Being philosophical about this...

Raphael: Aristotle

"In all things of Nature there is something of the marvellous." (Aristotle, Greek critic, physicist, philosopher and zoologist, 384 - 322 BC.)

This marvellous thing of Nature is 17, blind and deaf, and had the sense to wander up an icy back lane on a dark night and position himself at my back gate. He is called Aristotle too.

We had a busy day today, Aristotle and I....

He had a morning trip to the nearest vet, to be checked for the presence of a microchip. No luck. But he was identified as an elderly gent.

He was as good as gold in the car, purred like a motorbike while being examined by the nurse, had some of his matted clumps of fur cut off, and returned with evident pleasure to his crate, litter tray and elevenses, before having a long sleep in the brilliant sunshine streaming through the windows.

More vet practices were contacted, to leave my contact details, should he be reported missing. I spoke to my own beloved vet and arranged to bring the old cat in tomorrow morning for examination and a blood test. We had a frank talk about stray cats, euthanasia, the authority of a vet to proceed with same in the absence of an owner, and the willingness of Muggins here to keep him should he be pronounced Not To Be Suffering. I hoped Scooter wasn't listening in, and tried not to think about my overburdened monthly pension.

Later, I printed more leaflets and notices, and faithful neighbour Sandra and I set off on our self-appointed mission, wondering if we looked like a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses with our sensible clothes and our papers, traipsing from door to door.

I was made painfully aware of how savage some people's letterboxes are, with killer springs and impenetrable brushes; postmen must have cast-iron hands to push anything through those innocent-looking slots.

Then I spotted a woman walking up to her front door pulling a small suitcase, and I pounced. Did she have an old cat? Er...yes. A tabby? Yes, with long hair - and she began to look alarmed.

Blind? Yes! So I reassured her that it was alive and well, but she suddenly realised that in order for the cat to have got out, something bad must have happened to her house while she was away for a couple of days.....

So Sandra and I accompanied her inside, where she found that she had been burgled; the kitchen window was broken, glass was strewn everywhere, the cat's dish with timer in the lid stood open, food untouched, and the cat was nowhere to be seen.

And that was because he was safely tucked up in my house, thinking philosophical thoughts.

He's still here, while she deals with the police and the clearing up. I know he's on medication for thyroid and blood pressure, and is monitored by a vet. I shall volunteer to be her cat feeder/visitor when she goes away in future.

"In the arena of human life, the honours and rewards fall to those who show their good qualities." - Aristotle the Greek.

"Take that!" - Aristotle the Cat. Do scratches count as rewards, do you suppose?

Better

Last night, one lost, bewildered little old cat, placed in a hastily-assembled puppy crate rather too small for its needs.

But it made do. Better than a night wandering in an icy back lane, amongst the wheelie bins.

Someone else made do too. The Big Sulk was carried on all night. At 4.30 a.m., unable to sleep and rather worried, I got up and tried to coax Scooter off next door's shed. Nothing doing; all I got was the evil eye over the wall.

This morning, he had moved onto the wall itself. Progress. I tried again: Come on, Scooter! Come in, sweetie!


No, not coming in.

Breakfast! No, not coming in. Can stay out here for ever.

And I hate that creature in the crate! Yowoooooo!

But eventually, the crate creature was moved elsewhere, and Scooter's resolve disappeared. He needed to catch up on his sleep. Indoors, beside the radiator.

The old cat was moved into the big dog crate today, and seems happy enough there, unaware of the daggers being looked at it by Millie, princess of outrage. Leaflets and posters were distributed round the neighbourhood, vets were phoned. No success so far. The cat will stay with me for now; he/she (I haven't taken the liberty yet of checking under its fluffy, if matted, tail) is stiff and bony, stone deaf and completely blind. Experience of caring for elderly cats suggests kidney disease and age; I also think (hope) it has simply wandered from home, and hasn't been lost for long.

It purrs like a little motorbike when stroked, and prefers tuna to expensive cat food. Later I shall try to snip off the worst of the matted lumps in its fur, and tomorrow we shall go to a local vet to scan for the (unlikely) possibility of a microchip. But today we are being quiet; yesterday brought quite enough excitement and upheaval.

And like Scooter, it needs to sleep too.

Zzzzzzzzzzz.....

High dudgeon? Stratospheric dudgeon!

Scooter is outside in the dark on a neighbour's shed roof, in a terrible huff, and will probably choose to remain there all night. I can't blame him. I would like to be somewhere else right now too.

This has been a fairly horrendous afternoon. No photos; no time. Don't ask awkward questions about why tins of paint were in my bedroom either.

