It has been a strange old week. A busy one. In no particular order or preference, there has been flooding across much of the country, a new (ish) Prime Minister, terrorist attacks in London and in Glasgow (and arrests on the M6 at Sandbach, VERY near where we live), a couple of funerals, a ban on smoking in public places, a phone call from my mom and dad who are on holiday in Canada, a meeting with a Head Hunter, Birmingham City have signed two new players, Brian has brought Rory back home to Ambridge in the Archers, Charlie has somehow survived another week in the Big Brother House, and, we have run out of oil.
It is Sunday. C is upstairs, trapped in her study, trying to make progress on an assignment that she has to complete by next Friday as part of her psychotherapy course. She is very disciplined. Very dedicated. She will be locked away until either she completes the task, or, the urge of a nicotine fix kicks in. Following the Government ban on the 1st July, our lounge is now one of the few places left in this great nation of ours where C can smoke without risking a fine or public derision. This week I even got a letter from the leasing company reminding me that my company car is designated a workplace and that smoking is, therefore, banned. Fortunately I do not smoke. I never have. And, even if I had, I am sure I would never have smoked in a car. Far too enclosed a space. But, C will be OK with the ban. She only really smokes in the evening, just four or five a night, and is very aware of her smoke and prefers not to smoke when eating or when others would be offended.
Maslow, our furball baby cat, has been a bit fractious today. There have been several episodes of “mad cat”, when he stares with wild, wide eyes at imaginary monsters, drops his tail, and bounces around the room like a lunatic feather-duster on speed. It might be the weather. It is very wet and windy. He doesn’t like the wind. It might be because C is ensconced in her study and he is not getting the attention he seeks. Or, it might be because I released the little “present” that he brought us this morning - a little robin red-breast. I managed to retrieve it from Maslow’s mouth and release it through the dining room window. It was a little shocked and chewed but unpierced and he flew away under his own steam, thankfully.
As for the funerals, I attended one and sent a memorial message to the other. The funeral that I attended was of our neighbour’s father. A lovely man. The one I didn‘t attend was that of a work colleague. He was also a lovely man. His death was maybe even more tragic in that he was so young - maybe only a year or so older than I am. Such a waste. God Bless both.
Anyhow, with C at work upstairs, I am at home with the Sunday Times, listening to Radio 4 and the frequent, heavy showers outside. I am glowing slightly and emitting a faint pink radiation. I have not long returned from five minutes in a stand-up sunbed. Consequently, I am a tad flushed and smell a little singed. Which is unfortunate really as a shower is out of the question. This is because we have run out of heating oil and so have neither hot water nor heating since Friday. I doubt that they will deliver before Wednesday, which means a couple of early mornings having a stand up wash in cold water, and, shaving and washing hair by boiling kettles. Lovely.
I have applied for three jobs this morning. One out of the paper and the other two as a result of the many, many, many email prompts that I receive from all of the recruitment agencies that I am now registered with. Getting a job is a full-time job in itself. I had with a Head Hunter on Thursday (a recruitment specialist rather than a wild man from Borneo).He seemed quite hopeful, and the job that he described would certainly be of interest. He said he will probably be able to tell me tomorrow if I will be called for an interview. So, fingers crossed!
In the meantime, I am desperately trying to conjure up some enthusiasm about Gordon Brown’s arrival at Number 10. I would like to believe that he is genuine in his cabinet approach and a Government of “all talents” but I am guarded in my enthusiasm. I still feel badly let down by Blair and his lies that took us to war in Iraq. And Brown is the least impressive front man that I have ever seen. He is such a dull speaker. So monotone. I find myself drifting off when he is talking, even when it is about something as important as the latest terrorist threats. And, I can’t seem to get beyond that slack-jawed gagging thing that he does with his mouth. So, the jury is still out………as indeed, it is on Brum’s latest signings, Garry O’Connor and Olivier Kapo. So, watch this space.
Incidentally, it is a bit worrying that suspect terrorists were arrested near Sandbach on the M6 - if I stand on tip-toe in my garden I can almost see the spot where the police stopped the traffic and pounced. It is a little too close to home. Especially, since the failed car bomb in London was outside of the Tiger Tiger nightclub, being the last place that I “hit the town” in at a colleague’s leaving do. The food and service was crap, by the way. But, why are they picking on me……
Showing posts with label Maslow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Maslow. Show all posts
Sunday, 1 July 2007
Thursday, 17 May 2007
My Family And Other Animals Part 7
No Luck With The Birds
Indeed it rains quite often in Cheshire. As has often been said – that’s why the Lake District is where it is. And, despite annual clear-outs by a man with an industrial-sized super-cleaner, the soak-away drain at the heart of the car park often does not cope. It is often inundated. As a consequence, from about late September through to March (our grey period) , the car park looks more like a pond. That is when it is mild. When it is cold, it better resembles a skating rink. A veritable death trap to all who would venture upon it.
However, when it is doing its pond impression, it is very convincing. In fact, on one occasion at least, it was so convincing that a passing wild duck decided to make its home at the “side of the pond” in the long grass beside the oil tanks ,alongside the row of garages. There, Mrs Duck (we’ll assume she was married although there was no sign of Mr Duck), built her nest and waited for her eggs to hatch!
She was there a couple of days. In fact, we were quite concerned about her. Although she was quite safe from humans, being almost invisible in her hideaway of herbage, we were worried about foxes, the local polecat that the farmers had been hunting, and, more likely, feline attention from the multitude of pet cats that existed at School Farm at the time (not least Maslow, our very own furball baby cat). We consulted our local farmer, Godfrey, who assured us that she (Mrs Duck) would be alright and that she would up and off as soon as the chicks had hatched. And this is what must have happened as, after a few days, she just disappeared. There was no sign of her chicks and, thankfully, no tell-tale sign of a fight or a killing ground. The pond was still there though.
Mrs Duck was not the only avian visitor to grace our Cheshire home. While we were next door (we moved next door!) we were visited by a “resting” racing pigeon. It collapsed just by our back door. C gave it a name. Something like Tarquin if I remember correctly, after the guy on the Boddingtons’ advert who wears his y-fronts the wrong way round. We know it was a racing pigeon because C phoned the RSPB and gave them the number on the poor little bugger’s ankle bracelet. They assured us it was probably just resting and in need of water and food. We gave it both. We hid him so that he would not fall prey to the local cat (this was the days before Maslow). We left him to rest.
He was dead within the hour. Deceased. Stiff as a Norwegian Blue Parrot in a Monty Python sketch. C asked me to dispose of Tarquin. I did. I threw him over the hedge into the farmer’s field. For a bird, he was not very aerodynamic when dead. He flew like a stone……
Indeed it rains quite often in Cheshire. As has often been said – that’s why the Lake District is where it is. And, despite annual clear-outs by a man with an industrial-sized super-cleaner, the soak-away drain at the heart of the car park often does not cope. It is often inundated. As a consequence, from about late September through to March (our grey period) , the car park looks more like a pond. That is when it is mild. When it is cold, it better resembles a skating rink. A veritable death trap to all who would venture upon it.
However, when it is doing its pond impression, it is very convincing. In fact, on one occasion at least, it was so convincing that a passing wild duck decided to make its home at the “side of the pond” in the long grass beside the oil tanks ,alongside the row of garages. There, Mrs Duck (we’ll assume she was married although there was no sign of Mr Duck), built her nest and waited for her eggs to hatch!
She was there a couple of days. In fact, we were quite concerned about her. Although she was quite safe from humans, being almost invisible in her hideaway of herbage, we were worried about foxes, the local polecat that the farmers had been hunting, and, more likely, feline attention from the multitude of pet cats that existed at School Farm at the time (not least Maslow, our very own furball baby cat). We consulted our local farmer, Godfrey, who assured us that she (Mrs Duck) would be alright and that she would up and off as soon as the chicks had hatched. And this is what must have happened as, after a few days, she just disappeared. There was no sign of her chicks and, thankfully, no tell-tale sign of a fight or a killing ground. The pond was still there though.
