Loved up and muddy.

At 3am this morning I was reflecting on why the wind-down routine I normally go through every night in order to ensure a few hours decent sleep didn't seem to be working. I think maybe being the sole target of a wet, muddy cat probably had something to do with it. I'd been out last night visiting a relative, WH being currently on his annual skiing trip so I have time to do these things. When I got back around 10.20 it was hammering down in no small way. The grey babies of course were bored stiff and hungry. We're currently undergoing a period when they don't like any cat food at all, not even the regular tried and tested varieties which they will normally scoff without too much bother. Nelson in particular is unusually picky even for him and until and unless the cat food people develop new flavours such as 'Robin' or 'Greenfinch' I have been feeding half rations only so that they are more inclined to eat anything. Having fed them, they turned their noses up at the food and cleared off outside for a run round as the rain had stopped a little and the wind got up. Wind is always an enticing prospect, leaves to chase, the feel of the breeze in the fur and the prospect of other local cats being outside to terrorise too. They might even find some food if they looked hard enough.

Misty returned later to take root on my bed next to my left shoulder. I was reading at the time and finally starting to get drowsy enough to attempt some sleep. Right now I am mid-course a high dose of steroids as a 'test' to see what effect they have on the Psoriatic Arthritis. So far so good, loads of symptoms are going but with the usual unnerving side effects that I always get of sleeping very little, being extremely hot and being permanently hungry. I took off my glasses and shut the book when it hit me, a wet paw at 30 miles an hour across my cheek. Not a savage dig, his claws were sheathed, but like a lightening sort little tap, delicate but with the added frisson of being wet and muddy. It was like a slap on the cheek with a tiny, wet football.
I looked down and he was in full drool, 'I love you Mummy' eyes and making barely audible little mewling sounds to reinforce the message. Misty was in full-on, loved up mode. Unfortunately I knew what was to follow. I stroked his head and turned away to put the book down, the tapping started again. I then stroked him several times more but was telling him I HAD to go to sleep now, it was late enough but of course he wasn't interested. All he wanted was for me to play with him and he started biting the duvet then hoping I would tickle him through it and we could have a real old scrap. He loves all this, the rougher the better but not at 3am. No way. he started jumping over me from side to side and grabbing my hands.
I tried little strokes to calm him down and he got worse. I ignored him and the tapping started up again. Finally he tried his last beguiling move. He walked up along my body and came to sit under my chin on my left hand side. He used to do this as a sick kitten, 6 years ago. He fitted the space then, now he's far too big and ends up slumped across my face rendering me almost unable to breathe. He manoeuvred his head right under my chin and rubbed against my neck, over and over again. He was in 7th heaven and then started to chew his feet, his favourite thing in the whole world. You can always tell when Misty is contented, he rolls on his side, usually up against a person and chews his feet, spreading the toes wide so he can nibble the long, velvety fur between his pads.

I gave up at this point and resumed the book. Half an hour later there was a loud bang outside as something blew down the road in the wind. Curiosity finally got the better of him and he dashed off to go outside through the cat flap and investigate. By that time I was wet, had muddy streaks painted down my face necessitating another wash, and I then put a towel on the bed in case Misty returned and by this time was wide, flipping, awake. I finally drifted off about 4 I think though it could (she says charitably) have been a little earlier.

At 6am the man in the house opposite mine was loading his car with god knows what but it was loud, and shouting to wife at the same time and so I woke with a start. I must have had all of 2 hours sleep. I was then extremely hot and hearing me turn in bed, Nelson appeared. There was noise outside, I was moving, albeit only slightly, so it MUST be breakfast time. He started crying as only Nelson knows how. I got up in despair.

Now I'm exhausted, my eyes want to shut and go to sleep but the oil delivery is on it's way, I have to go shopping and I have several phone calls to make. The greys naturally are fast asleep on their own beds in the kitchen in the sun. I'm going to get a big piece of fish from the supermarket and cook it about 9pm tonight to feed them at 10. Hopefully with a massive meal of their second favourite food inside them they might sleep a few hours downstairs before they start the night shift again.

And please don't anyone tell me to shut the downstairs door so they can't get upstairs and into the bedroom. Last time I did that I couldn't sleep for the noise of 2 cats head butting a door for 2 hours in tandem and when I got up to open it having given in, I found they had wrecked the carpet behind it too.

A chink of light

Two years ago this week my Mother died, the end of 15 hard years of worry and aggravation when I knew that she would rather have had my sister as her main carer than have to make do with me, whom she always regarded as second best. As sister lives on another continent it wasn't to be. After the death came the relief and the calm of a certain knowledge that I was no longer on permanent call-out, albeit 140 miles away, and the luxury of being able to spend whole weeks at home without having to check my messages every 20 minutes and worrying that if I went out anywhere I would have to leave again in a hurry.

