still have to do for the wedding.  I.  Just.  Don't.  Care.

6.   If you are my manager, don't ask me to complete a spreadsheet that  you haven't even provided me with.  Especially since it is the weekend.

7.   If you are Darth Tater, then despite the fact you are a child's toy (and I don't have any children) I think you are damn cool.  Just don't lose your lightsabre.

8.    If you are anyone else, you are probably ok right now.

Knackered

I want my bed.  I am knackered.

In a perfect world, my bed would be all mine, and not full of cat hair.  In a perfect world, I would wake up to a beautiful sunny day and a steaming cup of tea every morning.  With the newspaper and hot buttered toast and jam to follow.

Instead, I wake up with to a snoring Baron, who has nicked most of the quilt and wrapped himself up in it, and who has taken over most of the bed leaving me relegated to the far left hand side.  Not that I have use of my pillow either, since his arm is usually under it, and Willow is taking up 90% of it to snooze. 

I don't need an alarm clock.  I have Frankie.  Every morning without fail he comes and walks up and down me until give up on sleep and make a fuss of him.  Then he realises he doesn't want fuss, but would prefer his breakfast and goes downstairs to sulk until I bother to haul my arse out of bed and feed the cats. 

(Of course, as soon as I get downstairs he starts to cry to go into the conservatory.  Then he cries because he wants to go back into the kitchen and eat the breakfast I have put out, but Lila is in the way.  There is no pleasing some cats around here.)

Quite frequently this happens at 5AM.

And he never brings me a cup of tea either.

Pass the water, please

I don't ever want to drink again.  Ever.

I don't know why I drank as much as I did.  It seemed alright at the time.  I could walk and talk and I felt really good.  We had a great time, but I think I would have preferred the arseholes to stay at their own table and not try to muscle onto ours.  T didn't mind as much as me, since she ended up snogging one of them, but eventually they buggered off.

Then, after my obligatory closing time trip to McD's for some fries on the train home, there are some large gaps in my memory.

I remember throwing up on the train (in the toilets - I'm not THAT bad).  I remember the Baron waiting for me at the station.  Apparently we got some petrol (and I paid for it) although I have only the haziest memory, and then we got home and I made him a peanut butter sandwich.  Then I collapsed in bed.

I woke up several times to drink huge quantities of water, but I really feel crap today.

I don't get headaches, but I feel empty and hollow, despite the rather obscene amount of food I have eaten to try and help.

So this is my solemn vow.  I will not drink more than a couple of glasses of wine on my wedding day.  I will NOT spend the first day of married life feeling like shit.

No bloody way.

Here we go again

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4661059.stm

http://www.thelondonline.co.uk/blog/

This is not unfamiliar ground.  London has been here too many times before.  Wood Green.  Bishopsgate.  Aldwych.  Hyde Park.  South Kensington.  Camden.  And many more.

Today we must add Liverpool Street to that list.  Edgware Road.  Tavistock Place.  And Kings Cross.

Thankfully all my friends and family are safe.  But not everyone was as lucky today, and yet again London will be burying its innocent dead.

I was very lucky today.  I should have been there.  I was due to be working near Aldgate East this morning.  My train would have come into Liverpool Street, and since my laptop is heavy,  I would have taken the train to Aldgate (or Aldgate East - whichever came along first). 

But I stayed home today. 

Thankfully.

Fuck those who did this.  Bombing London will never work, because London will always remain.

Fourteen fucking hours....

.......and it still hadn't finished the cycle.

And the earliest they can get out is next fucking Friday.  I am so fucking angry with Hotpoint right now. 

Lila is about to have another walk.  We have had no pee's so far, but despite half an hour of pacing the green, the little minx shat on the floor as soon as I left her alone in the living room.  I think this is all part of her cunning plan to get more and longer walks out of me.  The four she currently has is obviously not enough for the Spoilt One.

Thankfully, Holly has decided to start using the litter tray.  We had a little chat, and when I told her she would have to go the vet and have THINGS stuck in places that THINGS shouldn't go, she decided that the litter tray was the better option.

She's going anyway.  Oz is going too.  That cat could eat for Europe.

I suspect he may have eaten his last owners.

Bitchfest

I am in a pissed off mood this evening.  I am not in the mood to be fucked around, so I am hiding up here in the spare room silently seething and thinking bad thoughts.

1.  Lila has regressed back to going on the floor whenever she feels like it.  My house smells of dog shit.  I have just cleaned up the largest pile of crap I have ever seen in my life and that includes the steaming pile of shit in the elephant enclosure at London Zoo I saw on the Boys second birthday.

She has been ill (swallowed a fuck off great big stone), so I accept this should just be a set back.  But it is pissing me off.  She wasn't completely there with toilet training, but almost.  She is better now (threw the stone up along with the other crap in her stomach all over the leather sofa), and I have no idea why she won't hold it.  We will try a shit load of walks this weekend to try and catch all her needs and hopefully she will get back in the swing of things.

