just trying it for size

All quiet on the western front?

After all the agonising, have I let the idea of a move South lapse? Not at all. The next chapter of the Grand Plan to move to Devon or Dorset is being sketched out: in late November, a friend and I are flying down to Exeter to explore the area and test whether or not it appeals to me as a future location. No house hunting as such, just motoring around, rubber-necking and prioritising, staying in a lovely cottage in Budleigh Salterton, and hoping that the area isn't entirely filled with holiday lets and nursing homes, as the websites might lead one to believe.

November isn't the most brilliant month to be looking round any county famed for its natural beauty, but it's a good time to gain a realistic idea of what it looks like when the roses-round-the-door image is hibernating. And to assess if I am sufficiently 'retired' to fit in with the 30% of the population who are of pensionable age. That should make a nice change from feeling very, very old, intolerant and bad-tempered about the student demographic round here.

gloominess reigns, but only if you let it

Everyone seems so grumpy today, shouty and harrassed and out of sorts, complaining loudly about everything, kids, computers, workload. Even the gentle dog whose owner has had to go away for a few days, and that I went to collect for his afternoon walk, was miserable and mopey, missing his owner and reluctant to go out. And during our walk I noticed how many front paths of once-presentable Jesmond houses, now the dreaded HMOs (houses of multiple occupation: government euphemism for student lets) seemed to be more than usually knee high in litter, mostly evidence of cheap alcohol, takeaway food and discarded junk mail.

I came home feeling ready to cut my throat, and thought about how very 'catching' other people's emotions can be. And it's grey and cloudy outside, with a low headache-inducing sky. Yet I'd started out cheerful and positive, ready to enjoy a brisk walk with a non-limping dog, but seem to have collected a bucketful of misery just by talking to other people (and the dog).

In the days when I lived with an inhuman level of stress, I would sometimes make time to come home at lunchtime, even for ten minutes, to ground myself and be reminded of who I really was. So today I took my camera and had a little stroll round my house, taking pictures of things that I liked, or that make me smile. I was struck by how many grey tones resulted, partly because my home is deliberately as neutral and calming as I can make it, but there were occasional lively flashes of colour too.

I read somewhere once that Prince Charles collects Wemyss ware. How peculiar. I don't suppose his collection has anything as shabby and chipped as my little rose-patterned dish.

Or that he keeps his sulphur-crested cockatoo in it as a reminder of Australia.


And the front door is rather jolly, with the fall wreath that Shelagh sent me from Canada.

Although everyone asks if I'm not a bit early for Christmas? Harrumph; silly people.

Anyway, I feel a bit more grounded and settled now. Almost cheerful, in fact!

what we did before computers

Another day and night without internet, and without warning either - what is Mr Branson thinking? At least the utility companies usually tell you when they're going to deprive you of their services, so that you can steel yourself. This outfit just cuts you off without a word, then tells outrageous fibs on the phone about when your service will be restored.

And there was strangely-fragmented television reception too - the highly-watchable Kevin McCloud's Grand Tour just wasn't the same, with jerky stop-start images and words missing mid-sentence, when you really wanted to see and wonder admiringly at his ability to speak foreign languages fluently, ride horses, abseil, dive, climb, draw, (and, memorably, fall off a stool whilst drawing), often in an elegant suit and all with an understated wry enjoyment. I shall just have to watch the entire series again. And thanks to cable tv, I will be given many chances to do so, no doubt, as repeats ad nauseam are what my very basic package mostly has to offer.

But I did steel myself. I got the back yard cleaned up, all those pots filled with nameless brown twigs sorted out, the messy, disease-ridden New Dawn rose cut back so that it no longer scratches anyone who looks at it, even from a distance, the last (three) of the Heritage sweet peas picked from their dead-looking stems, and an astonishingly large heap of leaves disposed of.


The ferns have a while to go before I need to do anything with them, being just at the dying-but-not-dead-yet stage. I don't like to tidy them too early - ferns look so terribly, forlornly dead over the winter, and I peer anxiously at them every Spring, each year fearing the worst, till suddenly, there they are, fat buds suddenly unfurling, miraculously surviving cold, drought, and the occasional visit from a cat. I love my ferns, the only things that save the house end of the yard from being a sad, slimy green dead space where sunlight never penetrates and only evil-minded cats lurk, bent on depositing unspeakable offerings in corners.


And then I got the little pressure washer out, and cut clean bright swathes through the greeny-grubby sliminess coating the cement. A satisfying tool, a pressure washer, once (well, if) you get the hang of aiming it properly and not soaking yourself with ricocheting wet debris and alarmed woodlice.