The effects, over the final seven to eight years of having to drive to her home in the middle of the night at short notice, go rushing up on a Monday morning because she needed a loaf of bread and she refused to ask anyone else, living in a 'guest room' for 4 weeks whilst hospital visiting a patient who complained the whole time and having almost daily phone calls from carers who were denied entrance, carers who had been shouted at, carers who had been accused of stealing and a doctor who thought I was a waste of space (after all I was ill with Lyme Disease too) can scarcely be over estimated. They took a toll on me that I had hardly noticed until the weight lifted. I took time to recover. I also spent the best part of the following 12 months sorting out her affairs, will, probate etc as I was the only person able to do it. I remember attending a probate interview at court being hardly able to walk. My step-daughter had dropped me off outside as there was no public parking but I then had to wait for her return outside the opposite side of the road in freezing temperatures, barely able to stand. Daughter was stuck in the midday traffic and the whole interview had taken less than 10 minutes and not the 30 I had envisioned.

I didn't expect much relief that first twelve months but I did get a little more than I bargained for. We decided to buy this house and that decision more than anything else has coloured the last twelve months along with WH being diagnosed with depression, the awful result of his appearance as a prosecution witness at a murder trail, a particularly nasty and vindictive customer and his general sadness at the effects of aging.

Today the house project is on its way to being finished. We had planned to have it finished 9 months ago but the downturn in the building trade coupled with the fact that every single outside contractor we have employed has let us down at some stage or other, lead us to decide that outside 'paying' work would come first, WH being in the enviable position, even now, of having so much work offered to him that he can pick and choose at whim. He may as well earn whilst there is still work there to earn from. Other local tradesmen without exception are not so lucky.

This weekend I unpacked the last of the 60-odd boxes which had been stored for up to 2 years in the garage at the other house, a truly momentous occasion. Now all we have remaining in there is stuff that should be in a garage and which can be brought here when this one reverts to it's proper use and stops being the builder's workshop and tool store. We now have just the two bathrooms, a cloakroom and the gardens still to do. The gardens are my job anyway and will occupy me over the summer whilst we are still here.

If we had been able to take our original course (which was get the keys in April 07, build in May to Oct 07 and move-in in Nov 07) we would have had tenants in by now. Instead we didn't get the keys until July 07, started building in November 07, due to planning delays, then lost most of the winter to rain and floods and a bricklayer who only worked 2 days a week at most so we didn't move in until July 08, the time we had planned to be moving out to somewhere warmer than here. Which brings me neatly round to my little chink of light at the end of the tunnel. Greek light, that is.

Last week I booked to go to our beloved Kalamos for the fourth time, this time for almost 3 weeks in May. It will give us a chance to look around again and make some decisions regarding our eventual move. By then the garden here should be well under way and the majority of the inside work completed. WH is seeing a new consultant soon so his depression should be getting some proper treatment too. My project managing duties are now almost over and I have time to spend on other pursuits; at present I am literally getting my office in order, unpacking and sorting the mountain of paperwork brought in haste from the old house. I now have time to read for pleasure again, I had almost stopped for those 2 years as I concentrated on planning applications, orders, insurances and probate. I get time to go off with friends window shopping, garden visiting or even better plant buying. Recently I've been trawing the web for apartments to rent and places to go and visit.

I can finally see that little chink of light and it's getting brighter by the second.

Fuzzy-headed with boots on.

Well this week so far I've been scanned twice, had some blood taken, seen the bones in my hands on-screen looking like join the dots and been radio active. Yes, it's all happening here folks.

Dr Thorough ordered all this lot and the scans originally were a day apart but with some help from the receptionist at our Medical Imaging Dept I managed to get the second one done whilst I was waiting for the isotopes to start working for the first one.

Interesting experience being rendered radio active. One of the many warnings were to ensure no-one else came into contact with my urine for 24 hours. I was amazed they thought they needed to tell people that. Maybe they thought I was some sort of fetishist but well really, how odd, seeing as I am fully capable in that department. I was also to avoid kissing babies, so wouldn't do for politicians then. I had no warnings, however, about the weird, fuzzy head which seemed to come on almost immediately the liquid went in my arm. To kill time whilst it activated, a period of 3 hours, I went to Tescos and did the weekly shop, I forgot half and had to go back last night. Not cheap though, I managed to spend £95 the first time and the stuff I forgot was £32. Frightening for 2 people and 2 cats for one week. But I digress, I was walking round Tescos as though in a trance (hence the purchase of a set of baking tins and some roasting tins too) and I was trying so hard to concentrate that even the till woman seemed to think that I was a druggie or something. Didn't go well either when I chucked a pot of nacho dip straight over the conveyor and onto the floor, cue colleague announcement, "Cleaner to till 4 immediately, customer spillage." No one came.