Mrs Duck was not the only avian visitor to grace our Cheshire home. While we were next door (we moved next door!) we were visited by a “resting” racing pigeon. It collapsed just by our back door. C gave it a name. Something like Tarquin if I remember correctly, after the guy on the Boddingtons’ advert who wears his y-fronts the wrong way round. We know it was a racing pigeon because C phoned the RSPB and gave them the number on the poor little bugger’s ankle bracelet. They assured us it was probably just resting and in need of water and food. We gave it both. We hid him so that he would not fall prey to the local cat (this was the days before Maslow). We left him to rest.
He was dead within the hour. Deceased. Stiff as a Norwegian Blue Parrot in a Monty Python sketch. C asked me to dispose of Tarquin. I did. I threw him over the hedge into the farmer’s field. For a bird, he was not very aerodynamic when dead. He flew like a stone……
Thursday, 22 March 2007
A Bientot!
A Bientot!
The Middle Man is going on a very well-deserved holiday. I'll be away for a couple of weeks, so you have no excuse for not catching up on reading through all my posts to date.
For those of you who know me well (or, who think you do), you will know that I only really begin to unwind upon arrival. Safe and sound. In thirty degrees and luxurious splendour. The first "holiday beer".....
Getting the cat to the cattery (today's unpleasant task) and inter-continental air travel are not without stress, as my entries "Planes, Trains & Automobiles" and "My Family and Other Animals" and other various escapades of the furball baby, Maslow, show. So wish us "bon voyage".
And I don't care about my carbon imprint! This long-haul flight is for C and I, and, this is one holiday we deserve. However, this is my first experience of inter-continental economy class. Wish me luck. Perhaps those nice people at Air France will take pity and upgrade us. Fingers crossed.
In the meantime, happy blogging everyone. See you in a couple of weeks.
Monday, 19 March 2007
Cheshire Swingers Club
I think that Maslow, our furball baby cat, has been using his psychic powers again and has got wind of our imminent holiday. And, his imminent internment in cat camp. And, he’s decided to throw a potential spanner in the works. He’s a bit poorly.
Actually, it is hardly a cat camp. It is more like a luxury five star cat palace. Maslow will be taking his sojourn in a place called Catsworth House. Corny or what? He has his own private sofa. They play the radio to the cats in the morning. They watch TV in the evenings, the cats. And, in the afternoons they have two hours of communal time when all of the cats get together in a big room full of settees. Spoilt rotten! But, he’s worth it.
At least that is the plan. But, Maslow was back at the vets this weekend. He’s been sneezing. Not all the time, but when he sneezes he does so six or seven or eight times, with a very surprised look on his face. It is always a bit of a worry when Maslow shows cold or flu symptoms because he had cat flu when he found us and has, what my grandma used to call a “weak chest”. He was sneezing a lot on Friday, especially in the evening. And again Saturday morning. So, off to the vets to get him checked out.
The vet was quite confident that it wouldn’t be pepper that was making him sneeze. This was one theory because Cathy had left some fresh ground pepper on the work surface over night on Thursday. Maslow could easily have jumped up and done a line. The other theory is that he might have picked something up when hunting. Sticking his nose into something he shouldn’t. As we know, he has caught at least two mice this week (including the one that I sat on and killed) and was getting up front and personal with a hedgehog. He pricked his little pinkie as a consequence.
No, the vet thought his glands were up and his temperature was at the high end of normal. So, Maslow was given an anti-inflammatory and an antibiotic jab that will last two weeks, so, for most of the time that we are away. He’s back to the vet on Wednesday just in case. The day before he is due to go to Catsworth House.
I have to say though that Maslow was as good as gold at the vets. He kind of know when he’s going so hides in strange places, but I managed to grab him and get him in his carry box. I hope it will be just as easy the next two times I have to do it this week. He was a bit reluctant to get out on the vet’s treatment table. But, once he was out he sat there licking my hand while the vet checked him out and gave him his jabs. He did go slightly cross-eyed when the vet checked his temperature. Maslow that is. Not the vet. He has to go back for a final check up on Wednesday. Before cat camp. Maslow that is. Not the vet.
Meanwhile, our pleasant little hamlet has been invaded by strange folk again. Outsiders. Our rural idyll has succumbed to the influx of the Caravan Club staying at the Village Hall. There must be some 30 or 40 vans crammed onto the car park and the adjacent field. Why? Why? Why? Why?
Caravans at the Village Hall are quite a common occurrence. They come from near and, well actually, near. Such far-flung places as Warrington, Stoke or maybe even North Wales. Ok it is a different country but it’s still only an hour away.
They come on a Friday afternoon and they are gone by Sunday lunchtime. But the weirdest thing (other than the basic question of why anyone would want to camp on a car park in the middle of nowhere with no pub, restaurant or places to visit) is that you never see the people. You would expect to see them round the village. Walking, or cycling. You would expect to see them on the footpaths or bridal ways. Nothing. Never. They just stay indoors. They stay in their caravans behind steamy windows. Or they stay in the village hall, behind steamy windows.
We can only assume that the whole caravan thing is a front. We suspect that it is one great swingers’ club. Some of these suspensions must have the workout of a lifetime. I can’t imagine it is very comfortable on a foam-padded mattress. Maybe Calor Gas is an aphrodisiac. That, or tinned new potatoes and Smash. Presumably the Village Hall is used for orgies. Just imagine it. Swinging scallies. All of that cheap polyester rubbing together in a confined space, with gas bottles. One hell of a safety risk. The static electricity generated could run a small city. Fortunately most of the caravaners seem to be beyond breeding age. Thank goodness for that. Just imagine what could crawl out of that genetic soup. It doesn’t bear thinking about. And this in Cheshire too………
If not swingers then we must assume Satanic ritual at the very least. Or sheep shaggers.....When I do get my bike out of the garage after the holiday I will be sure to cycle very quickly past the Village Hall when the caravans are in situ.
Actually, it is hardly a cat camp. It is more like a luxury five star cat palace. Maslow will be taking his sojourn in a place called Catsworth House. Corny or what? He has his own private sofa. They play the radio to the cats in the morning. They watch TV in the evenings, the cats. And, in the afternoons they have two hours of communal time when all of the cats get together in a big room full of settees. Spoilt rotten! But, he’s worth it.
At least that is the plan. But, Maslow was back at the vets this weekend. He’s been sneezing. Not all the time, but when he sneezes he does so six or seven or eight times, with a very surprised look on his face. It is always a bit of a worry when Maslow shows cold or flu symptoms because he had cat flu when he found us and has, what my grandma used to call a “weak chest”. He was sneezing a lot on Friday, especially in the evening. And again Saturday morning. So, off to the vets to get him checked out.
The vet was quite confident that it wouldn’t be pepper that was making him sneeze. This was one theory because Cathy had left some fresh ground pepper on the work surface over night on Thursday. Maslow could easily have jumped up and done a line. The other theory is that he might have picked something up when hunting. Sticking his nose into something he shouldn’t. As we know, he has caught at least two mice this week (including the one that I sat on and killed) and was getting up front and personal with a hedgehog. He pricked his little pinkie as a consequence.
No, the vet thought his glands were up and his temperature was at the high end of normal. So, Maslow was given an anti-inflammatory and an antibiotic jab that will last two weeks, so, for most of the time that we are away. He’s back to the vet on Wednesday just in case. The day before he is due to go to Catsworth House.
I have to say though that Maslow was as good as gold at the vets. He kind of know when he’s going so hides in strange places, but I managed to grab him and get him in his carry box. I hope it will be just as easy the next two times I have to do it this week. He was a bit reluctant to get out on the vet’s treatment table. But, once he was out he sat there licking my hand while the vet checked him out and gave him his jabs. He did go slightly cross-eyed when the vet checked his temperature. Maslow that is. Not the vet. He has to go back for a final check up on Wednesday. Before cat camp. Maslow that is. Not the vet.
Meanwhile, our pleasant little hamlet has been invaded by strange folk again. Outsiders. Our rural idyll has succumbed to the influx of the Caravan Club staying at the Village Hall. There must be some 30 or 40 vans crammed onto the car park and the adjacent field. Why? Why? Why? Why?
Caravans at the Village Hall are quite a common occurrence. They come from near and, well actually, near. Such far-flung places as Warrington, Stoke or maybe even North Wales. Ok it is a different country but it’s still only an hour away.
