Is that a scowl, a frown or a grimace?

Today has been a pisser of a day. One of those days that leave you wondering just how low you need to set the bar in order not to be disappointed.

To start it all off, I emerged from my bedroom this morning to hear distressed mewing from the next room. Yep. You've guessed it. She did it again. Is this some sort of cry for help? If so, then I am decidedly unimpressed. And I've noticed that the kebab shop up the road looks like it could be dodgy enough to take her off my hands. They might even give me a bag of chips for my troubles.

The rescue effort caused me to be late for work, but I quickly wished it had made me even later. Why is it that things never go catastrophically tits up months in advance of a deadline, when I have plenty of time to fix them? Instead, some higher power has deemed that the last minute is the ideal time to throw a few well-chosen spanners into the works, just to keep me on my toes. I don't need to be kept on my toes. I live in a perpetual state of fretfulness and anxiety. If I spent any more time on my toes, I'd have to buy pointe shoes.

To top it all off I tripped over a kerb on the way home, ripped my tights (and my knee) and landed with both hands in a filthy puddle. A man watched this happen and, instead of expressing concern or helping me up, stood there and laughed at me as I knelt on the pavement bleeding and wiping my mucky hands on my ruined tights.

Oh, and I dropped my last sausage in a glass of diet coke. No, I don't know how I managed it either, but if that's not the ultimate postmonition of the day from hell, I don't know what is.

I'm going to bed.

Just how long is that?

There is a range of time that is defined by being longer than a cat is capable of controlling its bladder, but not so long that it is incapable of controlling its bowels. Somewhere within that range is the precise length of time for which Molly was stuck behind a bookcase prior to my getting home.

The case is in a fairly tight alcove, so the only way she can have possibly got behind it is by falling the six feet or so from the top, to end up wedged in the scarce couple of inches between furniture and wall. Unsurprisingly, she was fairly distressed by the predicament in which she found herself, however I didn't feel it was entirely necessary to viciously attack me as I attempted to extricate her. I did not enjoy that.

For the record, I also did not enjoy unloading all the books from the case, wriggling the case out of the alcove, mopping up the puddle of piss behind the case, wriggling the case back into the alcove or getting struck on the shoulder by the heavy wooden pig which I'd forgotten was perched on top of the case.

Does anybody want a cat? Free to a good home, a bad home or a dodgy kebab shop.

Special report

The cat-induced marble jar crash of 16/01 was one of the most catastrophic events of the last fortnight, and its effects are still being felt to this day. In the aftermath of the tragedy, minute fragments of broken glass were spread throughout the surrounding environs. The likelihood is that the full extent of the damage will not be known for some time but, already, it is becoming clear that there will be tough times ahead. Just yesterday, small slivers were located within a sealed tube of moisturiser, through the high-tech detection method of inadvertently grinding them into my forehead.

Shattered

Ten minutes ago I had a jar full of marbles on my headboard and a cat on my pillow. Now I have neither. What I do have is vast quantities of broken glass, bare feet and a blantantly unapologetic cat playing with marbles under the bed.

To answer your questions

I often quite enjoy the stats page of this blog, which allows me to see the searches that have led people to me. Amongst this week's offerings were two gems:

"Librarians with anger problems"
and
"How to make bathtime fun for cats"

I'm thrilled that their requests for information will have led them to me, as I am clearly an expert on both subjects. For the record, all librarians have anger management problems because the very act of walking into a library transforms precisely 76% of the public into moronic, aggresive neanderthals with an over-inflated view of their own self-importance and a conviction that counter staff rank at approximately the level of the average Victorian scullery maid, and the best way to make bathtime fun for cats is to fill your tub with an array of shiny tropical fish. Now you know.

You're the one. You make bathtime lots of fun!

The cat has reached new levels of embarrassment in the new home. Last night it emerged that one of my landlady's many dinky rubber ducks has gone awol from the bathroom. She hasn't moved it. I haven't moved it. The only feasible explanation is that Molly has embraced kleptomania and spirited it away. To be fair, I can see why she would think that a selection of cat-mouth-sized rubber trinkets were laid out for her personal entertainment, but goodness only knows where she's hidden the blasted thing. Fortunately, the Chameleon thinks it's funny, but I would quite like to retrieve and return it. Then I apparently need to put a label on every one advising Molly that 'This is (despite appearances) not a cat toy!'. Sigh.