In brief:

Two calls missed as I hosed a filthy mud-encrusted labrador down in the back yard, after a long, pleasant but exhausting walk through the Dene. Tree surgeons are everywhere, their heavy vehicles churning up enough mud to keep a dog blissed out for weeks.

Took advantage of mild weather, and pressure-washed the yard. Came in with back aching, but carried on with task of clearing up in attic after all the shower room painting. Disaster struck: TWO tins of paint (gloss and emulsion) dropped on my bedroom rug, lids not well secured on either. Much scraping and scooping of paint back into tins, regardless of hair and fluff going in with it. 

Also managed to paint-splatter the muddy socks and trousers I had just taken off and the clean ones I had just put on. A little white gloss paint goes a long way....

One new basin tap came apart in my hand as I rinsed the paint-soaked sponge used to clean gloss paint off the scraper before using said scraper on the emulsion paint. Hot water running freely, as tap cross-head would not screw back on, but, thankfully, running into basin.

Sprinted downstairs. Washing machine pulled out, but arms too short to reach round it to turn water off at stopcock. Neighbour Sandra called in; she could reach, but arthritic hands couldn't turn the stopcock - plumber Richie the last one to touch it,  evidently has vice-like grip.

Pulled freezer out too, and fascia came off in my hands. Will apply duct tape, the hapless housewife's friend, tomorrow. Then had bright idea: turned off water heater setting on boiler, so only cold water could gush freely from topless tap. Felt less criminally wasteful.

Richie's phone turned off, but with much perseverance, Sandra managed to put tap back together again, although it's now a bit wobbly. Eventually Richie called back and is coming round to sort it all out.

The two missed calls later revealed via email to be estate agent wanting to book a viewing on my house - the house that is not on the market at the moment - tomorrow at 11 a.m. Surprised myself with politeness of response: refusal. I can be available on Wednesday afternoon, not before. Tomorrow I will be lying down in a darkened room.

Then something nice: Roger and Tim arrived bearing an enormous wedge of birthday sachertorte made by a friend. Didn't fall on it like a ravening wolf, despite sore temptation, but ate it daintily after a salad made from the meagre offerings at the bottom of the fridge.

Continued to wash bedroom rug and paint-covered clothes, with mixed success.

Later, took dogs out, and almost fell over a strange cat outside my back door. Ancient, thin, coat badly matted, an oldie lost and confused, and obviously completely blind. Yes, I took it in, of course I did. And was it grateful? Of course it wasn't. Isn't.

Now in a puppy crate in the back kitchen with food, water, a litter tray and a soft blanket, but loudly displeased to have been kidnapped. Posters and calls to vets will be arranged tomorrow.

Three of my cats are on wide-eyed patrol; Scooter is making A Point outside.

Perhaps tomorrow will be better. But you've no idea how grateful I am for that huge piece of sachertorte.....

Role model

Meeting in the street yesterday.

Me: "Hello, Norman! How are you?"

Norman (on his way back from town, carrying two bags of shopping): "I'm fine, pet. If it wasn't for me back, I'd have nothing to complain about."

Me (just checking; Norman is fiercely independent): "What does the doctor say about it?"

Norman: "Just wear and tear, pet. Old age."

And off he goes, cheerfully, delighted to have been asked about by one of the "young girls", as he calls us neighbours.

He's 95 next month.

Lauritz Andersen Ring - Old man walking in a rye field

Done and dusted

Mrs Thrifty, me.

I've always loved the colours on my stairs.

And after some minor agonising over how cold (despite its hugely efficient radiator) the new shower room looked, with its small North-facing window and its walls hastily covered with leftover white paint, I had an inspired little idea. I had lots of the lighter shade of the stair paint left over; that would change the feel of the shower room.

A couple of walls are now painted with the leftover pale lilac-y grey of the stairs, the beam picked out in the darker shade.

Co-ordination and penny-saving; just the ticket for a bathroom on a budget. Pictures and yet more hanging glass baubles from Amsterdam were moved from elsewhere, and the Lloyd Loom chair, its original colour a little drab, was swapped for a white one from the spare room.

It is still a pale, light little room, but not so chilly-looking.

I like it! And I'm glad that it's finished.

Small clues

What I love about living in an oldish (1902-4) house, despite how battered and altered over time, is how you can find little indications of how it was in its infancy. Nothing very dramatic, like uncovering a hidden room, or a large expanse of wonderful early wallpaper; this isn't that sort of house, but just teeny things.

This little keyhole cover - more grandly termed an escutcheon - had to come off in order to fit the new shower room rim lock and salvaged door knobs.

It's a humble object, made of thin metal, probably costing a penny a dozen in those days.