Once the yard was all pristine, scrubbed and brushed and leaf-free, I remembered the little colony of woolly aphids on the trunk of the acer, the last of their stubborn invading army, the few resistant to the spraying with methylated spirit that had been reasonably effective earlier in the year. So I turned the pressure washer on them, and blasted that little tree clean. And inadvertently blasted all the leaves rotting under the tree out of the raised bed and all over the pristine, scrubbed, brushed, etc. yard.... I'm not the brightest, I know.



This week will be bulb-choosing time. I might shop for them online, if Mr Branson permits.

last year

Wildlife watching

What's on television tonight? Mmm, Autumnwatch. We like that.

Oooh, birds in a rustling tree! We like birds. And rustling.

There's one asleep! Go on, someone, get it!

Now they're talking about bats. We like bats too.

I need to get closer....

...and get ready....

...to pounce! Drat, missed....

But now I see a dog....

Shall I?

No Exit

Click to enlarge, ignore the scabby bits round the new catflap that are still waiting to be painted, look through the flap, and you'll see why Millie is sitting anxiously looking out, unable to proceed.

Lottie is imposing house arrest on her.

Sometimes Lottie alters the terms - Millie isn't allowed indoors. It's a harsh and arbitrary regime in the Cat Gulag, unless you're sweet, fluffy, innocent little Lottie.

Power, control, a menacing glare, and a yard broom. Perfect for keeping tabbies in their place.

Server down, cats down

I've been internetless for 48 hours. Now that it's back, I feel so relieved, despite being slightly uncomfortable about the degree of dependence that I seem to have acquired.

Sometime on Wednesday afternoon, the connection disappeared. Fearing that it was my computer's fault rather than the server (I'm one of those people who always jumps to assume that something's my fault, before finding that very often it isn't) I rang the so-nice Michael to ask how one could tell the difference. Michael has that rare knack, an ability to talk to the clueless without sounding patronising or amused. He got me to check some things, and yes, it seemed to be a Virgin Media thing, not an old computer and even older owner thing.

Much later, I found that I had no television service either. Not that being tv-less was as serious as having no internet, let me tell you. And it took a long time for Virgin Media (say that in a Liverpudlian accent) to sort out. I had to amuse myself.

So, have I now got a gleaming and tidy house, a freezer full of home cooked dishes, a hand-tame kitten, no shameful heap of ironing, and two novels read? Guess.

I did make a rare excursion into town though and bought some crochet hooks and a ball of wool to Have a Go with. Toilet-roll covers for everyone this Christmas! In bargain-basement cream double knitting!

And Scooter got some new toys, which he loves; he carries his latest mouse around in his mouth, looking purposeful and heart-meltingly cute. He is now so relaxed that he sleeps stretched out, allowing me to notice his variegated paws and tummy.

The dog is happier now that she has a daily painkiller in a little bit of Brussels pate, and several short walks (or hops) instead of a brisk march. The pate and the cooings of the street aunties are worth the three-leggedness, she thinks. And she can show that upstart kitten that a fan club doesn't need tricks with mice and feathers to stay loyal.

Fans of the bear

Well, you didn't think you'd get away for long without another glimpse of the cats in action, did you? Here they are, rather sleepy and slow, and in Lottie's case, minus her dignity. Their strange fascination with the hapless bear has more to do with a Cosmic catnip spray than its physical appeal, or its unusually large feet. These girls are serious catnip connoisseurs; Scooter just plays with anything that moves.







Video really shows up the parlous state of the carpets, the heaps of cushions waiting to have new covers made, and that I still haven't hung that old glass lampshade sitting on the floor next to the armchair. So much to do, but so many cats to play with!

Hop, hop....

It's official: the dog isn't simply being a drama queen because of a new cat. She has either torn or even snapped a ligament in her knee, hence the three-leggedness of recent days, originally thought to be another wasp sting. She did very well at the vet's, not repeating, despite much provocation, the sudden bite of two weeks ago that surprised the vet and I beyond measure. And she didn't throw up in the car either, although I did stuff her into the cat basket with towels, to - well, you know, contain any likely throwing up, or worse.

We spent a long time in the waiting room, where a black puppy the size of an average baking potato squeaked excitedly to be set down to play with an absolutely enormous German shepherd dog who was too busy crying like a baby, and pleading to be taken away from that nasty vet, to notice. The dog sat quietly and I browsed the cat magazines, stupefied by the range of fol-de-rols you could spend your life savings on to amuse cats who would be bored with them in five minutes. We came home smelling awful, as you do when you linger in such places: eau d'anxiety and powerful disinfectant. The cats sniffed us thoroughly, hoovering up and down my legs with their mouths open. That way, they know everything about the dog now.

