Countdown to Australia: Day 2

What was I thinking? Posting the Things Done/Things To Do stuff.....This would be so-o-o-o-o boring to list and to read! So I shan't continue with it after all, although I might allow myself a little online whoop and shriek when it's all done. I have also had a mild attack of common sense about my luggage. Instead of buying new and lovely matching cases, I've dug out my small bargain basement rucksack-case on wheels, and despite it being rather grubby (thank you, previous airline baggage handlers), it will have to do as my hand luggage. And my old Tesco suitcase will suffice too. I know I will forfeit any chance of looking smart and sophisticated enough to warrant an upgrade from British Airways' Huddled Anonymous Masses seating to More Champagne, Modom? luxury, but that was a foolish fantasy anyway. Stop laughing about the smart and sophisticated bit....that's just unkind. But if I lower my standards any further and talk about buying rubbery perforated clonky clog-style footwear (you know what I'm talking about - oh so comfy for travelling in!) you may come round to my house and shout at me till I recover my wits.

For those of you who need to know (Roger, Annie), my new cushions have just been delivered by Lynn, who made up the covers for me in the fabric I nitpicked about till the right colours were found. They look quite lovely, especially when compared to the ill-matched dog-bed affairs that were there before. The new chairs are also the last word in comfort; I shall post a photo, although sadly, you won't be able to tell from it just how snooze-inducing they really are. The old red armchairs, which looked squashy and inviting, but were really over-stuffed and took up half the sitting room, have been rehomed with Carole, where they can clash excitingly with the ancient blue sofa and lurid yellow walls of her sitting room (no, I'm not being rude; she doesn't like the lurid yellow either).

It's Mother's Day. The tradition in this family is that the Lovely Son somehow misses the extensive nationwide advertising for this artificially-created but still appealing retail event, realises this sometime during the day, and sends me a belated message. Last year it was by email. Today it was by text.

I wonder if this is a genetic thing - my mother regularly forgot my birthday unless I reminded her beforehand, thankfully a childish habit I grew out of, and would then have to resort to a telegram - yes, a telegram - you can tell how old I am! - but at least birthday telegrams came in a decorative card which could, if you were desperate enough, be put on the mantelpiece.

Kevin Update 5: He is much the same as yesterday. He can now detect his special diet food even when it is diluted with other stuff to homeopathic proportions, and has made it clear that he won't bother, thank you. He is being stoical, as am I, but every now and then, we have a little cuddle and I cry for both of us.

Kevin Update 4

All Quiet on the Ginger Front

Admitting defeat

One of the strictest rules round here is:


Cats Are Not Allowed On The Table


You can see how I am feared and respected....







(posted at the insistence of my sister, who thinks this is sweet, and in response to Lynn, who thinks there isn't enough about Harry on this blog)

Countdown to Australia: Day 1

It's March! (even though Blogger says it's still yesterday). And I am leaving for Australia on the 27th! So much to do. So much to think about in the wee small wakeful hours of the night....I will make a daily log of the Things Done and the Things To Do, and if anyone spots a serious omission, feel free to tell me; just make sure you do this in enough time for me to sort it!

So, for starters:

Things Done: ticket, visa, insurance, house and pet carers organised, iPod loaded, passport expiry date checked (ages ago).
Things To Do: everything else.

What I'm packing is simple compared to what I'm leaving - just thinking about how much pet food has to be bought and stored is daunting. And those 2 stones are not really going to get lost in 27 days, I suspect.

And Kevin? Perhaps being in denial about Kevin is the best position to take - just for now.

Not About a Cat.....

There is more to my life than cat-obsessing, you know. The gales have resumed, and make dog-walking a serious hazard. She hates the wind, and gets very silly and skittish, runs out in the road, importunes strangers to take her home with them, and eventually tries to slope off home without my noticing. Not that I can blame her, as I get very silly and skittish too (not really; I just hate windy weather with a passion), so we had a domesticated morning indoors. I have made cakes today, including some experimental bun things involving lemon and walnuts (more leftover pecans than walnut) which proved to be rather nice despite some serious deviation from the recipe, which was actually for a tealoaf. I am going to give one to Lesley, who leaves for Hong Kong tomorrow, to wish her a safe journey. Lesley, you may post your verdict if you want to, but I know you are like my young Official Tasters, and are never truly professional and critical. Which is a relief to me, really.

