Kevin is getting visitors, and I am getting phone calls and emails, all from his concerned aunties. To all of you, I'm pleased to say that he behaved well at the vet's, spat and swore a bit with the repeated blood pressure-taking, but no further public incontinence (oops, sorry, I forgot) and was allowed home in the early afternoon. He will be going onto medication for his raised BP as well as his kidneys. He is amazingly easy to medicate; the almost-severed fingers and blood-spattered walls of the past, when I had a challenging bunch of cats to worm, are long gone; this fine chap meekly accepts a little syringe of water and crushed pill into his mouth without a murmur. But the crucial test results are still awaited, so my locked-in-place fingers remain crossed.
Charlotte came round with her handsome young policeman, bearing some very pink, very Charlotte-y home made cupcakes; Kevin sat on their laps in turn, shedding hair as generously as ever (no visitor leaves without a liberal donation of ginger hair), and looking cheerful.
Very little else happened today. It is mild, it is Spring-like, I hung washing out, made a cake to order, and walked across the bridge to feed Lynn's cat; some of my packing has now been ironed and my holiday shoes chosen (like the Queen Mum, I tend to favour old comfy shoes over glamour), and I now have a pressing need to go and sit down in front of the telly and veg out for a bit, possibly in my dressing gown and slippers. Post-vet fatigue. Thank you all for sharing my worry and accepting my obsessive need to talk ad nauseam about a scrawny old moggie who always leaves you covered in fur.