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.

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.

Domestic bliss?

Bedtime last night was not cosy. I had just settled down to sleep when Kevin got up and gave his best impression of that scene in The Exorcist - you know the one - full, loud, dramatic projectile vomiting. Thankfully not on my bed, and his head did not turn full circle. Then he wandered off downstairs, yowling in a self-pitying way, and as I cleaned up, tried to convince me that as he was now a very empty little cat, maybe he should have an early breakfast? Cruelly, I ignored him. I know he wasn't ill, because, like other cats I have known and loved, I believe he can throw up recreationally, and has done so for all of his 18 years. The degree of drama that accompanies it is his speciality.

Back to bed. I was still barely asleep when someone rang me at 1.05 a.m. from a mobile phone. I vaulted out of bed, on full alert, cats startled (dog indifferent, of course - nothing short of being poked with a stick and having her basket deliberately tipped over would get her out of bed in the middle of the night). In my fuddled brain, calls at such an hour certainly mean a catastrophe of Biblical proportions, but the phone only rang once. Once was enough. An hour later, I was still awake; believe me, the radio is dismal at that time of night, and with both cats trying to persuade me that it really could be their breakfast time, sleep was not going to come easily.

The same unrecognised number rang me again around 10 a.m. today and if I find out who it was, I shall have serious words. You might wonder why I didn't just ring back and demand to know why I had been disturbed in the small hours, but in some vague foolish way, I lost my nerve. I am feeling so harrassed by the sudden spate of spam coming through my email, that this felt somehow like an extension of that harrassment, or a possible scam that would charge me a zillion pounds for calling. Is this ignorant/naive/paranoid of me? But if your mobile number ends in 566, you need to start grovelling now, and stop sitting on your mobile phone.....

Baking today, to order. Lemon drizzle, and chocolate cakes. These seem to be steady favourites, although I sometimes think I would welcome requests for something slightly different now and again. I have a cupboard full of interesting ingredients, a heap of recipe books, with glorious photographs, boxes of decorating implements, but what does everyone want? Lemon drizzle cake, chocolate cake, and an occasional loaf of some description. I know I will never reach the artistic standards of Keiko, whose glorious Nordljus is a joy to behold, but maybe something that doesn't look so much like a school pudding awaiting custard? Sigh....

I did fancy trying my hand at sugar spinning, despite the risk of third-degree burns, but what do you do with it once you've produced it, if you don't have some wonderful creation to adorn and a table full of impressed dinner guests ready to swoon with delight? For those of you who aren't familiar with spun sugar, I shall post some pictures. I have never tried it, so I still have hope, so far unsullied by experience.