Now that I come to think of them, where are those Tasters? I haven't seen them for ages. First sign of Springlike weather and they'll be out again, whooping and shrieking in the street, playing hugely imaginative games and scattering crumbs and sweets, which is what has turned my once-sober little dog into a shameless guttersnipe, scavenging for what the children and local students leave in their wake. Anything too large for her small mouth and 8 teeth gets smuggled into the house and hidden, regardless of its toxicity and threat to life; I have found stale half-cupcakes, rock-like crusts of toast, worryingly aged spare ribs and fossilised chicken thigh bones tucked into corners or under her bedding. Thankfully, she seems to have stopped burying illicit items in the cat litter tray....I will spare you the details, but oh, believe me, you can't be too particular (or fancy yourself as having a nice house) when you live with small determined animals!

Kevin Update 3

Much better today. Thank you for asking. He resumed his usual place in the Gang of Three which advances menacingly on me at 5 o'clock each day to let me know that it's Dinnertime. He ate some of his own food, heavily laced with tuna, then pushed Harry off his dish to polish that off too. Only tiny quantities, but at least he's eating. This is him now, sitting on my knee as I write.

Kevin helping with blog

Kevin Update 2

A peaceful night, sleeping soundly, tucked up with me; some purring, which made me realise he hasn't been purring recently. The magic wand of antibiotics?

And then a quiet day, not looking exactly better, but clearly not distressed or restless like yesterday.

He has had a change of heart about his expensive special food - now it's black poison that cannot possibly be eaten by any self-respecting cat......though now that a bit of tuna has been mixed in with it, maybe a mouthful or two......? Ooh, and is that raw chicken?

The internet yields a wide range of conflicting expert opinions on diets for cats with kidney failure, with many condemning the very same diet that I have been persuaded to buy for Kevin. It is so confusing and downright alarming that I will follow the ones that say I can feed him certain foods along with the special diet rather than risk him losing even more weight. As Kevin is almost eighteen-and-a-half, I am not hoping for miracles, but need to be sure that I have tried all that can be done for him, which includes waiting for all the tests to be completed before making any decisions or writing him off as a hopeless case. Meantime, I shall feed him little bits of stuff that he likes, encourage him to drink water, and watch him carefully (for carefully, read broodingly and obsessively). He is the last of the Magnificent Seven, and when he goes, that will be the end of an era that began in 1977 when I moved here with two cats and began collecting waifs and strays.

(Harry doesn't count; he can have an era all to himself, perhaps one which marks the current national trend of obesity in man and beast; the Mega-Mog years....He didn't need to be rescued, just rehomed, and as I fell in love with him on sight, no one else got a chance to take him.)

Anyway, enough cat talk. I am worn out with the strain of it all. But James won Masterchef, and all's right with the world. It was a gripping series, but one which made me realise that I really can't cook very well or adventurously at all. Thank goodness I make decent cheese scones for my friends and know how to open cans of tuna for my ancient moggies; that will have to suffice as culinary self-worth for now.

Kevin Update 1: Sleeping it off

The vet rang to say that the blood tests were finished and that one of the hideous possibilities has been ruled out. That leaves a bladder infection and kidney failure to deal with. Kevin is full of antibiotics, kidney medication and very expensive special diet food, and is recovering from his ordeal in the way he prefers. If you look closely enough, you might see him breathing deeply.

Kevin

This dear old chap is very poorly indeed. We spent a dreadful hour together at the vets today, trying to make sense of a complicated array of serious problems. Tests have been undertaken, some results still awaited, but good news is unlikely.

I noted that Kevin had enough of his old spirit to swear and spit at the vet in the time-honoured way, and to leave her and me liberally covered in ginger hair.

News to follow as I get it.

In case you were worried....

I didn't just ignore those fallen roof tiles, slatternly though I am. I went out into the road and gazed pessimistically at my roof. They didn't appear to have fallen down from there (though there's still time). Given the force of today's gales, those tiles may well have come from Stornoway, where the weather makes ours look positively Mediterranean.

Vicious, howling and destructive

No, not the dog.Though maybe in her imagination....

