Sick cat

True desperation a sick creature that evokes sympathy and repulsion. Poor Lancelot, I'm trying my best to protect him but it's really difficult. How to ensure a cat and a house are flea free? I imagine them biting me during the night. Lancelot has been banished from the bedroom in case his abscess bursts. He is a sorry sight with a shaved patch, a lump on his back and red sore patches on his neck from the flea bites.

Only a week ago he was a King amongst cats. He's trying his best nonetheless. On Sunday there was a dead bird under the bed.

Today he is Trouble! So much for being sick. When I returned from work the house was littered with feathers. It looked like the aftermath of a massacre, which it was. Not only down feathers. I shut down when I see this. I started to hoover looking for the carcass as I did. I never found it and had the horrors about stumbling upon it, days later, in a secret, surprising place.

I found it eventually. The poor bird was outside, wounded, with two cats stalking it. Lancelot had enlisted help. Hope seemed small and desperate as I called the round of RSPCA clinics and animal hospitals. No help available...
I tried to cover the bird with a box but it hopped and fluttered away.

Nothing. I came in, shut the door and went to the far end of the house leaving it to its fate.

The moral of the story is to be prepared when you fall in love with wilful, handsome, attractive creatures.

Great Aunt Ethel

Ethel smiled her way through her days. The youngest girl of eighteen children she was blessed with internal sunshine. She was wise and generous too. Not wise in a clever, well educated way but wise in the way of making good choices.
We were afraid to admire anything. It would be wrapped and in our bags as we left, with a firm hand refusing to let us return it. Now that she is gone I am extremely grateful for the china figurines of shepherdesses or ornamental plates. They remind me of her so much that I am no longer able to tell whether I like them or not. My taste is no longer of any importance. The sense of Ethel wins as she nestles in my heart.
A maiden aunt, she house kept for her brother. He remained a batchelor and they spent their days in the family house, a large Victorian building full of unused rooms. Their siblings left home and set sail to make homes elsewhere, returning with decreasing frequency. Except for her nephews. Five nephews who, like her brother cherished her. At her sister, Olives' wedding, her brother stood up to give a speech. To the consternation of the bride and groom he sallied forth on the merits of Ethel, and how the men were missing out by not picking her.

The love moon

Love  moon

Gingerly she steps out,

Lightly tripping trepidation,

she reaches to the love moon.

Its face speaks of the everlasting

tomorrow, as it turns slowly,

at one time a bland face

another a slip of cream

lightening the blue-black sky.

A moment

I tried to grasp a moment. After being litter trained twice the cat reversed its habits this morning. The poor red velvet sofa is hastening to a speedy end! No one wants to sit on it. Out have come the puppy pads but for who now? Us or the cat?
By the end of the day I lie on a mat to meditate. The guiding voice tells me to 'find somewhere quiet where you won't be disturbed.' Small children asleep, big children quietly on computers, a big tick to that.
The room is warm and comfortable. I shut my eyes. The sound of waves soothes me. Warm breath on my face. A large yellow body lying down beside me. The dog has joined in. Not to be out done the cat arrives to dart up and down my legs playfully. Alone I don't think so. Always competition for my attention. I rub my headached temples and rise to sort them. I'll learn meditation another day.

The boulders of protection

I dreamt that the family was under attack. I gave the girls swords and knives then the rivals explained that it was a mock battle and we were only to use boulders. I wept as we we had no boulders. Relief flooded in when I realised that I could collect all the boulders that were thrown at me.

The next morning we headed to Holy Island. On the beach we piled a cairn of boulders for protection. In the shop the girls would only leave when armed with daggers, cross bows, and swords (all wooden, but still). Dream warriors on arrival and fighting warriors departing.

The beginning

Beginnings are always exciting. It's endings which are tricky, but they always come together. My eldest daughter has set me up with a blog. A blog diary to act as therapy and record all the quirkiness of our daily lives.

On my first blog day I came home to a buzzing, a loud, incessant hum. In the corners of all the windows wasps gathered. Any that fell where chased by the cat who knocked over the lamps and smashed the CD's in her eagerness to make them prey. Why? November seemed an unlikely month to be swamped by wasps indoors. In the end the vacuum did a proud job and sooked them up into a dusty bag. Fingers crossed they can't navigate their way out back down the nozzle!

Jim

Today I went to the funeral of Jim.  It was a graveside funeral except that it was impossible to see the grave.  There were about 400 people there.  As I was driving to the cemetery there were droves of mourners walking and the three roads were lined on both sides with cars.  Jim had that lovely easy charm of seeming to make no real effort to make friends yet was simply interested in everyone with a delightful teasing banter.  That was it - simple, silent, massive.