They come on a Friday afternoon and they are gone by Sunday lunchtime. But the weirdest thing (other than the basic question of why anyone would want to camp on a car park in the middle of nowhere with no pub, restaurant or places to visit) is that you never see the people. You would expect to see them round the village. Walking, or cycling. You would expect to see them on the footpaths or bridal ways. Nothing. Never. They just stay indoors. They stay in their caravans behind steamy windows. Or they stay in the village hall, behind steamy windows.
We can only assume that the whole caravan thing is a front. We suspect that it is one great swingers’ club. Some of these suspensions must have the workout of a lifetime. I can’t imagine it is very comfortable on a foam-padded mattress. Maybe Calor Gas is an aphrodisiac. That, or tinned new potatoes and Smash. Presumably the Village Hall is used for orgies. Just imagine it. Swinging scallies. All of that cheap polyester rubbing together in a confined space, with gas bottles. One hell of a safety risk. The static electricity generated could run a small city. Fortunately most of the caravaners seem to be beyond breeding age. Thank goodness for that. Just imagine what could crawl out of that genetic soup. It doesn’t bear thinking about. And this in Cheshire too………
If not swingers then we must assume Satanic ritual at the very least. Or sheep shaggers.....When I do get my bike out of the garage after the holiday I will be sure to cycle very quickly past the Village Hall when the caravans are in situ.
Thursday, 15 March 2007
Spring Is In The Air
The daffodils are blooming. The hedges are beginning to turn green at the edges. The man who cuts our lawn has put the first stripes down for the year. Birds are nesting in the eves. It is light when the alarm goes off. And, it's not always dark when I get home from work. Birmingham City seem intent to throw away their automatic promotion spot. The car park has not resembled a swimming pool for at least a week. And, they are forecasting snow and an "Artic Blast" for next week. So it is official: spring is in the air!
Spring is in the air and Maslow, the furball baby, our cat, is acting up. He keeps catching mice. He keeps catching mice and bringing them home. Presents for mom and dad. He keeps catching mice, bringing them home and playing with them on the laminate floor of the dining room, under the dining room table. He doesn't kill them. OK he chews them a bit, but he rarely punctures them. Occasionally a weak-hearted one might die of fright, but that is just nature's way of weeding out the runts. Very Darwinian.
Actually, the fact that Maslow doesn't kill the mice he catches is kind of the problem. They escape. He has a poor attention span. He loses them. He forgets where he puts them. Or they run away and hide. That is why, in the past, we have awoken in the middle of the night with a mouse climbing up the curtains of our bedroom. That is why we find mouse droppings behind the wine rack in the dining room. Once, we even found mouse droppings in the spare bed. That is why, when we had stripped the old kitchen out, we found evidence of a mouse nesting in the silver insulation of the boiler! And, that is why C and I are not content to let Maslow bring his presents without taking action. Action means catching the little critters and attempting to liberate them. Or giving the weak-hearted ones a decent burial. In the corporation dust bin.
Maslow brought one in last night. We had just finished dinner. C was stacking the dishwasher and I was in the lounge when C shouted. I rushed into the dining room and closed the door to the lounge behind me. C had already closed the kitchen door so that the mouse could not get at her. Maslow was whirling around the room in pursuit of his quarry.
This mouse was slightly bigger, older than the others that Maslow had brought in recently. It was slightly wiser and a lot, lot quicker. So, quick I couldn't grab it. At one point I was lying on my front under the table, my head between chair legs, with Maslow flitting about before my very eyes. I grabbed for the mouse. I missed. I lost sight of the mouse. Maslow lost sight of the mouse. I thought that I felt the mouse run across my outstretched leg. And, then it was gone. Vanished. I looked everywhere for it. Maslow looked everywhere for it. I moved the bookcases. I moved the wine rack. I checked the pockets of my jacket that was hung on the back of a chair. I checked behind the radiator. Vanished. I checked behind and in the wellies by the cat flap. I checked under the draft excluder and under Maslow's litter tray. Nothing. Mouse gone. Vanished.
C told me it couldn't have escaped so we opened the back door (a path to freedom) and she and I retreated to the lounge, being careful to shut Maslow and the mouse behind us. We left it for a while. Until we got a bit cold in the draft. Then we both went to close the back door and to survey the scene. It was at this point that I felt something in my trousers. Ooh, er, missus. I felt something in my trouser leg. I shook my trouser leg. And, mouse dropped out. Mouse fell to the laminate. Mouse was not well. Mouse was slightly flattened. Mouse was dead. It had not been a weak heart or the shock that had killed mouse. It was me. Obviously, when I thought I had felt mouse run over my leg, it had actually run up my trouser leg. Obviously when I had taken refuge in the lounge, on the sofa, I had sat on him. And, killed him. Sorry mouse.
This is quite scary. This seems to be further evidence that I am turning into my dad. I had nightmares all night about mice, and rats, and small dogs, and Maslow. This has reminded me of an earlier instance described in my post - My Family & Other Animals - when my dad sat on my pet gerbil, Tom. Serial-killing seems to be genetic...........
Spring is in the air and Maslow, the furball baby, our cat, is acting up. He keeps catching mice. He keeps catching mice and bringing them home. Presents for mom and dad. He keeps catching mice, bringing them home and playing with them on the laminate floor of the dining room, under the dining room table. He doesn't kill them. OK he chews them a bit, but he rarely punctures them. Occasionally a weak-hearted one might die of fright, but that is just nature's way of weeding out the runts. Very Darwinian.
Actually, the fact that Maslow doesn't kill the mice he catches is kind of the problem. They escape. He has a poor attention span. He loses them. He forgets where he puts them. Or they run away and hide. That is why, in the past, we have awoken in the middle of the night with a mouse climbing up the curtains of our bedroom. That is why we find mouse droppings behind the wine rack in the dining room. Once, we even found mouse droppings in the spare bed. That is why, when we had stripped the old kitchen out, we found evidence of a mouse nesting in the silver insulation of the boiler! And, that is why C and I are not content to let Maslow bring his presents without taking action. Action means catching the little critters and attempting to liberate them. Or giving the weak-hearted ones a decent burial. In the corporation dust bin.
Maslow brought one in last night. We had just finished dinner. C was stacking the dishwasher and I was in the lounge when C shouted. I rushed into the dining room and closed the door to the lounge behind me. C had already closed the kitchen door so that the mouse could not get at her. Maslow was whirling around the room in pursuit of his quarry.
This mouse was slightly bigger, older than the others that Maslow had brought in recently. It was slightly wiser and a lot, lot quicker. So, quick I couldn't grab it. At one point I was lying on my front under the table, my head between chair legs, with Maslow flitting about before my very eyes. I grabbed for the mouse. I missed. I lost sight of the mouse. Maslow lost sight of the mouse. I thought that I felt the mouse run across my outstretched leg. And, then it was gone. Vanished. I looked everywhere for it. Maslow looked everywhere for it. I moved the bookcases. I moved the wine rack. I checked the pockets of my jacket that was hung on the back of a chair. I checked behind the radiator. Vanished. I checked behind and in the wellies by the cat flap. I checked under the draft excluder and under Maslow's litter tray. Nothing. Mouse gone. Vanished.
C told me it couldn't have escaped so we opened the back door (a path to freedom) and she and I retreated to the lounge, being careful to shut Maslow and the mouse behind us. We left it for a while. Until we got a bit cold in the draft. Then we both went to close the back door and to survey the scene. It was at this point that I felt something in my trousers. Ooh, er, missus. I felt something in my trouser leg. I shook my trouser leg. And, mouse dropped out. Mouse fell to the laminate. Mouse was not well. Mouse was slightly flattened. Mouse was dead. It had not been a weak heart or the shock that had killed mouse. It was me. Obviously, when I thought I had felt mouse run over my leg, it had actually run up my trouser leg. Obviously when I had taken refuge in the lounge, on the sofa, I had sat on him. And, killed him. Sorry mouse.
This is quite scary. This seems to be further evidence that I am turning into my dad. I had nightmares all night about mice, and rats, and small dogs, and Maslow. This has reminded me of an earlier instance described in my post - My Family & Other Animals - when my dad sat on my pet gerbil, Tom. Serial-killing seems to be genetic...........