But this was how the weatherman described the gales now lashing us - 67 mph in Newcastle! Wheelie bins are practising their jump jet take-off technique, and small children are being sewn into their pushchairs. I have been into town on foot, leaning well forward, Marcel Marceau mime-style, with my coat billowing like the parachutes that bring the Space Shuttle to a halt. Very nerve-wracking; I seem to recall some research that found windy weather was detrimental to human mental health, and I could believe it. Grown men were cowering in doorways, sobbing and pleading for it to stop.

But I arrived determined to accomplish some purposeful shopping, and immediately came across a newly-opened optician's, all shiny and beckoning, so, on impulse, I got my eyes tested (for free!) for the first time in years. This took a long time, and was extremely thorough. A strange experience, though. Optometrists are like dentists, in that they see you in a most unflattering way, i.e. with your mouth unnaturally wide open or with one of those bizarre devices on your nose like the ones that Johnny Depp wore in Sleepy Hollow. And they have to get up closer than you would want a stranger, or even most of your nearest and dearest, to do, and shine lights in your eyes. At least I could answer questions today without my mouth being full of cotton wool and gurgling spit-sucking tubes.

Weakened by the shiny-shiny technology and the sheer charm of the pleasant young optometrist, I yielded to the dazzling array of designer specs, and chose a pair a zillion times more expensive than I intended. Shopping, purposeful or otherwise, deteriorated rapidly after that. I bought some audio books for the plane journey, a new washbag that would not bring shame to the family name, and browsed the luggage displays, horrifying myself with the prices of small suitcases that would only be thrown, dropped, trashed, filthied in transit, and probably end up misdirected to the far East. Then I got the bus home, watching pedestrians flailing helplessly in the wind and clutching lamp posts, and, crunching over fallen roof tiles, I shut my front door with a sigh of relief. And then I caught up with those leftover hot cross buns. Well, carbohydrates are calming, after all.

How to cheer yourself up in 10 moves

1. Put the heating on - no need to suffer

2. Have a cup of tea and 2 toasted, very buttery hot cross buns - ditto

3. Play with new iPod, onto which you have managed to load lots of photos

4. Feel smug and technically competent

5. Post a shaky picture of new object of desire

6. Feel less smug/more technically incompetent at sight of blurred image

7. Research cameras online. Find that shaky hands are a common problem - yay! not just you!

8. Feel slightly less technically incompetent, but not quite smug yet

9. Find that upgrading to a digital camera with anti-shake is affordable

10. Determine that tomorrow will be a better day; perhaps more tea and HCBs required

Not quite getting there

Today's plan was to get up early(ish) and go into town. I had birthday presents to buy, book tokens to spend, and maybe I could start my shopping for Australia. There's no way I could risk Customs with that ancient washbag!

But it just didn't come together. I got up feeling weak and feeble, found that nothing wearable was ironed, there was nothing nice for breakfast, and the idea of traipsing round the shops, even limiting myself to John Lewis, began to feel as appealing as hang gliding solo off Macchu Picchu. Just the sort of day where everything you touch in John Lewis gives you a nasty little shock of static electricity, and the trauma makes you forget everything you went in for.

What I would have liked was a friend to come over for coffee and a chat while idling through some nice out of date magazines and moaning half-heartedly about the state of our nails/double chins/pet-wrecked carpets and paintwork (the familiarity of this can be strangely uplifting) but my friends are all at work or have been retired long enough to feel the urge to go out doing good works in the parish. This is the downside of my a) being a bit older than most of them, and b) being retired a year early, and c) having no intention to do anything in the parish yet that looks remotely like work. (Notice the 'yet' - that's so that you don't think I'm totally feckless.)

So I went to Sainsbury's instead, unimaginative but necessary, and stocked up on nice fruit and yoghurt, as well as a pack of hot cross buns, enticed into the latter by Posy. I think that I'm having a delayed mope because the Lovely Son has gone back to London. The dog does her moping at the window as we set off for the station, and is back to her chipper little self by the time I return alone, but it takes me a little longer. Two hot cross buns and a cup of tea have helped, though chipper isn't how I'd describe my view of the world today. Best stay home, I think, rather than risk buying books on Empty Nest Syndrome or hideous holiday footwear that looks like recycled tyres. Maybe I should do my nails and practise those chin exercises.

