Dull, dull, dull....

It's dull, grey and dreary here, after a night of ferocious rain. All that I have left to do before I go on holiday is dull, grey and dreary stuff like checking tyre pressures, filling up with petrol, bathing the dog, who smells appalling (how? why? she lives a small, citified, moderately sanitary life amidst soft furnishings and regularly-washed bedding, and has nothing vile to roll in) and packing. How I hate packing; it upsets the team, who strike attitudes of deepest despair at the first glimpse of a suitcase. They know that something is up, since the ironing board made one of its rare appearances yesterday, and are looking pathetic and martyred already, even though the suitcase is still wherever I last put it. (Note to self: find suitcase.)

The sudden extravagant outbursts of affection on my part might also be a giveaway, as I contemplate leaving them and their funny little ways/medication regime/ever-changing food preferences to the sainted Sandra and House Sitting Boy. Being clutched impulsively to your human's bosom as she tells you, in choked emotional tones, what a lovely dear old chap you are, yes you are, is enough to send any self-respecting geriatric cat into a state of alarm and refuse to eat anything put in front you for the rest of the day.

The next round of cats who come to live with me (I could never pretend to own a cat, as such; I know my place) will be trained to travel well and cheerfully in the car and will accompany me everywhere on holiday. Annie suggests that they might also be trained up to make all the holiday arrangements too. Now that would make for an interesting holiday brochure.

Not quite a countdown

more a catch up. There is more work and brain-racking involved in leaving a house and animals behind than in actually getting yourself to Australia, I find. It's when you realise how many foibles, idiosyncracies and plain awful neglected jobs your home possesses, and how difficult it is to write a clear step-by-step guide to using everyday things when you might need unexpected implements to do so, like pliers (the missing gas fire control knob), or a screwdriver (the yard door latch). And how you need a firm hand with the back door but a gentle hand with the fridge, a firm voice for Harry and no voice at all for deaf Kevin, and how neither of them will eat the sardine or rabbit cat food in the multipacks, but will fight for the whitefish one....Don't forget the milkman hides the milk in the lavender since it was stolen once, and oh, do remember to check underneath it for little slugs. The vet's number is here, neighbours' keys and alarm codes are hidden here, and the spare house keys are here....And if anything goes wrong, yell for Sandra, quick, and unless it involves horrid decisions about the animals, don't tell me anything till I get home. Shelagh leaves details of her dentist - I assumed in case she has to be identified by her dental records, but she denies that, and I am left puzzled.

Packing? Fine. Travel money? Ordered. Me? Chilled. (See my nose growing......)