New camera

See post before last. It arrived today, less than 24 hours after ordering, another small gleaming object of desire to add to my collection. All this spending of money is a bit scary though; I feel quite profligate. After this trip, I am going to pull in my horns! Lentils and charity shop clothes for me, supermarket's generic dog food for herself. Just watch us.

Q: What's better than winning the lottery?

A: Getting your feet done by a wonderful chiropodist (or is that podiatrist, or both, and is there a hierarchy or an etiquette for what you call them?) whilst chatting about winning the lottery - though as neither of us actually buy lottery tickets, this scuppers our chances just a little.

I now have holiday feet, fit to show Australia. I won't go into any detail whatsoever of how that was achieved, but for people like me who are squeamish about feet and .... I can hardly bear to type the word.... toenails, having someone else willingly and skilfully sort them out for you while you look away, it's a life-enhancing experience. Thank you, Alison! I hope you enjoy the peanut butter biscuits.

After what we call our Vivienne Night, which took place yesterday, and is a euphemism for collective pain and suffering involving leg waxing and eyebrow tweezing, I just have to get my Black Gown trauma/hair appointment over and done with next week to feel like I am almost fit to be seen in a country where no one has spent the previous six months huddled, pale grey and flabby, in thick layers of vests, socks and jumpers, with only chapped hands and weatherbeaten faces showing.

Here it is

Well, not really; it won't arrive for a few days yet

This Is Not a Cat Blog

Contrary to what you may think, this blog was not set up in order for me to witter on endlessly about my cats and their various ailments or traits. It's time for a break from them now, unless some dramatic event or downturn happens along. Instead, I shall endeavour to demonstrate that, occasionally, very occasionally, there is intelligent life going on in here, and that my life consists of more and deeper things than baking, pets and getting my boots on all wrong.

So, what to write about? The new camera I have just ordered, or the question of why take photos at all? The conflict between seeing and experiencing, using just your eyes and mind, before moving on to the next moment, and the freezing of the selected moment, cutting off and isolating the experience from its time?

Or shall I just post a picture of my new camera and let you have intelligent thoughts about it? Right, I'll do that. I can read those thoughts already: "Ooh, shiny!"; "She's still going to take blurry pictures with that"; "What on earth was she talking about?"; " Aaaww, where have the cute cat stories gone?"

For those of you who liked the cat bits, I'll take photos of the cats with my new camera. Voila, conflict resolved.

News about Kevin!

Claire the vet has just rung with Kevin's test results. It seems that although his kidneys are "very leaky" - the mind boggles at what this means, but thank goodness for skin holding his insides in - his prognosis, apart from the unpredictable old age factor, is middling. Although vague and not flag-wavingly thrilling, this is still comforting, in that he isn't in the dreaded range of 0-6-months-to-live, (but also isn't in the 2-years-plus) and is likely to carry on quite well for some time, which for me, about to leave him for 3 weeks, is a huge relief. There were some percentages of whatever they tested for, which I forgot immediately, as that's maths and science, therefore instantly forgettable, but Claire seemed upbeat about his condition, and I won't argue with that.

He will have another check up and - oh joy! a sample of wee to be tested - before I go away, with Sandra there to be briefed by the vet on what to look out for. The most pressing concern at present is how to cope with Kevin's new practice of waking me up at a hideously early hour to dispense breakfast. Sandra's son, caretaking my house in my absence, may be more hard-hearted than me about this, and Kevin will have to unlearn this unappealing tendency. (No, leaving more supper out when I go to bed isn't an option, now that Tubby You-know-who can find his way to Kevin's dishes.)

Meantime, a tiny bit of rejoicing is in order, with some relief that it is his kidneys, and not his bladder, that leak. And for an old gent who is somewhere around 90 in the equivalent of human years, that's not bad at all. Good old Kevin.

Comfy chair is ours....zzzzz....