So there's to be regular and frequent short walks, no running or jumping, and daily medication, possibly for months. I'll have to construct little steps of some sort for the favourite neighbourhood watch armchair, although the dog usually bypasses any practical aid of this sort. Invalids have to be kept amused, and neighbourhood watching is her very favourite amusement. The neighbourhood often responds with smiles and waves.

Maybe she could earn her living this way. Maybe I should make her a bandage and a little banner, and rig up a collection tin outside the window.

what to do?

Here's an invitation to express your honest and unrestrained opinion. Come on, you know you want to.

If you'd been to Ardalanish Isle of Mull Weavers and become so entranced by the enthusiasm and commitment of a certain Aeneas MacKay that you spent the rest of your holiday money on a length of undyed Hebridean wool, in a lovely, peaty, greyish-brown hue, woven in a window pane pattern, what would you consider doing with it? Ideas welcome, but not urgent. I may leave it to mature for a year or five. It measures almost 2 metres x 1 and a half metres.

What I won't be using it for is to make a skirt - my rear end is wide enough already without subjecting it to the notorious tweed skirt effect that would only serve to frighten the horses and make small boys point and jeer.

But it is rather gorgeous, I think. The tweed, that is.

Scooter helps with the bed-making

Or why I'd always make sure there were fresh pillows if you ever came to visit.

Impressed of Jesmond

Blog readers are falling into two camps today - those who can't (although they cheer me along most encouragingly), and those who can. Thank you all, especially Lizzie, who can. Please note the video 2 posts down, that now fits nicely into its allotted space..... Hurrah!

I can feel myself hovering between the two camps; maybe it's time to learn how to use my camera properly...

let me think... try double-clicking....

"I'm channelling Bill Gates.... Now, press Save As... no, go back to Tools... no, maybe it's just that you're stupid..."

Help help! uttered in feeble voice, weakened with frustration and sense of own limitations.

Anybody out there using Blogger who can explain to me the finer points of posting videos via YouTube? I've got a rough idea of the cruder points, I think, after hours of struggle, but what a messy result - overspilling its column, no way of adding text after the URL has been embedded (see? I know the words!), not pretty.

Of course, the risk is that if I become adept at it, you'll be sentenced to a video a day. You can see it all now, can't you, like some horrible life sentence: "Today we will watch Millie eating kitten food. Tomorrow we will watch Scooter chasing his tail and having hiccups at the same time (now that's a cute little thing to see, actually), then we shall watch Lottie sleeping...." Well, what's the point of YouTube or any of the other technological marvels to which we've grown accustomed in recent years if not to inflict them on each other? I promise we won't do Twitter though.

Advice and encouragement welcome, but be warned: I am a bottomless pit of ineptitude and many more questions are bubbling away, waiting to be bleated out to the unwary.

Bear with us... our first-ever YouTube!

things to do on a wet day

Mostly this, but only after a little high-energy galloping about and occasionally looking forlornly through the cat flap to see if things have improved any. Scooter isn't allowed out yet, and has only tried it once, by mistake, as I was hanging washing out. Finding himself in the back yard was a very unnerving experience. I had to send Millie into the ferns to find him and fetch him out, and he hasn't made a second attempt so far.

He does love his bear.

Instead of lolling torpidly on a chair, I've been reading other people's blogs. What an entertaining lot you are!

After Love Those Cupcakes' latest post and resulting comments about visiting cats, I remembered something from way back in the '60s, when I lived with two young cats in a rather haphazardly-converted first-floor flat of a grand old house in Edinburgh. ('Haphazard' as in kitchen sink positioned too high to wash your feet, but too low to wash your dishes. Very odd.)

I had gone away for the day, leaving the (very high-up) sitting room window slightly open. When I got home, a kindly neighbour came out and told me that he had found my kitten in the garden, and as I wasn't home, had taken the liberty of getting his huge ladders out, and climbing up to post the kitten through the narrow opening at the top of the window.

Mystified, and knowing that my youngsters had been left shut indoors and couldn't get out of the flat without my help, I went in, to find two bemused and saucer-eyed cats sitting on either side of a very worried-looking little kitten whom none of us had ever seen before. Kind neighbour was mortified.

I don't remember the story's ending, but it must have worked out ok, as I didn't end up with three cats that time. That madness - and more - came later.

But - cats, ladders, and kind, ingenious people... have a look at this: Cat-Ladders. Amazing, but like so much cat-related stuff, death to decor.

My cats use the back yard bench and shed to elevate themselves to patrol and dominance height, but I suspect that Millie would love her own ladder, just for the hell of it.

Millie, you are SO busted!

Millie can jump on the worktops. Human forgetfulness meant that the catnip bag, in which new toys are marinaded before issue, wasn't put away securely. The rest doesn't require explanation.

But there was quite a party, even after all the sweeping up. I fear that innocent little Scooter has been exposed to bad company and pernicious habits before his time.