Monday, 12 February 2007
The Times They Are A-Changin Part 1
I’ve been having a contemplative Sunday morning. The wood-smoke scent of last night’s real fire gently pervades the lounge. The dishwasher quietly murmurs in the kitchen beyond. Maslow is noisily preening himself in a sunspot on the sofa beside me. The Archers Omnibus is entertaining itself in the background, playing through the Freeview digital-TV. Across the other side of the world and in a different time zone (I think it is tomorrow there already….) rain is disrupting a would-be, and most unexpected, possible, if not probable victory over Australia, the great nemesis. It is the second leg of the Tri-nations One Day International cricket final. Go Monty!
Yesterday’s newspaper (the Saturday Times), multiple magazines, and other supplements are gently gathering dust on the coffee table. I admit I do tend to lose interest a little bit after I have completed the Killer Su Doku and the Times 2 Crossword, but there is something quite satisfying about the weekly visit to the recycling bins at Waitrose. If you ignore the fact that so many trees were felled to make the stuff in the first place, and, so much CO2 was spewed into the atmosphere while transporting the stuff around the globe, it makes me feel as if I am doing my little bit for the planet and the next generation. And, so I do. Ignore the fact that is.
The news is much, much more accessible these days. This might explain why there is also a growing pile of CDs tottering on the coffee table. CDs which, not unlike my free copy of the Harvard Business Review, are likely to remain unopened, never to see a PC disk drive, or CD player, or the light of day. Give-away CDs from papers or received unsolicited through the mail: “Paul McKenna’s Deep Relaxation: Programme Your Mind to Feel Good”, “Charlotte’s Web: Help is Coming from Above” – an audio CD, “Full Circle: Alaska and Russia – The Michael Palin Collection”, “Coast: Exmouth to Bristol”, “Teach Yourself Mandarin Chinese Conversation”, (I joke not !!), and, “Make a Contribution to a Cleaner World” – an educative missive from our supplier of home heating oil, trying to justify why they are five pence per litre more expensive than their nearest rivals…….There’s probably a degree in social studies in the making right there on our coffee table. In fact I am sure there is. Especially if you add in the other reading materials which are to be found there. “The Dangerous Book for Boys”, “Mr Jones’ Rules”, “The Rough Guide to Thailand”, the Laura Ashley catalagoue, and the “Radio Times”.
These days you can learn everything you ever wanted or needed to know about the world without even leaving your bedroom, visiting a museum, stepping into a library, trekking across the Sahara, or undertaking a balloon safari in deepest, darkest Africa. We have News 24, broadband and Wikipedia. Amazon.co.uk delivers. Wine Direct delivers. Tesco Direct delivers. The local Indian delivers. I am seriously considering becoming a recluse. But a recluse who is well-fed, well-informed and worldly-wise.
The recent snowfall that paralysed much of the Midlands, Wales and the London Tube (Southern Jessies!), closing all of the schools, reminded me of an incident from my own childhood. It made me think about how technology has changed. How our experience of the world has been altered, and, how the online, virtual nature of communication tools today have coloured our response to incidents such as a snow storm.
When I was about 11 or 12, at Grammar School, it snowed one day. This was proper snow, mind you. Not like the stuff you get these days - the wrong kind of snow. This was heavy snow. A blizzard. Drifting snow. Dickensian winter snow. It had started in the morning after lessons had already started. We watched it eagerly through Victorian windows, pleased to see that it was settling and anticipating breaktime and the snowball fights that would inevitably follow. Frozen balls of ice would be sculpted and thrown. Knitted mittens and gloves would soon be sodden. Little hands would freeze, and turn blue, to be thawed in excruciating, delightful agony on the old iron radiators, accompanied by the smell of burning flesh and scolding woollens. By first break there was a good couple of inches. By lunchtime there must have been a foot or so. It was a veritable blizzard. The gritters had failed. Snow-ploughs were nowhere to be seen. The roads were becoming blocked, even in the city centre. And, then all public transport (it sounds very grand doesn’t it – I mean the buses) was brought to a halt or returned to the depot on safety grounds. And so, at lunchtime, school was declared closed. School was closed, and all the little tykes like me were abandoned, thrown out into the streets to fend for ourselves and find our own ways home. Without a shovel, spade, or snow-shoe between us.
Home seemed a long way away that day. I t was six and a half miles long. Six and a half miles around the Outer Circle. And, as there were no buses. Six and a half miles, on foot, in about a foot of snow, in the middle of a blizzard. So off I set. I set off with no idea how long a walk such as this would take. I was alone. I was small. I was very cold. I had no way of letting mom and dad know of my plight. Even if I had had the two pence for a call home (which I didn’t) the phone boxes around Handsworth were generally vandalised and rendered inoperative. Even if I had found a phone box which was working, we didn’t have a phone at home… But I did know a neighbours number, just for emergencies. But, even if I had been able to phone, I knew it would have gone unanswered. Everyone I knew would be at work. Out. These were the days before voicemail and answer-machines. I was small, cold, and alone, and without the means to tell my mom. She would be worried. I was frightened. I cried.
I walked all the way home. My feet were frozen. My tears were frozen. Everything I was wearing was soaking. It took me hours. But, I made it. And, I soon found myself slowly thawing in front of the bar heater, with a cup of hot milk simmering in the pan. Heaven.
How different the events of this week seemed to be by contrast. First of all, the met office seemed to have got its act together. In my childhood, the weather forecast, if you were lucky, would tell you how the weather had been today, rather than what it was going to be like tomorrow. Nowadays, you can get a pretty good idea how it is going to be over the next five days, anywhere in the world, or, just for your post code (or zip code). And so, this week, the schools in Birmingham knew what the weather was going to do. They were able to predict the chaos that would ensue. And, so, they were able to take the decision to close the schools even before the weather broke. What is more, they were able to communicate that decision, so that parents would be able to keep their kids at home, and plan for their care. Bulletins were sent out 24/7 via radio, TV, and the web. No doubt headmasters and headmistresses and their staff across the region were able to contact parents by phone at home, by mobile, leaving voicemails or text messages where necessary. No doubt, news of the decision was also sent out by email and received on many a parental desktop, laptop, palm held, or blackberry.
Even if a rogue child had slipped through the net (how apt) and made their way to school only to find it closed, it would not have been a problem. There are not many 11 or 12 year olds these days who are not fully equipped with mobile phones. No doubt they would have been able to contact their parents, and entertained themselves with IPOD, MP3 or GameBoy, until mom or dad or the nanny arrived in their air-conditioned 4WD to usher them home………to the central heating, a microwaved latte, and, a multi-media heaven of their own.
By the way, we won the cricket! Good on you lads. Oh, and the snow only lasted 24 hours.
Yesterday’s newspaper (the Saturday Times), multiple magazines, and other supplements are gently gathering dust on the coffee table. I admit I do tend to lose interest a little bit after I have completed the Killer Su Doku and the Times 2 Crossword, but there is something quite satisfying about the weekly visit to the recycling bins at Waitrose. If you ignore the fact that so many trees were felled to make the stuff in the first place, and, so much CO2 was spewed into the atmosphere while transporting the stuff around the globe, it makes me feel as if I am doing my little bit for the planet and the next generation. And, so I do. Ignore the fact that is.
The news is much, much more accessible these days. This might explain why there is also a growing pile of CDs tottering on the coffee table. CDs which, not unlike my free copy of the Harvard Business Review, are likely to remain unopened, never to see a PC disk drive, or CD player, or the light of day. Give-away CDs from papers or received unsolicited through the mail: “Paul McKenna’s Deep Relaxation: Programme Your Mind to Feel Good”, “Charlotte’s Web: Help is Coming from Above” – an audio CD, “Full Circle: Alaska and Russia – The Michael Palin Collection”, “Coast: Exmouth to Bristol”, “Teach Yourself Mandarin Chinese Conversation”, (I joke not !!), and, “Make a Contribution to a Cleaner World” – an educative missive from our supplier of home heating oil, trying to justify why they are five pence per litre more expensive than their nearest rivals…….There’s probably a degree in social studies in the making right there on our coffee table. In fact I am sure there is. Especially if you add in the other reading materials which are to be found there. “The Dangerous Book for Boys”, “Mr Jones’ Rules”, “The Rough Guide to Thailand”, the Laura Ashley catalagoue, and the “Radio Times”.