Maybe I shouldn't be admitting this

I have just spent the morning in town, doing what I hoped would be the last of the holiday-prep shopping. Sadly, that didn't work out, due to my lack of application and focus, but I got a couple of essentials and picked up my new specs. Shiny-shiny, designery and modern, but not much different or more comfortable than my old ones, I now find. Impulse-buying brings its own penalties.

Then I had a brain-numbing trail round the holiday clothes section of M & S, wondering who buys and dares to wear those day-glo bathing costumes, tops and wash-and-wear sarongs? People who are so scared of getting separated from their loved ones on a crowded beach that they dress in colours that would be visible from the Space Station, let alone the air-sea rescue helicopter?

Anyway, I digress. After a brisk walk home, ready for a cup of tea and a revision of my never-ending shopping list, I took my boots off. And saw that I had gone out in one black boot and one brown.

Inside this sturdy sensible middle aged woman there is a dotty little old lady struggling to get out.

Just to encourage us all...

How is he?

Well, Kevin seems fine. But someone is throwing up on the landing (twice today). Could be Kevin, but could also be Harry, whose ability to overeat has been raised to new levels since he discovered how to get to Kevin's dish, which for over a year been placed in an inaccessible spot, too high for a Billy Bunter of a cat to get to.

Kevin has always been athletic, and good at jumping and climbing, so a high feeding place poses no problems for him. It also places him near the sink, where he likes to meditate. Harry, too rotund to do much more than heave himself onto a bed or an armchair, knew that there was a higher place (no, not Cat Heaven) where food could be lurking, but the logistics of reaching such a place defeated him for a long time. But eventually, when I was away for a few days, he learned to get up onto the hob, which is lower than the other kitchen work surfaces, and trot nimbly round the worktops, fired by gluttony, and finish up whatever un-greedy Kevin had left. He has become quite brazen about it too.

Antibacterial surface cleaners are big in this house; I know it's not green, but if any of my friends were to to die of food poisoning, I'd rather the investigation focused on supermarket ready meals or the Council's staff canteen, and not on the slack approach to paw hygiene taken by certain persons round here.

Universal peace and a boiled egg

Suzy tells me that she is going to an all-day event tomorrow, called Dances for Universal Peace. She has to bring a blanket, as there might be some lying down, which she is looking forward to very much. She could do the lying down bit all day, she says. She also has to bring vegetarian food to share, and has made a potato salad and something involving celery, but is going to smuggle in a boiled egg in her pocket. Something tells me that her commitment to universal peace may not be quite 100%. She intends to give me a demonstration of the dance tomorrow evening, using the dog and her snooty cat as partners.

Medicating the cat the hard way

It might be easier to split the atom than to divide Kevin's new pills into quarters as directed. It's pictured here next to a regular aspirin to give you some idea of scale.

It is made of a material harder than granite, has no useful score line to assist when wielding a sharp knife, and is very tiny. Its purpose is to lower his blood pressure; it does this by raising mine.

Pink! Very pink!

Thank you, Charlotte

The Aunties are mustering

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.

Postscript to Wipe-Up Wednesday

What Kevin doesn't know is that he is going back to the hated vet tomorrow morning, to be abandoned by his uncaring owner (or Personal Shopper as a current cat food ad has it) for the day, so that the vet can take serial blood pressure readings. That's what she says, anyway. I suspect she's really hoping for another lagoon-of-wee event that she can video and post on YouTube.

And the third strike happened - no one poo-ed, but Kevin overdid his dinner and decided to bring it back up. Not using his ten-feet-projectile technique, thankfully, and so, with lightning reflexes, I managed to get the dog's beanbag cushion under him (I'm getting to be a dab hand at positioning things at either end of this cat today!) as it's easier to clean up than from a carpet. What a day; despite the jokes and faux hard-heartedness, it is quite a harrowing time, and I intend to have an early night. With earplugs in, so that any sounds of retching, coughing, splashing, crying, and worse will be minimised. I shall just watch my step carefully if I have to get up in the night. Gentle reader, I promise not to mention bodily functions any more this week.

Cat Talk

So I peed on them both. Like, loads.