On the move

There's been a bit of a break in the blog writing, hasn't there? There are two reasons for this: Burning Man and moving house.Of the two, Burning Man is infinitely more interesting but, simultaneously, infinitely harder to write about. I have this problem every year. It's like trying to explain a purple dinosaur to a colour-blind herpetophobe who's never seen an episode of Barney. As is rapidly becoming traditional, I shall resort to a list of a few 'top bits', in an effort to encapsulate the joy:

• The Carport of Doom. Instead of tents, this year two of my friends and I decked out a huge carport with airbeds (with real pillows!), carpets, a canvas wardrobe and chest of drawers, bedside tables (well, storage boxes) with individual lamps (LED candles) atop! The luxury of being able to, not only stand up, but actually wander around one's abode is not to be sneezed at.
• Wandering through an imminent dust storm looking at art, then being drawn away by calls of "grilled cheese!", and finding ourselves being presented with delicious croque monsieurs and lethally strong vodka cocktails.
• The support and congratulations of my campmates on my first attempts at MCing the cabaret show. I had big shoes to fill, as the person I was standing in for has done this fabulously for years, so I was hugely relieved not to have ruined her pet project.
• Scrawling down some things I needed to let go of onto the walls of the temple, and then watching it burn. I've never attended the temple burn before, as I suspected myself of not having the emotional strength for it. Indeed, it is intense, as thousands sit there in absolute silence and watch their woes, celebrations and dedications to lost loved ones go up in smoke. I cried, of course, but the catharsis and beauty of it is extraordinary. Ooops. I seem to have turned into a hippy..........and I'm back! Sorry about that!
• Discovering my 'power animal' with the aid of a campmate in a traditional shamanic polar bear beanie, with a faux-American accent and a soup pan in lieu of a native drum.
• Standing on the prow of a ship art car in a princess outfit, leaning out into the wind in true figurehead style, then watching the man burn from the deck as my friend yelled touching song lyrics in my ear.
• Lying in a huge, cuddly pile of people on a trampoline, playing leg jenga while trying to explain the 'furry' fetish phenomenon to a campmate who was unwittingly clad in a fuzzy, full-body tiger costume.
• Being able to be there for others in their low moments, and having others be there for me in turn. Sorry, the hippy is back. I can't help it! You realise a lot about yourself and others out that thar desert.
• So many fun days and nights in camp and out and about on the playa. New friendships made and old ones cemented.

Once I came back I had just a week before I moved house. This was not ideal, as it can take longer than that to acclimatise to the real world again even without all the stress of packing and arranging. However, it needed to be done, and so it was. I'm in temporary accommodation now, as there are problems with the lease on the new flat. Fortunately for me, the Chameleon was looking for a lodger, and has kindly installed myself and Molly in her home. I am now, for the first time, living South of the river. I haven't been mugged or stabbed yet, which is excellent progress, and no doubt the practise in avoiding these things will come in handy on my eventual move to Tottenham.

 

On Thursday, with the kind help of my family, my belongings were split between storage and new lodgings in an epic undertaking which only took, oooh, about six hours longer than I expected it to. I also had to go back the following evening for the cat, who had not deigned to be captured the preceding day. This became more of a worry as Friday went on, and she still hadn't been trapped but, at the point when it was looking like I'd have to give up, leave the pub and head to the new home, I got a text instructing me to 'Go go go!', and hopped on a train to fetch her. The journey home, stinking drunk, with cat in basket, was interesting to say the least. I sat and shared a ham and cheese baguette with her, to the evident disgust of the prissy old lady opposite me, and prevented some young lads who were even drunker than me from poking their fingers at her through the bars of the carry case. Luckily the threat of being bitten was enough to scare them off, so I was not forced to resort to the threat of a clip round the ear.