These days you can learn everything you ever wanted or needed to know about the world without even leaving your bedroom, visiting a museum, stepping into a library, trekking across the Sahara, or undertaking a balloon safari in deepest, darkest Africa. We have News 24, broadband and Wikipedia. Amazon.co.uk delivers. Wine Direct delivers. Tesco Direct delivers. The local Indian delivers. I am seriously considering becoming a recluse. But a recluse who is well-fed, well-informed and worldly-wise.
The recent snowfall that paralysed much of the Midlands, Wales and the London Tube (Southern Jessies!), closing all of the schools, reminded me of an incident from my own childhood. It made me think about how technology has changed. How our experience of the world has been altered, and, how the online, virtual nature of communication tools today have coloured our response to incidents such as a snow storm.
When I was about 11 or 12, at Grammar School, it snowed one day. This was proper snow, mind you. Not like the stuff you get these days - the wrong kind of snow. This was heavy snow. A blizzard. Drifting snow. Dickensian winter snow. It had started in the morning after lessons had already started. We watched it eagerly through Victorian windows, pleased to see that it was settling and anticipating breaktime and the snowball fights that would inevitably follow. Frozen balls of ice would be sculpted and thrown. Knitted mittens and gloves would soon be sodden. Little hands would freeze, and turn blue, to be thawed in excruciating, delightful agony on the old iron radiators, accompanied by the smell of burning flesh and scolding woollens. By first break there was a good couple of inches. By lunchtime there must have been a foot or so. It was a veritable blizzard. The gritters had failed. Snow-ploughs were nowhere to be seen. The roads were becoming blocked, even in the city centre. And, then all public transport (it sounds very grand doesn’t it – I mean the buses) was brought to a halt or returned to the depot on safety grounds. And so, at lunchtime, school was declared closed. School was closed, and all the little tykes like me were abandoned, thrown out into the streets to fend for ourselves and find our own ways home. Without a shovel, spade, or snow-shoe between us.
Home seemed a long way away that day. I t was six and a half miles long. Six and a half miles around the Outer Circle. And, as there were no buses. Six and a half miles, on foot, in about a foot of snow, in the middle of a blizzard. So off I set. I set off with no idea how long a walk such as this would take. I was alone. I was small. I was very cold. I had no way of letting mom and dad know of my plight. Even if I had had the two pence for a call home (which I didn’t) the phone boxes around Handsworth were generally vandalised and rendered inoperative. Even if I had found a phone box which was working, we didn’t have a phone at home… But I did know a neighbours number, just for emergencies. But, even if I had been able to phone, I knew it would have gone unanswered. Everyone I knew would be at work. Out. These were the days before voicemail and answer-machines. I was small, cold, and alone, and without the means to tell my mom. She would be worried. I was frightened. I cried.
I walked all the way home. My feet were frozen. My tears were frozen. Everything I was wearing was soaking. It took me hours. But, I made it. And, I soon found myself slowly thawing in front of the bar heater, with a cup of hot milk simmering in the pan. Heaven.
How different the events of this week seemed to be by contrast. First of all, the met office seemed to have got its act together. In my childhood, the weather forecast, if you were lucky, would tell you how the weather had been today, rather than what it was going to be like tomorrow. Nowadays, you can get a pretty good idea how it is going to be over the next five days, anywhere in the world, or, just for your post code (or zip code). And so, this week, the schools in Birmingham knew what the weather was going to do. They were able to predict the chaos that would ensue. And, so, they were able to take the decision to close the schools even before the weather broke. What is more, they were able to communicate that decision, so that parents would be able to keep their kids at home, and plan for their care. Bulletins were sent out 24/7 via radio, TV, and the web. No doubt headmasters and headmistresses and their staff across the region were able to contact parents by phone at home, by mobile, leaving voicemails or text messages where necessary. No doubt, news of the decision was also sent out by email and received on many a parental desktop, laptop, palm held, or blackberry.
Even if a rogue child had slipped through the net (how apt) and made their way to school only to find it closed, it would not have been a problem. There are not many 11 or 12 year olds these days who are not fully equipped with mobile phones. No doubt they would have been able to contact their parents, and entertained themselves with IPOD, MP3 or GameBoy, until mom or dad or the nanny arrived in their air-conditioned 4WD to usher them home………to the central heating, a microwaved latte, and, a multi-media heaven of their own.
By the way, we won the cricket! Good on you lads. Oh, and the snow only lasted 24 hours.
Wednesday, 31 January 2007
My Family And Other Animals Part 4
Maslow and the "Killer" Instinct
On one occasion, Maslow, our pet cat and furball baby, was having to go to the vet for a general anaesthetic in order to have his teeth cleaned. Consequently he was not allowed food or the liberty of the great outdoors that night. Being the soft parents that we are, with concerns over anaesthetic risks, Maslow was allowed to sleep upstairs....never the best tactic for a restful night, but eventually we all settled down and managed to get some sleep despite the "boy" fidgeting at our feet and the sound of his gentle snoring. It could have been C but I don’t think so. It certainly wasn't me.......
At 5am in the morning I was awoken by this strange scratching noise. At first I thought it must be Maslow seeking attention but then realised he was still fast asleep at the foot of the bed. I listened again to locate the sound and opened my eyes to see a dark shadow climbing up the bedroom curtains. I leapt (yes, even at my age) out of the bed and switched the light on, which prompted mutterings of complaint from both Maslow and C alike. I went to the curtains and there, sat on the curtain pole, and looking down at me, was a field mouse. When I made a grab for it, it leapt to the floor and took refuge behind the wardrobe. The big, heavy, immovable wardrobe.
Maslow is a flawed mouser! There then followed a couple of hours of Maslow and I running from corner to corner of the bedroom, in a Benny-hill-like pursuit, trying to catch the blessed rodent....to no avail. Maslow eventually got bored and went in search of food and liberty......in vain. He couldn’t be fed until after the vet. C and I eventually got bored and decided to shut all other doors except the bedroom and leave a clear path for the mouse to he front door, which we left open. It was very cold........Fortunately, Maslow survived the anaesthetic and came home with pearly white gnashers. He has been given some toothpaste to help keep them that way, which he absolutely adores. Also, fortunately, the mouse has not been seen again…..unless he sprouted wings.
One summer morning I was awoken with a start. C had leapt out of bed and ran out of the room to the sanctuary of the spare room, shutting the door firmly behind her, shouting “F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!”. I came around quite quickly. I soon located the source of C’s distress. A bat! A furry little vampire mouse on wings, circling our bedroom.
I opened the curtains. I opened the two windows, but to no avail. The bat, being blind, could not see it's way to freedom. Unlike birds, bats do not fly towards the light.The bat also seemed unable of smelling (do they have a sense of smell?) the fresh air of freedom, nor could his sonar detect the open windows. The bat continued to circle, swooping ever so closely to my head. I don’t like bats. Not when they are so close you can see their teeth. Clearly, this winged rodent was not going to find its own way out. So, I retrieved a towel from the washing basket, climbed onto the bed, and proceeded to twirl the towel around my head in an attempt to drive the bat towards the open windows, without attempting to hit it of course.
Thank goodness, it was not later. If this had been 9 am on a Sunday morning instead of 5, the pony club that passes the house at that time, may have had a bit of a shock if they had looked up to see a 40 year old beardie, fully naked, jumping up and down on the bed, twirling a bath towel around his head……..
Fortunately, after about 20 minutes or so, it worked. I managed to drive the little critter to the right height and eventually, it found the hole, the great outdoors, and, freedom!
On one occasion, Maslow, our pet cat and furball baby, was having to go to the vet for a general anaesthetic in order to have his teeth cleaned. Consequently he was not allowed food or the liberty of the great outdoors that night. Being the soft parents that we are, with concerns over anaesthetic risks, Maslow was allowed to sleep upstairs....never the best tactic for a restful night, but eventually we all settled down and managed to get some sleep despite the "boy" fidgeting at our feet and the sound of his gentle snoring. It could have been C but I don’t think so. It certainly wasn't me.......
