I'm not well Achoooooo

I really shouldn't be at the Fish Factory. I don't feel well, my head is splitting, I sneeze every 10 minutes, cough and am sure I'm running a temperature. But I sit there at the Fish Counter passing on my germs to my colleagues. I've noted a couple of the very big fish are sneezing as well. The lurgies is going around, by the middle of next week they will all have it and I'll be feeling better. I hope so. There's nothing like spreading your own germs around. As long as they don't mutate into some other worse germ and come back to bite your ass all should be fine.

At the Fish Factory they have a sickness procedure, it's a bone of contention with the Ritz people. The thing is, if you're ill, it's not your own fault. You should not be made to feel you have to come into gut the fishes. So when you do come into work, you hardly work at all, take a short day if possible, and make everyone else ill. Tell me there isn't something wrong with it? Because there is something very wrong with it.

I left the Fishes early and went to the pub. I don't know what it is but after a couple of pints of Guinness I felt a lot better. Though I'm sure it's not a recommendation the Quack would give. For a couple of hours I was almost normal. Well, as normal as I can be.

Sparkling Eyes is on my mind each day. But I'm waiting for her to contact me, if she don't then I'm obviously not important enough. I'm ill I need comforting, but Sparkling Eyes would go on about how women are a lot stronger than men and have to keep going through hurricanes just to make sure the chocolate biscuit tin is full. She made the choice not to let me talk to her, it's her decision now. I'm too ill, and am almost contemplating an early night. We'll see. Someone hand me over the tissues.

Northern Rock gets government garantee - Achoo

The big thing lately has been the effect of America's Sub-prime mortgages on the rest of the world's banking systems. I don't know why it is, but it would have to come from the U.S., I'd of thought having an embarrassment like Bush was bad enough. Nope, they throw another spanner in the works. So now Alister Darling has given Northern Rock a guarantee to fund all savings held in accounts. It is without president a judgement made by Darling 2 days late. Shares in N.R. have dropped ridiculously. Here is an instance of Darling's incompetency as a new minister. If he had any real brains the decision would of been made on day one. Looks like Gordon should go back to the drawing board and choose his cabinet with a little more savvy.


Savers in N.R. have acted like a frightened hysterical bunch. They actually put their savings in more jeopardy by panicking and taking out all of their life savings in a oner. They have followed the crowd, been sheep, been afraid, look out there's a wolf. RUN. RUN like your life depended on it. So they all did. I heard of one instance where a 94 year old man had cued up for several hours outside one branch. Here's someone close to pushing up Daisy's and he spends very valuable time queuing. Has he not got friends, family, or anyone in his life he could tell how much he loves, or just sit and drink tea. Quite frankly were I 94 years old, I really wouldn't give a damn.

On a moralistic note I heard on the radio how N.R. had been so philantropic. How it had given away millions of pounds to good causes in the North. It's sad such a noble company is having to run the gauntlet of panicked investors.

I'm not feeling so bright eyed and bushy tailed at the moment, having come down with a case of diphtheria. I'm sure it will pass in a day or two. As my smallest nephew once said "my nose is leaking" achoooo. I sure hope it isn't bird flu. Fortunately there hasn't been a case of it in this part of the world. But it always starts with one, achoooooo.

Pigeons, Zimbarbwe, being missunderstood

I've now rang up a pest control company and tried to explain to the the position of my pigeon problem. I told the man on the phone, the pigeons are under they tiles. He didn't seem to understand. It was like I was talking to someone who would of been a post-operative candidate for a lobotomy. He asked if there was access to the loft, I said yes, I explained Mr Travolta Pigeon's harem was under the roof tiles, and he asked if the whole roof was being replaced. I could of put my hands around his neck strangled and carried on strangling him, though I'm sure he would of still not understood. Force would not of enlightened his I.Q. even if it would of made me feel better.

I'm getting a little attached to my pigeons now. The last time I threw an old plastic plant pot up in the air at about 6:45 a.m. it scared them. Then I saw with new eyes how a flock flew around the houses in a big circle. They were beautiful. I don't want them to be harmed. I just want them out of the roof. A little like when Sparkling Eyes went on about her giant garden slugs which she'd called Bert and Ethel. She'd got attached to them. But there's a difference. Slugs aren't quite as big as pigeons and are easier to deter. Coffee works wonders.