 

The cat is unfortunately proving to be something of an embarrassment in the new home. This morning, as I put on my make up, I was called from my room to look at something, and emerged to find my landlady standing at the bathroom door, gazing in bemusement at the sink, which was inexplicably full of defiant feline. Despite this, I'm settling in well there, and very much enjoy getting to sit down to dinner and a chat with my friend of an evening. I'm also loving my new journey to work, which offers me glorious views of the Thames from the train, along with the sight of an old brick building, into the wall of which are placed lighter coloured bricks spelling out the phrase "Take Courage". It bolsters me nicely for the day ahead!

 

And the clumsiness continues

Last night, we were walking down my road, when I spied a cat across the road, which I thought might be Bob, the traitorous ex-kitty of mine who went to live with a neighbour. It wasn't him, as it turned out, but I was so busy squinting through the dark at this cat that I managed to walk, with a resounding clang, forehead first into a lamppost. It was so like something out of a bad film, that I couldn't help laughing, even as the tears filled my eyes, while J managed an impressive display of sympathy and concern, which only occasionally dissolved into disbelieving giggles. After careful examination this morning, it appears that I have managed to avoid adding still more bruises to the plethora which already adorn my body, but I should probably start taking a little more care when on the move, before I do myself a serious mischief.

Drat that cat!

It turns out that when I left my bedroom yesterday afternoon, I accidentally shut the cat in there. This wouldn't have been such a catastrophe (cat-astrophe!) if I'd come home last night, but unfortunately I spent the night, as is my wont, on a friend's sofa, and Molly's plight apparently wasn't discovered until this morning. I tentatively ventured into the room when I got home this evening, hoping against hope that she'd had some self-control. No such luck. She crapped smack bang in the middle of my bed. I briefly toyed with the idea of being a sensible, practical non-wasteful person, and getting on with a highly distressing laundry session, but it turns out that both my bedspread and my duvet are dry clean only. I just couldn't bear the thought of going to the dry cleaners, proffering a stinking bin bag, and requesting that they clean faeces from my bedding. Plus, would I ever have been able to sleep under that duvet again, knowing what I knew? So I threw it all in the bin. I know, I know, there are freezing children in the Arctic circle who would think themselves lucky to have a cat-turd coated duvet, and I've probably just done more than my fair share towards destroying the planet by swelling the contents of a landfill, but I'm prepared to accept that. Now I need to buy a new duvet. What the hell is a tog, anyway?

I was almost tempted!

The scene......A woman stands, in her pyjamas, on her front lawn, with dripping wet hair and no shoes on. Under one arm she holds an angry cat. In the other hand is a dead pigeon. A passing man stops and stares.......

Me: What?
Man: Is that a pigeon?
Me: Yes.
Man: Why do you have a pigeon?
Me: I thought I'd have it for dinner.
Man: Seriously?
Me: No.
Man: Would you like to come for a drink with me? You can bring your pigeon...

Shades of Molly

Last night one of the babies grabbed my hand and declared "Ardie Megs paint fingers like Molly". Naturally I was confused. Molly painted her fingernails? Impressive, given her lack of opposable thumbs. And then I realised what the baby meant. Auntie Megs has indeed inadvertently painted her fingernails the colour of the cat. That child is too smart for her own good.

Happy 2011

This time last year, I took this blog public. Well, technically it was always public, but if one writes about a tree falling in a blog post and nobody reads it, does a bear still shit in the woods? Philosophy is everywhere, so think on. Anyway, it was a year ago to the day that I alerted people to the existence of this series of meandering ramblings on the subject of my life. I didn't exactly hold a parade; merely started posting links on facebook whenever I wrote something, so that those of my friends who had nothing better to do could read about my doings, my cats and my unfailing ability to attract old people and weirdos on public transport.

Since then, I've gained a few regulars. These are the people who tell me that they check every day for new posts. They may even have me bookmarked. Oddly, this list includes my mother (Hi Mum), who sometimes sends me an email or a text if she feels it's been too long since I wrote anything. While I was there for Christmas she kept checking to see if I'd written anything while she wasn't looking, and at one point I wondered if I was going to be sent to my room with my dinner withheld until I'd produced something.

Despite the occasional nagging, I get a lot of pleasure from this blog so, whether you're a friend, a family member or a stranger, whether you read regularly or have just swung by for a visit, thank you for joining me. Here's a little preview of this year's writings:

Coming up on 'A Little Nutmeg Adds Flavour'........possibly.........