You didn't!

Yeah, I did.

You're so cool, Kevin!

Two Down, One To Go

If you are one of the squeamish who don't want to read about bodily functions, then this post is not for you.

First of all, I managed to obtain a urine sample from Kevin, as requested by the vet, a suggestion received incredulously by me at the time. But it proved surprisingly easy to sneak up on a deaf old cat in the back yard and position a plastic dish under his tail while he wee-ed - he did notice eventually, and meowed in astonishment, but carried on. So far so good. I could be a vet's nurse, I'm sure.

But later on the dog lowered the tone, by throwing up on one of the new chairs. Not simple regurgitation of breakfast - no, that wouldn't do for new chairs - but that scary bile-yellowy-green liquid that burns through carpets, underlay, floorboards, foundations, any secret subterranean chambers beneath....you remember, just like in Alien, acid burning through deck after deck. And on the same new chair that the Wicked Cat has already clicked with his giant claws.

But to my astonishment, and totally unlike similar ruination events in the past involving new carpets or bedcovers, these stains sponged off with warm diluted oxi-type miraculous stain remover. Those chairs must be coated with something quite amazing, possibly designed to repel acid rain, nuclear fallout and the weirdly-coloured goo they put in those corner yoghurts.

The dog seemed unbothered; I suspect this had been the result of over-eating, probably on stolen cat food, so I wasted little sympathy (none at all, to be honest). I stayed calm and zen-like over it all, repeating my lifelong personal mantra several times: You'll Never Have A Nice House While You Have Children & Animals.....You'll Never Have A....and so on.

Later, it was time to take Kevin back to the vet. A much happier little cat today, he walked meekly into the carrier, washed his paws en route, clearly very chilled about it all, and only had to be tipped out of the basket, rather than dragged out by the scruff of the neck, onto the exam table. Questions were asked, tests were taken using the sample, and it was sent off to the lab to determine how long Kevin might have before his kidneys fail altogether. Kevin stood quietly, but I could see him eyeing his basket longingly.

Then he had his blood pressure checked. This involved firm holding by me, lots of fiddly stuff by vet, and some struggling and loud protesting by Kevin. This is the cat who would make a major assault allegation, at top volume, every time he had a new collar put on, so I am inured to the melodrama. Nothing painful or over-intrusive was done; it was just slow and tricky. In the middle of it all, the vet and I noticed a pool of wee appearing from under Kevin, a pool that grew....and grew....and formed a small lagoon....and began to have small white-tipped waves and little boats appear on it, until it reached the edges of the table and trickled onto our shoes...and still it flowed, the urine sample to beat all urine samples. A Pets Win Prizes Urine Sample. Astounded, the vet remarked to him "You're a real pissy-pants today, aren't you!" which I think is obscure veterinary-medical jargon. Kevin returned to the basket with the self-satisfied expression of one who had truly got his point across.

So, we've had vomit, we've had wee - I await the next excretory episode with resigned, nay, fatalistic acceptance and some rubber gloves. If you like, you can chant softly with me: You'll Never Have A Nice House While You Have Children & Animals....

PS Kevin Update 7

He seems fine. Eating, drinking, pottering about. My fingers are so tightly crossed they are beginning to graft onto each other.

House Marks: Could Do Better

I have a house that I'm the first to admit is too big for me, since I became family-free. That means lots of rooms to keep things in, or, if you like, to use as discreet storage for one person's streamlined belongings. I have a house aspiration that involves key words like calm, serene, light-filled, uncluttered, with soul, style, and deep deep comfort. In reality, only my sitting room is kept tidy. Elsewhere I have heaps of papers, cluttered surfaces, crowded cupboards, mountains of shoes and ironing, a generous layer of cat hair as the unifying element throughout, and, as this is a sunny house, well-defined pet-nose marks on the rattly old windows. I also have tidy friends who are wonderful homemakers; they cajole, tut, organise, encourage, and probably despair; I simply cannot stay tidy or throw out/recycle/freecycle enough stuff to make a lasting difference, and I have two (two!) Rooms of Shame as a result. I despair sometimes too.