I shall clean it up and use it elsewhere.

I could see that the door was once painted green, over its original brown varnish. That's the sort of small discovery that delights me.

Getting there backwards

The new shower room is taking shape nicely.

Planning and preparation aren't my strong points, so the new room has been cobbled together in episodes, mostly in the wrong order. The plumbing was so frequently interrupted (snow, non-deliveries, damaged goods, plumber's flu) that the Lovely Son had time to put the flooring down after I switched from indecisive to impulsive about it, even if it was all a bit rushed before the end of his visit.

But the sanding and filling, the woodwork, the decorating, the general attention to detail that should have been thought about well in advance just didn't get done, and now I have an almost-finished room to work methodically through, belatedly putting things in order.

Want a look?

Keep two things in mind: this is a budget bathroom, most items bought online (at great prices), and the pictures were taken by the light of suicide bulbs low-energy lamps. And it's not finished yet. Oh, and it needs a damn good clean. Four things to keep in mind.

There has yet to be boxing-in of pipes, sanding and painting of door, fitting of new rim lock and old door knobs. Richie has a hole in the corner to fill and a little sealant to apply, and will be back on Wednesday to do that; I will do the rest, and soften the look a little with pictures and little odds and ends, as yet unchosen. The Lovely Son will replace a length of wrecked skirting board behind the cupboard the next time he comes home.

Things need to go on the walls - a large mirror, a small shelf, once its nasty sticky brown varnish has been painted over. Somewhere to keep my lifetime's supply of beautiful soaps.

All quite satisfactory, I think. I shall try to stop worrying about having sacrificed a bedroom.

But what excites me the most is..... having a working loo. Within reach of my bedroom, and no stairs to negotiate at 4 a.m. How civilised....

The Inspector, of course, has been keeping a close eye on progress; she will be back later in the week to sign it all off. And maybe have a snooze on the towels.

Elephant's graveyard

Last week:

This week:

But all interesting to Florence.

Ahem: you may have noticed that the quality of the pictures taken with my phone has improved lately. That's because of a clever move by the Lovely Son: peeling the clear protective patch off the lens.....

That's why

How I discovered that I really, really needed a French handbag in soft black leather....

I didn't know this when I set out for a well-known DIY store this afternoon. I still have a stack of bags no longer needed for work, but somehow they don't really suit my current  - well, lifestyle isn't quite the right word here, implying as it does both a life and a style to go with it - method of carting essential belongings about with me when my pockets are full.

I've been making do with a small bag, grossly overstuffed with phone, specs, purse, card wallet, pens, tissues, receipts, gloves, and, naturally, the occasional dog-poo bag (unused). There would have been a zillion other things, ancient and tattered, in there too,  but there just wasn't the room. Sometimes I think about unearthing my stash of bags to find one that isn't quite so undersized and overfilled, but so far I haven't quite got round to it. That slack approach has just led to some major expenditure.

Today I went out to buy a nail punch and a small tin of white gloss paint, virtuous thoughts of working in the new shower room foremost in my mind, and a bank balance seriously in need of a rest. I resisted buying plants, a new driver/drill, a bunch of paint tester pots, and forgot that I really needed a yard broom, one with a handle.

Standing patiently in the queue with my two purchases, fumbling ineptly in the tightly-packed handbag for the card wallet, in order to locate the in-store discount card that I can use now that I'm over 60 and if it happens to be a Wednesday, I dropped one thing after another: a glove, the wallet, a tissue, the glove again, and when someone behind me pointed out that I had also dropped an old receipt, I stooped to retrieve it and dropped the tin of paint.

Fast-forward, slightly pink, flustered, apologetic and hot, to the point where the spilled paint had been mopped up (uncomplainingly too), a new tin brought to the till, goods paid for - without the card or discount - and I had got into the car thoroughly harassed with myself. And there, a few hundred yards away was TK Maxx, the bargain-hunter's dream palace.....

So, all thoughts of post-Christmas frugality easily defeated, I bought myself a sensible-sized bag; a black leather grandma's shopper of a bag, a holder of all my essentials and more besides, with handles just the right length.

What else fitted into it very nicely (after I had paid for them, of course: what do you take me for?) were two smart towels and a grey boiled wool jacket. What had to be carried separately was the pretty duvet cover and pillowcase set; after all, I don't want my sensible new bag to look battered before I've even got it home, do I?

Next time I go DIY shopping on a Wednesday, I shall have my discount card safely tucked in the section of the new bag designed expressly for that purpose. It's bound to work out cheaper that way.

Transmogrification

The snow fell, and so did an old tree, overcome by time, weight, and shallow roots.

And we could see that it was turning into something else....