......your heroine's trusty companion, Molly, moves on from pigeons and presents her owner with a small, decapitated rhinocerous. There is much discussion on whether she got it through the cat flap without assistance, or whether she had outside help. Stephen Fry joins the debate, proposing the theory that Molly designed, built and utilised a shrink ray to adjust the size of the rhino pre and post cat flap.......

.........Fry is correct. Unfortunately Molly resents her secret being uncovered and shrinks him to a mote before destroying her ray gun. The courts blame her owner for her actions and the pair are forced to go on the run......

.......your heroine changes her name and Molly's and moves into a swanky new pad. It proves to be less swanky than initially thought, and as soon as she's left alone there, all the doors fall off......

.......attempts to fill the doorless doorways with bead curtains lead to the owner of the local pound shop becoming the richest man in London. He takes over the world and turns out to be a political, social and economic genius. Earth becomes a peaceful, productive society under the rule of a beneficent leader......

........The End.

Loathe at first sight

I've taught the babies to say "Molly gone for walk". It's a good thing too, since this will always be the answer to the question "Where Molly?". I have never seen such a look of fear suffuse the face of a living creature, as when the poor animal trots through the door and spies the terrifying toddler beasts in the room. They've done nothing to deserve it. They've never even got close enough to lay a finger on her. She's just a wuss. But I suspect all they will ever know about her is a brief glimpse of a pair of goggling eyes and the tip of her tail as she flees. The clatter of the cat flap as she makes good her escape is inevitably followed by a plaintive "Where Molly gone?". Molly's gone for a walk, munchkin........because she hates you.

There are no fish in the sea

Back during my previous bout of unemployment - not the one that's just ended, the one before that - I was watching the telly when an advert came on for a certain dating website that declares its ability to find your perfect match through a series of scientific and mathematical formulae. Given that I was single and, more to the point, had far too much time on my hands, I thought I'd check it out. I spent un unfeasibly long time checking boxes to indicate things like how much importance I place on fidelity, and my level of interest in the fauna of Papua New Guinea, and clicked the 'find my matches' button. This was the response:

"Sorry. We currently have no matches for you"

I am officially incompatible with the entire world. This probably isn't surprising given my extreme levels of intolerance for....well....pretty much everything actually, and it leads me to wonder whether it's odd that I would rather be single than date someone who commits such trivial crimes as writing in text speak or disliking cats. I genuinely would though. Apparently I'm incapable of just making do with someone who's not quite perfect. Maybe I've watched too many Disney films, but I find myself unwilling to settle for anything less than the fairytale. This, of course, means that I will end up, to quote from the play I was recently in, "dying alone in a house full of old Argos catalogues and cat food". With any luck the abundance of kitty chow will prevent me being eaten by my feline companions before the smell of my decomposing body alerts my neighbours.

Update

Apologies, oh beloved blog readers (all three of you). It's been a busy couple of weeks, starting with performance week of the play I was in. It went fairly well on the whole, despite such minor hitches as the failure of my gun to actually make a gun-like noise at the appropriate time (I'm told by the director that I should have shouted 'bang!'. Really? How naff would that be? Besides, I was too busy laughing to shout anything) and the five minute long blackout that turned the show into a radio play. Funnily enough I was laughing through most of that too, but I like to think that the audience attributed the quaver in my voice to the psychopathic rage of a gun-toting madwoman. Anyway, I'm assured I was mahvellous dahling, mwah! mwah! As if anybody at an amateur dramatics group would say anything else to your face. Your reputation is safe, so long as you never leave the pub while there are still others there to talk about you. The highlight of the performance week was the lovely kitty who came and joined us in the dressing room; coming up the back stairs and then curling up under the dressing tables. Sweeeeet! I bet the tale of a theatre cat would make a lovely children's book.