2.  My washer drier broke down.  It doesn't dry properly, it makes an odd noise and it only works on one cycle.

The engineer came out today to look at it.  He pulled out the mother of all furballs and said that would fix everything.  OK, it was a lot of hair, but that doesn't explain the actual issues with the machine.  So he replaced the pump and said it was fixed.

Guess what?  I put the fucker on three hours ago and it still is just sat there doing bugger all.  Fixed my fucking arse.

I take it back.  At nearly four hours in, it has just started to fill with water.

3.   Hayfever.  'Nuff said.

4.   I've been coerced into changing teams at work - temporary basis, four months.  I am supposed to start with my new team on Monday, and I have only just this evening received the details of which clients I will take on.  They have put me down for six months.  Not four.  And I don't even want to do four. 

No-one is covering my work, so I still have to catch up with that when I finally transfer back (the expectation is I will do some alongside the additional work).  I am NOT happy with this one little bit.  I leave behind a really great manager, who I get along with very well, and have to work with one who by all accounts is scatterbrained, disorganised and shifts the blame to everyone but himself.

5.  I can hear Lila chewing the skirting board.

6.  The washer drier stopped again.  It has been silent for a while.  Since it only just began washing I doubt very much if it has completed the cycle.  It has now had three call outs in the seven months I have had it.  Expensive piece of shit.

7.  Holly has pissed all over my spare bed.  The spare room smells of cat piss, but this is at least in keeping with the smell theme of the house - animal waste. 

She isn't ill (although her furry little self is going in for a full check up anyway) but has developed a penchant for pissing in the cat beds as opposed to the litter tray.  It started around the time Lila got bigger than the cats. 

I'm going to get some more Feliway diffusers for the other rooms.  Her previous owner tells me she prefers an enclosed litter tray.  She doesn't now as she is scared of a rottweiler ambush.  She may have a point - Charlie was minding his own business, reading the paper and getting on with things when Lila came along.  She started to lick his head.  This scared the crap out of Charlie (which certainly speeded things up) and he ran away.

Lila isn't supposed to be upstairs (which is where the cats live), but I don't always remember to shut the babygate, and she escapes.  If I do remember to shut it, Lila likes to knock it off the wall with her big fat head so she can follow me around.  Rotties are people dogs ;.)

8.  Washing machine has now started again, and then stopped.  At four hours and ten minutes in.

I feel better now.  I might be ready to re-enter society shortly.  I'm going to hang on - I can smell another shit and I can't face cleaning anymore up.

Sad

We buried Harvey twelve weeks ago today.

Eighty four days.  Twelve weeks.  Three months.  One quarter of a year.

Things are back to normal, yet are completely different.

We have a dog.  She bears his name.  We have adopted another cat in his honour.

The Baron was knocked down.  He took a month to recover, and he is now ill with tonsilitis.  He takes so little time off of work, and in twelve weeks, he has been off for six of them.

I have torn a tendon in my ankle.  It healed, and then tore again.   I have been off work for a week trying to rest it but it is not improving.

We are trying to conceive.  We thought we had, but my temperatures took a leisurely drop.

Holly has become a real love bun of a cat. She spends her nights as close to me as she can, and if I have the temerity to fall asleep, well she slaps me across the cheek until I wake and stroke her some more.

The vet has diagnosed Willow as mad.  She may need a brain scan to rule out any medical reasons for her latest crisis.  She refuses to move from the bed at all, and refuses any interaction.  She can see, but she does not acknowledge.  I suspect she is sulking.

Whilst life is back to normal in all its bizarre glory, it is not normal.  There is still a Harvey shaped hole.  Complete with evil glare and swishing tail.

I still miss him so much.  I have trouble picturing his face sometimes, but I can remember so clearly how he felt to hold at night.  The way he used to wrap his paws around my neck and just tighten his claws. 

He was a special cat.  I still cannot believe that he is gone.

That someone

Someone not too far from here is waiting to test.

THAT kind of test.

That someone is also not very good at waiting.  That someone may be driving themselves up the wall.

That particular someone is very keen to know as that someone wants to take some bloody antihistamines.  That someone has sneezed over 100 times in the last couple of hours.

That someone, you know, the one we are talking about, is SUPPOSED to wait until Sunday for the Big Test. 

That someone is not patient.

Poor poor Willy

It appears entirely possible that Willy did in fact do this to herself.  Last night she managed to reopen the whole wound.

Despite the collar.

I'd just cleaned the house up.

So we had an emergency trip to the vet hospital at midnight to have Willy's tail repaired again.  To try and allow it to heal, they fashioned a guard out of a syringe and lots of plaster.  It is driving her mad.

She slept on my tummy all last night.  She seems so lost - she can't see or sense any of the others near her and as a result she is nervous and needs to be with me.  The pain cannot be helping her - if in the best of health she has trouble dealing with her tails sensitivity,  I cannot imagine how hard it must be after two recent repairs.

Please give my kitty a love.