Cat People
I was up at five this morning. Not by choice. Never by choice.
I was woken by an almighty loud crash and a screaming wailing noise that sounded like the gates of Hell had ripped open in my kitchen. Meeester sprang into action like a cougar, coughed slightly, turned over and said, “You see to it”.
Effectively our splendid lady cats, Lulu and Libby, were being brutally battered by their birth brother Ziggy The Ginger Bastard. He had brazenly come in their (not his- he doesn’t live with us) cat flap and set about terrorizing them both. Sonny The Black Menace, our spaniel and potential protector of the lady cats was blissfully sleeping upstairs in his Spiderman jammies lying on the bottom tier of the bunk beds with his sooky blanket tucked under his chin and lace rimmed sleep mask covering his peepers. He was not due to rise until eight, and then only if someone brought him a nice cup of sweet tea and a freshly toasted crumpet.
The job fell to me.
I went down to the kitchen just in time to see a ginger flash disappearing out the flap and a swish of black “Hooded Claw” type velvet cloakage.
I looked at my two fluffy ladies cowering demurely in the corner. Where did the love go?
It occurred to me that Ziggy is in many ways like Jim Corr, guitar player and brother from horrible Irish pseudo folk rock/beauty pageant, The Corrs.
Here are the Corrs. They are siblings, we’re told.
Poor Jim Corr:
Nine months later, there you have it, a son for Papa Corr. But he is a cuckoo in the nest. They all know it, but no one dares speak it. Oh,…oh dear. Poor little Jim. Stick him in with the girls, something might just rub off on him. Quick someone give him some sunglasses for Jaysus sake!
So here is evidence of some bizarre genetic goings on in my own little gang.
Here are my ladies.
Talullah “Lulu” Martini
Elizabeth “Libby” Martini
A couple of prizewinners, aren’t they?
And here is their violent brother, in the only photo I have of him. It’s the one I saw of the little litter on the Cat Protection website before me and my buddy adopted them wholesale. OK, he’s quite cute there and I do have a very soft spot for him still but…. Ziggy is now fifty times that size and full of rippling muscles and covered in tattoos. He has ASBOS and a gym membership! He is also supposed to be resident at my pal’s house over the road but he seems to prefer our house, with its ready supply of beautiful maidens for him to cuff gangsta rapper style.
Yo, where’s ma bitches?
Ziggy also reminds me of this character from Coronation Street. This is Gary Windass, the Young Pretender to the Bad Boy throne of dear departed Les Battersby. He is currently about to get “sent down” for GBH after he put the weasly David Platt in hospital with a single freckled knuckle punch.
See? Same hair, and, same attitude.
The thing is, two weeks ago our well-loved old boy cat, Harleyboy, who was seventeen, died. And my ladies were left without a dad/man about the house. Although in the last few months, our Harley was unable to see, didn’t know what the blazes was going on, and was frightened to go outside never mind see off a feisty ginger intruder, his musky presence was enough to warn off other toms.
When I told my daughter that Harley had gone she wailed and cried. And then she tearfully broke off to ask, in all seriousness, “But who will look after Lulu and Libby?!”
We thought that was tremendously cute. But cuteness aside, it appears she is right. Who will look after Lulu and Libby?
And how can I go about persuading my family that we need a new Tom Cat about the House of the Flying Martinis, given that even my youngest child declared about six months ago, “Mummy, we’ve too many animals.”
We need our own tom round here. Preferably one of those lovely Bengal cats, that just happen to grow to the size of a panther and look like they could be rather handy at five in the morning.
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Chunder World
For the last few days I have been recovering from the mighty Noro-virus.
This is how the virus works.
1. The virus works best given the temporal proximity of a much-longed-for event, say a holiday, a public performance, a festive event, a party or a family get together.
Mine was a family Christmas, my friend’s was a much practiced for Christmas gig, my other friend’s was a Halloween Party.
Possibly if you are getting married, you should beware. Maybe get a wipe clean dress.
And a bucket; not a bouquet.
(No, I haven’t written the post round that crap pun! How little you think of me.)
2. The virus’s opening gambit is extreme nausea. This will wake you up in the middle of the night but take hours to turn into any kind of relief inducing vomit. During this time you may have visions of the Underworld.
No literally, I was hallucinating that I was in the factory in Coronation Street arguing with Underworld vixen boss, Carla. (Oh, that cow!).
I wasn’t lucid enough to tell, but I may have been Janice Battersby. The Horror! The Horror!
Illness dreams are messed up. It’s like being on bad acid.
W.T.F?
3. Some whining will happen. But beware not to wake your partner, as all they can do is misguidedly rub your back which may make you more nauseous. This may lead to you saying something that might come off like you are less than grateful for their attentions.
And trust me, you’re going to need them not to hate you in the following days.
4. The vomit will hit, ripping most of the muscles in your torso as it surges its way into your sewerage system.
Don’t worry about having time to make it to the toilet, though. You will have been sleeping slumped over it for two hours previously waiting for the event whimpering, “Mu-um….Mu-um…”, even though your Mummy hasn’t lived in the same house as you for some time.
Your New Best Friend
5. The virus will then lull you into a false sense of security by making them think that vomit is the whole of the enterprise. However, it will go on to hit you with a headache that makes you want to claw your own brains out. I actually saw the pulsing graphic circles that they have in headache adverts come from my own head.
6. When you finally manage to sleep, the virus will wake you with cold sweat soaking your jammies and sheets and sleeping partner. It’ll feel like that scene in Flashdance but not as sexy.
Replace Jennifer Beals with naked Uncle Fester and we’re onto something
7. Once the vomiting and headache subside, you will be unable to even see a photo of food in your line of vision. Even if someone takes out a camera and says “Cheese”, you will feel dizzy. Mind you, this is unlikely as no-one will want to photograph you as you will look like Skeletor from “He-Man”.
Me, on Christmas day. I was going to be wearing that outfit anyway.
However, now that I am better I am willing to share one of a possible three funny* stories during which vomit has played a part.
None of these will show me in a good light, so you can choose from the following options with confidence:
1. The Spotted Umbrella Vomit
2. The Long-Lost Goth Friend Vomit
3. The High Velocity German Vomiting Boyfriend
4. Misssy, we’d rather not hear any more vomit stories. I mean this is the second one you’ve done. Tell us more about the kids and Meeester and stop the madness. We didn’t sign up for this.
Just let me know which option you’d like and I’ll work myself up to it.
* I say “funny”, but how gauche of me, really.