At 5am in the morning I was awoken by this strange scratching noise. At first I thought it must be Maslow seeking attention but then realised he was still fast asleep at the foot of the bed. I listened again to locate the sound and opened my eyes to see a dark shadow climbing up the bedroom curtains. I leapt (yes, even at my age) out of the bed and switched the light on, which prompted mutterings of complaint from both Maslow and C alike. I went to the curtains and there, sat on the curtain pole, and looking down at me, was a field mouse. When I made a grab for it, it leapt to the floor and took refuge behind the wardrobe. The big, heavy, immovable wardrobe.
Maslow is a flawed mouser! There then followed a couple of hours of Maslow and I running from corner to corner of the bedroom, in a Benny-hill-like pursuit, trying to catch the blessed rodent....to no avail. Maslow eventually got bored and went in search of food and liberty......in vain. He couldn’t be fed until after the vet. C and I eventually got bored and decided to shut all other doors except the bedroom and leave a clear path for the mouse to he front door, which we left open. It was very cold........Fortunately, Maslow survived the anaesthetic and came home with pearly white gnashers. He has been given some toothpaste to help keep them that way, which he absolutely adores. Also, fortunately, the mouse has not been seen again…..unless he sprouted wings.
One summer morning I was awoken with a start. C had leapt out of bed and ran out of the room to the sanctuary of the spare room, shutting the door firmly behind her, shouting “F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!”. I came around quite quickly. I soon located the source of C’s distress. A bat! A furry little vampire mouse on wings, circling our bedroom.
I opened the curtains. I opened the two windows, but to no avail. The bat, being blind, could not see it's way to freedom. Unlike birds, bats do not fly towards the light.The bat also seemed unable of smelling (do they have a sense of smell?) the fresh air of freedom, nor could his sonar detect the open windows. The bat continued to circle, swooping ever so closely to my head. I don’t like bats. Not when they are so close you can see their teeth. Clearly, this winged rodent was not going to find its own way out. So, I retrieved a towel from the washing basket, climbed onto the bed, and proceeded to twirl the towel around my head in an attempt to drive the bat towards the open windows, without attempting to hit it of course.
Thank goodness, it was not later. If this had been 9 am on a Sunday morning instead of 5, the pony club that passes the house at that time, may have had a bit of a shock if they had looked up to see a 40 year old beardie, fully naked, jumping up and down on the bed, twirling a bath towel around his head……..
Fortunately, after about 20 minutes or so, it worked. I managed to drive the little critter to the right height and eventually, it found the hole, the great outdoors, and, freedom!
Tuesday, 30 January 2007
My Family And Other Animals Part 3
Maslow’s Fall Without Grace
Much of one Friday recently was spent at the Vets with Maslow the cat. This is because, not only is Maslow crap at catching mice but he is also somewhat deficient in the "climbing" and "landing" areas of his cat repertoire. This has led us to question whether or not he is indeed a pure blood pedigree Norwegian Forest cat as previously assumed. You would think that climbing and landing would be second nature to such a breed.......
On Thursday night, as usual, I returned from London and was sorting my mail on the dining room table. Maslow's sociability and curiosity got the better of him.....it'll be the death of him, I fear. Maslow decided he would assist in the mail sorting and promptly "attempted" to leap onto the table. I am not sure whether he was still tired (I had of course woken him from a deep slumber), or, if he slipped on takeoff on the laminate flooring (which is very tasteful, genuine, look-a-like oak, Cheshire-quality laminate I hasten to add), or, if he had "probably had a seizure", which was my mom's rather non-optimistic suggestion (based upon the fact that our 21 year old family pet, Tom Jones the cat - I know, I know - suffered a stroke at the end of his 9 lives).
Whatever. I caught the moment Maslow leapt for the table in the corner of my eye. Time slowed down and Maslow appeared to move Matrix-like, in slow motion. There was a sudden realisation that he had not made it. Maslow's eyes sought mine with a look of incredulity, tinged with embarrassment, mixed with fear and confusion. To give him his due, he did his very best to rectify the situation as evidenced by the deep gouges and one claw that he left behind in the table top. My initial thought was that my wife had trained him to do this - she has been making noises about new dining room furniture for some time now.......But then he fell backwards.
Unlike the mythical felines of old, poor Maslow did not twist miraculously in the air and land on his feet. No, more like a piece of dropped toast, he fell buttered side down. He fell right on his arse. It obviously hurt him as he proceeded to speed around the house like a whirling dervish, beginning with an instance of comedy running on the spot as he sought and failed to gain purchase on said laminate before hurtling upstairs. I was worried about him so sought to catch up with him to check he was OK. But poor Maslow was merely seeking to run away from the pain - the actual pain in his arse, and, that other pain in the arse which was me trying to chase him. He hid in C's study under the chair; he hid under our bed; he hid under the bed in the spare room. Eventually he ran outside, where he got into a fight with the Beast of Bradwall, the horrible moggy called Henry that belongs to one of neighbours. He came back inside and he hid behind the sofa.
Maslow did not come out from behind the sofa until I had gone to bed and C was able to coax him out with food. C checked him over and came to bed quite distraught. Maslow's beautiful fluffy tail with which he signals pleasure and displeasure was doing a very good impression of a feather boa and a very poor impression of a tail. It was hanging limp and lifeless behind him. We feared it was broken and a fairly sleepless night ensued as we envisioned amputation or worse. Maslow did not greet me at the lounge door as usual when we got up. He stayed behind the sofa. I called the Vet and was there within minutes of opening.
Maslow came home on Friday afternoon after he had recovered from (yet another) general anaesthetic. X-rays revealed (thankfully) no breakage or dislocation of his tail or nether regions. A thorough investigation found no evidence of puncture wounds or infection. "Thorough investigation" unfortunately involved him being shaved around the base of his tail. Maslow looked not unlike a baboon. The verdict was that Maslow was suffering from a very badly bruised and swollen bum. He was also suffering from cabin fever (he had to be locked in all weekend until he recovered from the anaesthetic), sleeping sickness (a consequence of the course of pain killers), and, a real lack of cool - the shaved-arse baboon look is not the best............Unfortunately, Maslow has been left with a kink in his otherwise perfect, fluffy tail.
Much of one Friday recently was spent at the Vets with Maslow the cat. This is because, not only is Maslow crap at catching mice but he is also somewhat deficient in the "climbing" and "landing" areas of his cat repertoire. This has led us to question whether or not he is indeed a pure blood pedigree Norwegian Forest cat as previously assumed. You would think that climbing and landing would be second nature to such a breed.......
On Thursday night, as usual, I returned from London and was sorting my mail on the dining room table. Maslow's sociability and curiosity got the better of him.....it'll be the death of him, I fear. Maslow decided he would assist in the mail sorting and promptly "attempted" to leap onto the table. I am not sure whether he was still tired (I had of course woken him from a deep slumber), or, if he slipped on takeoff on the laminate flooring (which is very tasteful, genuine, look-a-like oak, Cheshire-quality laminate I hasten to add), or, if he had "probably had a seizure", which was my mom's rather non-optimistic suggestion (based upon the fact that our 21 year old family pet, Tom Jones the cat - I know, I know - suffered a stroke at the end of his 9 lives).
Whatever. I caught the moment Maslow leapt for the table in the corner of my eye. Time slowed down and Maslow appeared to move Matrix-like, in slow motion. There was a sudden realisation that he had not made it. Maslow's eyes sought mine with a look of incredulity, tinged with embarrassment, mixed with fear and confusion. To give him his due, he did his very best to rectify the situation as evidenced by the deep gouges and one claw that he left behind in the table top. My initial thought was that my wife had trained him to do this - she has been making noises about new dining room furniture for some time now.......But then he fell backwards.
Unlike the mythical felines of old, poor Maslow did not twist miraculously in the air and land on his feet. No, more like a piece of dropped toast, he fell buttered side down. He fell right on his arse. It obviously hurt him as he proceeded to speed around the house like a whirling dervish, beginning with an instance of comedy running on the spot as he sought and failed to gain purchase on said laminate before hurtling upstairs. I was worried about him so sought to catch up with him to check he was OK. But poor Maslow was merely seeking to run away from the pain - the actual pain in his arse, and, that other pain in the arse which was me trying to chase him. He hid in C's study under the chair; he hid under our bed; he hid under the bed in the spare room. Eventually he ran outside, where he got into a fight with the Beast of Bradwall, the horrible moggy called Henry that belongs to one of neighbours. He came back inside and he hid behind the sofa.