I returned early to the hospital for a regular bone scan, hips and lower spine. The scans only took 4 minutes. Getting into position for the lower spine was another matter. Lie flat on back, bum pushed towards bed. Place feet 2-3 feet apart. Then turn toes in towards each other, making legs as flat as they will go. At this point some sort of plastic wedge was shoved between my knees to keep my legs still. Finally a thick plastic strap was velcroed over which pushed my toes each side down into the bed. If I couldn't get my legs flat apparently they could then weight them with sandbags. Luckily I was deemed flat enough. Then "Relax, and keep as still as you can for 4 minutes."

10 minutes later I still couldn't get off the bed and my sacro-iliacs were screaming. "Now that wasn't too bad was it? " I muttered something unintelligible and fled to Nuclear Medicine who were by then almost ready for me.

Having been asked at the MRI last week to remove all my clothes and to wear surgical scrubs in order to 'preserve the cleaniless of the examination rooms and equipment', I was expecting to get changed or remove outer clothes at least. The Bone scan required no shoes and the removal of anything containing much metal, underwear OK, biker's leather belts, NOT. The Nuclear scan however required nothing in particular, only removal of my glasses lest the moving bits of the machine damaged them. I was nevertheless still totally unprepared when I had the foot image done to be asked to put my feet, which were STILL INSIDE my walking boots, flat to the table and bend my knees so the soles were flat on the bed. No problem. "This machine can see through boots." Yeah but what about the metal bits? And the dirt?

Lastly, I had a separate scan of my hands and for this I could seen the screen clearly as the image was produced; I was by now sitting with my hands on an imaging table. I asked what the strange scan was in the left-hand of the two screens.

"Oh we're not interested in that, it's just part of your head and arms and your head's all fuzzy." You bet it was by then.

Little things....

Did you see my fish? Unashamedly pinched the idea from velo-gubbed-legs.

I love 'em, reminds me of blue skies, hot sun and clear blue seas. It's only taken me a week to realise though, they're even cooler than I thought.

Did you see what happens if you click on them and feed them? Smart.

Doesn't take much does it??

You saw it first

here.

I'm a published writer! Ages ago, the lovely Bill from Corfu - Life up the Hill asked me if she could print something I'd written here for Nisea, a magazine she writes for in Corfu.

Finally, finally I got to see the result when the actual mag turned up in the post just before Christmas. My first time in print, I was really pleased. Not sure why they thought it was a poem, it was really a bit tongue in cheek, like a list the kids do when they go back to school after the summer but still they liked it, that's the main thing.

Now I've seen this though, I want to do some more. After all Mary Wesley didn't start writing until her 60's and her first novel wasn't published until she was 71, so I've got plenty of time left yet!

Ruling the Roost

We've got some new residents here. Over the last few weeks of this frosty weather I've been feeding the birds in earnest, being able to find the feeders helped certainly but I did make extra effort to scramble over the mud seeing as the birds all looked so hungry. A pair of blackbirds seem to have taken up permanent residence along with a juvenile male, Fatso, who is huge and a thug to boot. A pair of pied wagtails, Bobby and Betty, are about most of time, also a robin and a wren along with the usual assortment of starlings, sparrows, various tits and my favourites, a small flock (about 8)of long tailed tits.

It's the juvenile blackbird who's in charge though. He stalks the wagtails mercilessly and on occasion won't even let them land. He's always on patrol and flies at anything in his way even pecking at them if he's in that frame of mind. A fight over scrap sausage rolls a couple of days ago made interesting watching. The wagtails sit on the neighbour's roof until Fatso is occupied in another direction and then fly down and pounce quickly before he has a chance to turn round and lunge at them. Misty and Nelson watch from the kitchen window but even they don't go near which I suppose is good news for all the other birds too. Bobby and Betty are plucky too and venture right up to the patio window which make for some good observations. (Graham Catley has good picture of a wagtail on his site this week, go and have a look.)

No sign yet of any of my beloved siskins. Last winter we had 23 in the trees at the rear of the old garden but they were exceptional and normally I don't see any until well into New Year so there is hope yet. Meanwhile Fatso's in charge, with a vengeance!