After the run of the play ended, I took a trip up to Derbyshire to visit my parents. During this trip I was taken still further North to see my grandparents, who took us out for lunch. We drove for miles, past endless lovely looking country pubs, with pretty views over the fields, in order to reach...a Toby Carvery on a busy roundabout. Yum. The rest of my time up there was spent in turning into an old lady. I helped make chutney, started learning to knit socks, and spent an afternoon pottering around the gardens at Chatsworth. It was all very lovely and restful. Less restful, I found, is driving anywhere with my mother. As soon as she folds herself into her little convertible Toyota rollerskate she gets a terrifying gleam in her eye, and any long stretch of straight road seemingly irresistibly draws her foot to the floor of the car. She becomes the veriest picture of a midlife crisis, zipping along narrow country roads, laughing at my strangled entreaties that she please keep at least one hand on the wheel.

On my return to London I was accosted by a charming man, who told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world, before walking into a bench and falling over in a drunken heap. Classy.

Don't read this if you're squeamish

I may have made a casual, off-the-cuff remark the other day about my lack of respect for my cat's hunting abilities, prompted by her obsession with bringing earthworms into the house. It's worth complaining about. They shrivel up and stick to the carpet, and scraping them off is a disturbing and undesirable tactile sensation. Still, I should really know better than to tempt the fates by objecting to such a trivial inconvenience. In what seems to me to be a gross fate-based overreaction, I came home tonight to a hall full of feathers, a sitting room full of feathers, and a dining room full of very large, very dead pigeon. Now, my cat is not large. In fact she's not much more than a kitten; her recent foray into motherhood being but a chavvy teenage mistake which could have been easily prevented with better sex education in schools. So I was, and don't tell her I said so, ever so slightly impressed by her acheivement....

Breaking news! While I was typing that she brought in what appeared, at first (and very alarming) glance, to be a large turd. Luckily it turned out to be a half-eaten sausage. What is wrong with this animal?

....Anyway, back to the pigeon. It was surrounded by kernels of corn. Or wheat. Possibly barley. I'm not an expert on arable farming. Some sort of grain. They probably spilled from the bird's stomach when she ate it (sorry squeamish people, sorry, I did warn you) but it gave the odd impression of her having laid a little trail of them to coax it into the house. Maybe she did. Maybe she's out there right now with a little bag of cheese pieces, luring unsuspecting mice to a violent death. Run away, little critters! Run for your lives!

From tiny acorns, mighty piles of crap do grow

The cat is going a bit weird and excitable over my nail polish. She keeps trying to lick it and chew it off. Is there catnip in nail varnish?

I was supposed to be going for a walk on Hampstead Heath today, but it's pouring down, so we've taken a raincheck (ha!). This leaves me, once again, without a plan for the day, which inevitably leads to me walking upstairs, looking at the huge pile of clothes in the corner of my room and then walking away again. I don't have room to fit all my clothes into my wardrobe and drawers, which really means I should do a big sort out, but I don't know where to start. Massive quantities of it doesn't actually fit me anymore, but I'm cagey about throwing it away. What if I put the weight back on? I'll have nothing to wear.
I think I may have been a squirrel in a former life. Quite aside from the clothes mountain, I have endless stacks of books, which I couldn't bear to get rid off, and numerous odd containers full of 'stuff'. Stuff with sentimental value, stuff that might come in handy some day, stuff that just doesn't have an assigned place to be, so ends up in a 'stuff' box. And of course, having so much junk, I have a squirrel-like tendency to forget where a specific thing is. Staple gun? Yes, I have one of those! Erm....
Just don't ask about the stash of acorns under the living room carpet.

Vet-tastic

When I picked up my cat from the vet last week, I spoke to the receptionist and she called through to the office.

"Hi, I have a Miss Megan M******** here to pick up her cat Molly, and a Mrs Molly R****** to pick up her dog Megan."

Classic.

Sometimes you just need the emphasis

I received this text message from my brother while I was out and about:
"Your -ing cat did a -ing s**t on the -ing bathroom -ing mat. I hate your -ing cat. The end."
Sometimes there just aren't enough profanities in the world. Needless to say, my -ing cat is not popular at the moment.

Things that make me smile No.62

Cat cafes. No seriously, look at this. In Tokyo you can actually go to a cafe, order a latte, a blueberry muffin and a kitten to cuddle. All for the bargain price of about £6. It sounds like my idea of heaven, but somehow I can't see the health and safety police being particularly supportive of a similar set up in the UK. Maybe I should just settle for a cup of Nescafe and the seven cats currently in residence in my own home.