Maslow did not come out from behind the sofa until I had gone to bed and C was able to coax him out with food. C checked him over and came to bed quite distraught. Maslow's beautiful fluffy tail with which he signals pleasure and displeasure was doing a very good impression of a feather boa and a very poor impression of a tail. It was hanging limp and lifeless behind him. We feared it was broken and a fairly sleepless night ensued as we envisioned amputation or worse. Maslow did not greet me at the lounge door as usual when we got up. He stayed behind the sofa. I called the Vet and was there within minutes of opening.
Maslow came home on Friday afternoon after he had recovered from (yet another) general anaesthetic. X-rays revealed (thankfully) no breakage or dislocation of his tail or nether regions. A thorough investigation found no evidence of puncture wounds or infection. "Thorough investigation" unfortunately involved him being shaved around the base of his tail. Maslow looked not unlike a baboon. The verdict was that Maslow was suffering from a very badly bruised and swollen bum. He was also suffering from cabin fever (he had to be locked in all weekend until he recovered from the anaesthetic), sleeping sickness (a consequence of the course of pain killers), and, a real lack of cool - the shaved-arse baboon look is not the best............Unfortunately, Maslow has been left with a kink in his otherwise perfect, fluffy tail.
Monday, 29 January 2007
My Family and Other Animals Part 2
Maslow's Arrival
Now my wife, "C", and I have our own special addition to the family. We have three Godchildren – my two nephews and the daughter of one of my best mates from university. More importantly though (though I am sure that they would disagree), there is our own child substitute – the furball baby, Maslow our cat. I can remember the day he arrived almost as vividly as I expect any father does the birth of his child………….
The weekend of Maslow’s arrival was supposed to be an easy, hassle-free one - a quick dive into the Trafford Centre in Manchester to collect C's new glasses (they are Gucci don't you know, darling). While I don't know how much they cost, I do know they are probably one of the first things I will save in the event of a house fire. And, you would have thought that something so expensive and made by Gucci deserved a better name than "glasses". The shopping trip was to be followed by a Sunday of stripping yet more woodchip from our ancient walls at home in preparation for the visit from a plasterer on Wednesday (fingers crossed, and a fair wind that is – they are so bloody unreliable). I hate all forms of decorating and DIY.
Hassle-free? It didn’t quite work out that way. Why? Well the weekend began pretty much according to plan with a lie-in followed by the drive to the Trafford Centre, the recovery of the Guccis and a couple of hours following my beloved around very similar shops selling very similar things. C would circle around in some apparently random way before selecting armfuls of the said similar things and disappearing into the changing rooms for hours on end only to return empty handed as nothing had taken her fancy. And then onto the next shop for more of the same……
After a while she noticed that I had taken to not accompanying her into the similar shops and had taken refuge outside with all of the other bored husbands. She found me there sobbing ever so slightly and chewing my arm. She took pity on me and we were allowed to return home with nothing more than her Guccis and the two CDs which I had managed to acquire in about 30 seconds while her back had been turned. Men are so much more efficient at shopping than women!
Once home I had to rush to the local iron mongers (yes, we still have iron mongers....this is Cheshire!) to purchase a wallpaper steamer for the following day's task of woodchip removal and just had time enough to get showered and changed before going round for an evening of alcoholic jollity at one of the neighbours. Another of our neighbours, M, the 3 times, undisputed heavy-weight kick boxing champion of the world, (and, consequently, one of my very best buddies) was on the TV quiz show ‘Dog Eat Dog’ hosted by Ulrika Johnsson (the lucky bast*rd!). While he had been forced to go to his parents to watch it (much to the chagrin of his girlfriend, J), the rest of us neighbours gathered together to watch his five minutes of fame. And so, as M was being (unfairly) described as "all brawn and no brains" by his fellow contestants, being voted off second without the chance to take a “physical challenge”, and nailing his own coffin by getting his general knowledge question wrong and hence losing all the money, we were well into the first few of several bottles of wine. The girls were chattering on about how Ulrika's neck and breasts were looking so much better these days. The blokes were wondering when they had ever been anything other than perfect. Shopping, and judging the quality of female TV presenters breasts are clearly two thing best left to the male of the species.
Following a ridiculously large amount of a Chinese take-away banquet and far too much wine we made our weary way next-door-but-one to home at around 1 am.
At 1.10 am there was a knock at the door. It was our neighbour, clutching a tiny, pitiful, whining ball of fluff. It was a little, tiny kitten, complete with cat flu. It must have been dumped by its owner (it happens quite a lot in the countryside). It was all skin and bones, with its eyes and nose all glued up as a result of the flu. We had been nominated as foster parents - our neighbour has a dog.
So, a cat bed was hastily constructed out of a PC Monitor box, torn up newspaper - the Guardian of course - and one of C's old dressing gowns. The kitten wouldn't take milk or water but liked being held - it could sit on the palm of my hand with room to spare - and soon began to relax. But, we were not too hopeful of it getting through the night. And so, with the prospect of wallpaper stripping just a few hours away I did the decent thing and went to bed, leaving C to stay downstairs to administer to our new guest.
And there she stayed all night, without sleep, tending to the poor little mite, bathing its nose and eyes, listening to its ragged breathing, and doing deals with God in the hope that the little furball would be still with us in the morning. At 7 am she began telephoning the emergency vets and at 9.15 she came and woke me.....................
The kitten had survived the night and the kitten had acquired a name - Maslow. This is what happens when you have a Counsellor and Psychotherapist in the house - your foster child gets named after a guy who came up with the "Hierarchy of Needs". C thought it was appropriate as the little furball was clearly right at the bottom of that hierarchy, being totally dependent upon us........well that is the plastic credit card side of "us" it would seem.
And so the day began with a trip to the vet. Maslow was declared a boy, about 5 weeks old, with cat flu. He was given a couple of jabs and we were given ointment for his eyes, anorexia cat food for his belly, a couple of syringes for administering food and water, antibiotics for the flu, and another appointment with the vet for Tuesday evening. In return for this, huge mounts of dosh were now owed. And so we were packed back off home with Maslow, medical supplies and our cardboard box.
And then the search for the essentials of life began - cat litter. None of the neighbours had any so I was dispatched to Crewe to the pet supply shop. I have never been in one before. How gullible are these pet owners that they get so easily ripped off in these huge pet superstores? And so a little while later, and financially lighter, I returned home with litter tray, 20 kilos of cat litter (urine absorbing stuff – the type that clumps), matching food and water bowls, a book about how to look after your kitten (which we should, perhaps, read sometime. Much to my wife’s annoyance I am not a huge fan of instruction manuals to say the least. I hold the same view as one of our friends who recently described such things as “the last refuge of the incompetent”), and two special mats for Maslow to snuggle up on.............
Mother and child were bonding when I got back. C was sticking to her task of cleaning and cuddling and administering said medicines. I made soup for us humans and rushed around in the afternoon stripping woodchip from the bedroom walls. At least I did get the job done.
Showered and refreshed I returned downstairs to discover that not only were we the proud owners of Maslow but also of a colony of fleas! You would have thought the bloody vet would have noticed! The little horrors were getting into Maslow's icky eyes and were presumably the reason why he had worn the fur away on his front legs, trying to clean his eyes. Where on earth do you find flea stuff for kittens (it has to be less than napalm strength otherwise it can make them poorly) at 6pm on a Sunday evening in downtown Bradwall? Well the Late Shops let me down although they did furnish us with more cotton wool balls to replace our much-diminished stocks for cleaning Maslow’s eyes and nose. But, I did manage to get some anti-flea stuff that was not too harsh for such a young kitten from one of the neighbours.
Maslow perked up a lot in the evening. His cat bed had been furnished with a hot water bottle and one of C's t-shirts. We had managed to syringe a whole can of anorexia cat food into his now swollen belly. His fur had been combed and the worst bits of hedge that were stuck in it had been cut out. His fleas had diminished. His breathing had improved a little as we had bathed eyes and nose and he was now accompanied by the scent of Karvol wherever he went. He had made himself at home. Home seemed to be on the settee - he would not stay on the floor - or, his favourite, he would sit on C 's or my shoulder, purring and rubbing his head against your cheek....presumably to get rid of some of the fleas.