Go Spam!

I was reading Obachan (see list on right) and was tickled to see her Spam Fried Rice dish. As there was a photograph of it, I knew it wasn't a joke. Clearly I have missed out on a whole branch of culinary sophistication. On impulse, I Googled Spam recipes, and found that there are many many of them out there. Some are weird and wonderful, some are just vile, but the sheer volume of them is what is so astonishing. Go on, dare you. Make a Spam dish today! And send me a photograph of it.

Jolly holidays!

I have had two presents in 24 hours.

Barbara thought I should have something on my suitcase that would make it stand out on the airport carousel, so she gave me this very eye-catching luggage tag. I think it should do the trick all right.

And Charlotte's grandma Carol gave me this little tray cloth. It has a hand-embroidered tower that has set me wondering. It looks like Blackpool Tower to me, and has blue waves in front of it, but careful scrutiny reveals a decidedly French tricolor on the top. A seaside Eiffel Tower? Any other ideas?

All I need now for my big trip is a hat, preferably one that reads "Embrassez-moi rapide".

Pre-stink pond

I thought I should remind us all that the pond, though weedy, was actually quite pretty and full of life last summer. Hopefully the recent radical cleanse performed by Sandra-with-bucket should help it to regain its odour-free charm and entice little frogs.

Yes, I know there are nettles; we call them our wildlife project.

Ow!

Failure to warm up + digging heavy soil + shifting timber offcuts = sore back. My own fault. I am overwhelmed with self-pity, and not even a shiny new raspberry-red iPod Nano helps.

Calling a spade a spade

Do you have to be fit to work on an allotment or does an allotment make you fit? Today, I would say the former. I ache in many places. Today the Lovely Son fixed the shed, and set to with wood and screws, creating a new compost bin of gargantuan proportions to replace the rickety old one. I took the opportunity of emptying the current compost heap, sorting the new material, ie still-recognisable kitchen waste (so many teabags!!) from the rich dark crumbly "black gold" that the sainted Monty enthuses about. Then flushed with pride, I wheelbarrowed the black gold to other places in dire need of a bit of organic oomph. I hadn't realised until today that the old wheelbarrow, rescued from a skip, has an inflatable tyre, currently in need of a bit of an inflate. Another item to continually forget to bring from home: tinsnips, garlic, peanuts, dibber, bicycle pump....Oh, and someone has stolen our good spade, and the shears. Curse them.

I also tried to construct the new rose arch, the old one having eventually yielded to corrosion and gales. The replacement cost £4.99, about £1 more than its predecessor, so we don't expect much from it. Opening the box was my first mistake. No glasses (again), tiny instructions, 5000 pieces of metal, with bolts, and I could feel my enthusiasm draining away. I rang Sandra, who is handy with such things, and sweet-talked her into coming down to do it for me, and could she bring some matches too? Yes, she said, obligingly, not knowing what was in store. She looked at the many pieces of metal and all the bolts, and I could see that her heart sank too. Silently, we put all the bits back in the box and promised ourselves that we would do it another time soon. Preferably by encouraging Dave to do it for us. But we had a little fire, and yesterday's evil rose prunings went into it, just to make sure. Within moments we smelled well-kippered; people talk fancifully about the evocative scent of woodsmoke, but it isn't thrilling when it permeates your clothes and newly-washed hair and makes you cough like your grandad.

While we were in malodorous mode, I shovelled manure, and Sandra bravely emptied the stinky pond. And how worthwhile that was! for at the bottom, deep in black mud, sat a little frog - yes, alive - proving that optimistic Angus was right. We filled the pond up again with fresh water, hoping that the shock of icy barrel water wouldn't put the little creature off from telling its mates that there was now a delightful and salubrious breeding pond in place of the Mordor-Class-A cesspit we had neglected so irresponsibly during the autumn leaf-fall.

After a bit of general light duties, including leaning on shovels and sucking our teeth in a contemplative manner, Sandra and I went home, leaving the LS to finish his tasks but promising to have his lunch ready for him. The dog was too quick for me, and tracked mud all over the sitting room; the revenge of the second bath in a week might be in order now.

PS

Red Letter Day today - or rather, Red iPod Day. Yes, I've ordered one. We retirees have to move with the times....