So why am I talking about this now? It's all because of that DIY Will form. The idea of leaving everything I own to the Lovely Son, with instructions to disperse some of it to others, has had the unwanted effect of reminding me (and the LS) that this may be a lifelong task for him. I still haven't managed to let go of all of my own mother's belongings, almost five years on; what hope then for my cupboards, filled with strange and wonderful jumbles of items which are not quite awful or useless enough to go in the bin, and aren't quite wonderful enough to be given away? That feather quilt, which needs a tiny tear repaired before it can be cleaned and maybe put on eBay; those poems that friends wrote for my 40th birthday; the paint; the salvaged wrapping paper; the boxes and boxes of photos to be gone through and selected for scanning; the collar-tags of long-deceased but much-loved cats..... And of course all those hugely dull papers, forms, certificates, policies, statements, that sap the spirit and overflowed the filing cabinet long ago. Just thinking about tackling it all makes me quail. I have time now, which could be used to good effect here, but really, time isn't the issue, it's me.

But there's something else too, while we are talking about dismal and depressing things: those energy-saving light bulbs. Whoever invented them should be exhibited in the town square and pelted with Prozac bottles. The Lovely Son refers to them as Suicide Bulbs; energy-sapping rather than saving, they have created an ambience that harks back to gaslight, even at 100W equivalent. Who in their right mind would want to spend an evening clearing heaps in the Rooms of Shame under lighting that Dr Crippen would have felt at home with? Lovely Son, it's all yours.

To be fair/soppy/scared

The Lovely Son did email me a loving Mother's Day message at the end of his working day. Sniff. I suppose when you work the weird hours that he does for a couple of events companies, getting up in the small hours, working flat out at high speed throughout the day, having several hours off (but often too far away from home to sleep or do anything sensible) while the event takes place, then taking everything that you put up earlier down again, it can be a challenge to think of much else except getting back to bed before 4 a.m. Add to that a reluctance to be manipulated by the card-and-chocolate companies, and you have a recipe for Forget-Your-Mother Day. I forgive you, Lovely Son. Again.

Kevin Update 6: Rather perky today! We have given up on the special diet food, which only the dog will eat - and if Harry doesn't eat it, it has to be awful - and moved on to raw turkey mince - num num.....cats do seem to like stuff that smells vile; the horrid thing is that it is intended for human consumption. The vet might have something to say on Wednesday about this dietary defiance, but anyone who has tried to persuade a very thin elderly cat that something nasty is still a good thing to eat will know that they will fail miserably, every time. Thin elderly cats have massive reserves of will power of the I'd-rather-die-than-eat-that-muck variety, and Kevin is no exception.

Countdown to Australia: Day 3. While I was in the long queue at the Post Office (never go on a Monday) and browsing the shelves where all sorts of thrilling items are on display - did you know you can still get cap guns? And little plastic discs of caps? Sadly not the paper rolls of caps, though - I spotted and bought a DIY Will form. This is a temporary measure because my old home-made will is terribly obsolete, and I am going in a big metal flying tube to the other side of the world, and it seems so improbable in every respect that it will a) lift itself up into the sky, b) stay there, progressing very fast in an Antipodean direction, and c) won't end in some dreadful disaster that includes my sad demise. I feel I should inflict my last wishes on my beloved friends and family before I take the brave step into the arms (or wings) of British Airways. Charlotte's Auntie Theresa did tell me last week that BA's food is the worst in the world, so even if the plane does manage to take off and land safely, there are other hazards to be navigated en route. I need people to know that they have been nominated as Executors, and, worse, asked to assist in clearing my house of my many, many belongings....I just know they'll be cheered by that knowledge.

Plain and simple; Neighbourhood Watch built in

Oddly, whilst these chairs and cushions look stiff and formal, they are actually soft and squashily-comfortable, and before long........you.... will......zzzzzzzzzz