It did and still does feel like being a parent. In those early days, the house was a mess as various kitten accoutrements filled the space (a myriad toy mice and “jingle balls” still pervade today). Someone had to be with the little thing all day long. And he ate better than we did - he would not leave us to eat our dinner in peace. But we were strong in the evening and locked him downstairs on his own with his hot water bottle and as yet untested litter tray as we went to bed. He cried a bit. I stood the other side of the door for a while until his cries gave way to a slight sob and I went to seek some sleep.
And so Maslow arrived. He is now a permanent fixture. A fully signed up member of the family. An amusing, furry, lovable, loving, entertaining and much-spoilt fixture at that.
Now my wife, "C", and I have our own special addition to the family. We have three Godchildren – my two nephews and the daughter of one of my best mates from university. More importantly though (though I am sure that they would disagree), there is our own child substitute – the furball baby, Maslow our cat. I can remember the day he arrived almost as vividly as I expect any father does the birth of his child………….
The weekend of Maslow’s arrival was supposed to be an easy, hassle-free one - a quick dive into the Trafford Centre in Manchester to collect C's new glasses (they are Gucci don't you know, darling). While I don't know how much they cost, I do know they are probably one of the first things I will save in the event of a house fire. And, you would have thought that something so expensive and made by Gucci deserved a better name than "glasses". The shopping trip was to be followed by a Sunday of stripping yet more woodchip from our ancient walls at home in preparation for the visit from a plasterer on Wednesday (fingers crossed, and a fair wind that is – they are so bloody unreliable). I hate all forms of decorating and DIY.
Hassle-free? It didn’t quite work out that way. Why? Well the weekend began pretty much according to plan with a lie-in followed by the drive to the Trafford Centre, the recovery of the Guccis and a couple of hours following my beloved around very similar shops selling very similar things. C would circle around in some apparently random way before selecting armfuls of the said similar things and disappearing into the changing rooms for hours on end only to return empty handed as nothing had taken her fancy. And then onto the next shop for more of the same……
After a while she noticed that I had taken to not accompanying her into the similar shops and had taken refuge outside with all of the other bored husbands. She found me there sobbing ever so slightly and chewing my arm. She took pity on me and we were allowed to return home with nothing more than her Guccis and the two CDs which I had managed to acquire in about 30 seconds while her back had been turned. Men are so much more efficient at shopping than women!
Once home I had to rush to the local iron mongers (yes, we still have iron mongers....this is Cheshire!) to purchase a wallpaper steamer for the following day's task of woodchip removal and just had time enough to get showered and changed before going round for an evening of alcoholic jollity at one of the neighbours. Another of our neighbours, M, the 3 times, undisputed heavy-weight kick boxing champion of the world, (and, consequently, one of my very best buddies) was on the TV quiz show ‘Dog Eat Dog’ hosted by Ulrika Johnsson (the lucky bast*rd!). While he had been forced to go to his parents to watch it (much to the chagrin of his girlfriend, J), the rest of us neighbours gathered together to watch his five minutes of fame. And so, as M was being (unfairly) described as "all brawn and no brains" by his fellow contestants, being voted off second without the chance to take a “physical challenge”, and nailing his own coffin by getting his general knowledge question wrong and hence losing all the money, we were well into the first few of several bottles of wine. The girls were chattering on about how Ulrika's neck and breasts were looking so much better these days. The blokes were wondering when they had ever been anything other than perfect. Shopping, and judging the quality of female TV presenters breasts are clearly two thing best left to the male of the species.
Following a ridiculously large amount of a Chinese take-away banquet and far too much wine we made our weary way next-door-but-one to home at around 1 am.
At 1.10 am there was a knock at the door. It was our neighbour, clutching a tiny, pitiful, whining ball of fluff. It was a little, tiny kitten, complete with cat flu. It must have been dumped by its owner (it happens quite a lot in the countryside). It was all skin and bones, with its eyes and nose all glued up as a result of the flu. We had been nominated as foster parents - our neighbour has a dog.
So, a cat bed was hastily constructed out of a PC Monitor box, torn up newspaper - the Guardian of course - and one of C's old dressing gowns. The kitten wouldn't take milk or water but liked being held - it could sit on the palm of my hand with room to spare - and soon began to relax. But, we were not too hopeful of it getting through the night. And so, with the prospect of wallpaper stripping just a few hours away I did the decent thing and went to bed, leaving C to stay downstairs to administer to our new guest.
And there she stayed all night, without sleep, tending to the poor little mite, bathing its nose and eyes, listening to its ragged breathing, and doing deals with God in the hope that the little furball would be still with us in the morning. At 7 am she began telephoning the emergency vets and at 9.15 she came and woke me.....................
The kitten had survived the night and the kitten had acquired a name - Maslow. This is what happens when you have a Counsellor and Psychotherapist in the house - your foster child gets named after a guy who came up with the "Hierarchy of Needs". C thought it was appropriate as the little furball was clearly right at the bottom of that hierarchy, being totally dependent upon us........well that is the plastic credit card side of "us" it would seem.
And so the day began with a trip to the vet. Maslow was declared a boy, about 5 weeks old, with cat flu. He was given a couple of jabs and we were given ointment for his eyes, anorexia cat food for his belly, a couple of syringes for administering food and water, antibiotics for the flu, and another appointment with the vet for Tuesday evening. In return for this, huge mounts of dosh were now owed. And so we were packed back off home with Maslow, medical supplies and our cardboard box.
And then the search for the essentials of life began - cat litter. None of the neighbours had any so I was dispatched to Crewe to the pet supply shop. I have never been in one before. How gullible are these pet owners that they get so easily ripped off in these huge pet superstores? And so a little while later, and financially lighter, I returned home with litter tray, 20 kilos of cat litter (urine absorbing stuff – the type that clumps), matching food and water bowls, a book about how to look after your kitten (which we should, perhaps, read sometime. Much to my wife’s annoyance I am not a huge fan of instruction manuals to say the least. I hold the same view as one of our friends who recently described such things as “the last refuge of the incompetent”), and two special mats for Maslow to snuggle up on.............
Mother and child were bonding when I got back. C was sticking to her task of cleaning and cuddling and administering said medicines. I made soup for us humans and rushed around in the afternoon stripping woodchip from the bedroom walls. At least I did get the job done.
Showered and refreshed I returned downstairs to discover that not only were we the proud owners of Maslow but also of a colony of fleas! You would have thought the bloody vet would have noticed! The little horrors were getting into Maslow's icky eyes and were presumably the reason why he had worn the fur away on his front legs, trying to clean his eyes. Where on earth do you find flea stuff for kittens (it has to be less than napalm strength otherwise it can make them poorly) at 6pm on a Sunday evening in downtown Bradwall? Well the Late Shops let me down although they did furnish us with more cotton wool balls to replace our much-diminished stocks for cleaning Maslow’s eyes and nose. But, I did manage to get some anti-flea stuff that was not too harsh for such a young kitten from one of the neighbours.
Maslow perked up a lot in the evening. His cat bed had been furnished with a hot water bottle and one of C's t-shirts. We had managed to syringe a whole can of anorexia cat food into his now swollen belly. His fur had been combed and the worst bits of hedge that were stuck in it had been cut out. His fleas had diminished. His breathing had improved a little as we had bathed eyes and nose and he was now accompanied by the scent of Karvol wherever he went. He had made himself at home. Home seemed to be on the settee - he would not stay on the floor - or, his favourite, he would sit on C 's or my shoulder, purring and rubbing his head against your cheek....presumably to get rid of some of the fleas.
It did and still does feel like being a parent. In those early days, the house was a mess as various kitten accoutrements filled the space (a myriad toy mice and “jingle balls” still pervade today). Someone had to be with the little thing all day long. And he ate better than we did - he would not leave us to eat our dinner in peace. But we were strong in the evening and locked him downstairs on his own with his hot water bottle and as yet untested litter tray as we went to bed. He cried a bit. I stood the other side of the door for a while until his cries gave way to a slight sob and I went to seek some sleep.
And so Maslow arrived. He is now a permanent fixture. A fully signed up member of the family. An amusing, furry, lovable, loving, entertaining and much-spoilt fixture at that.
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