I caught the news when in from the Fish Factory. Zimbabwe was a main item. Once called the 'bread basket of Africa' it is now a poverty stricken country where a loaf of bread costs a week's wages. Mugabe is a dictator of the worst kind, because his dictatorship is under the guise of democracy. Where in fact there is no democracy. People are tortured if they don't vote for him. He even has his own elite younger members called the 'Green Shirts.' They remind me of the Hitler youth. Anyone who does not vote Mugabe in the next elections will be killed, if not by his army then by the Green Shirts. He is without doubt a homicidal, megalomaniac, starving his own kind. If we consider there to be no God in this world, such a crime becomes worse still. Because the poor, the suffering of this world find solace in their belief. If there is no God, then they would have their fears and the choice of doing something and dying because they acted, or dying as a victim. But this is easy for me to say, I don't live there, I don't have their suffering.

In 10, 20 or 30 years from now, I wonder if my nephews and nieces will remember me? Of any influence I may of had in their growing up. Whether I was a stable individual in their life, someone who was around while they were young, when they needed it. Someone who helped when he could. And I hope made them laugh. I can't help it if my words are misinterpreted, but it's the view of the reader and this is what I meant in my last blog. Unfortunatelyl reading a passage can be interpretted in different ways. Wherever I am, in 10, 20 or 30 years time, I hope they smile and remember moments with me in affection.

I think I'll check up on studies by Thorndike, he trained pigeons to do some pretty complex tasks. Like getting out of cages by a series of levers, or receiving pigeon food. Psychologists in those days were called behaviourists. I could train my elite squadron of pigeons (Mr Travolta Pigeon permitting) to visit Zimbabwe and crap endless tons of pigeon excrement on Mugabe. Or better give them bandannas and they could become suicide pigeons, for the good of Africa, the one mission, take out Mugabe.

Unfortunately my humour button doesn't seem to work at the moment. If I were a pigeon, now that would be a different story.

Reflections on the week

The roofer has given me a quote, it's got to be done, I realised this morning it took about one hour for the pigeons to wake up from under the tiles and make their way to the local breakfast bar. I can take a conservative guess there's probably 20 of them up there. Mr Travolta Pigeon must have some pretty pungent pheromones at work. My only worry is if the roof repair is done a couple get trapped under the tiles and then become mummified. I'll have to check out the British Museum, I wonder if they have any mummified pigeons?

It seems the list of expenses goes on. One thing after the other. Roof, porch roof, guttering, central heating, porch wall pointing. Double Glazing. I had a short MSN with Sparkling Eyes she's worried about her mortgage with Northern Rock. The brief conversation descended into a swopping of worries.

When I think about may family's effort put into wishing me a happy birthday I'm a little dissappointed. Little Monster Boy didn't even draw me a card, Long haired boy just sent me a text and he couldn't turn up at the tea Big Mama had made. And Dancing girl didn't actually give me a card or do anything either. My other sister Mrs Talkative and children sent a card. Again no personalised little drawing from Angel girl, and besides the Not So Talkatives boys signing their cards no effort from them. Big Mama slipped 20 squids in her card and gave me a box of chocolates which were too sweet for my liking. So I'm now thinking about how much I give to my own family and whether they are worth it? I could try and put them on eBay, the problem would be I'd have to pay someone to take them off my hands.

Silly Sophia has started going to the pub again and she takes little monster boy with her. He stays up till late at night and is always complaining about not getting sleep. At 6 years the poor little might is not getting the caring he should have. Sometimes I can't think it's unfortunate some people are allowed or given the chance to have children, especially when they are not emotionally mature enough to handle them. To be responsible for their own life let alone a child. I can see myself stepping into the world of Eugenics. A place where Hitler once went, except it's not an supreme race of nazis I'd like, just a race of parents who cared for their children and understood those needs. Perhaps the problem with a free world, is it is a free world. Free to make our own mistakes, and continue to make them if we want. We all do the best we can,, of course given the chances of our own up bringing and nurturing environment. Given also the chances of a silver spoon.

The answer I expect is to say "none of it is to do with me." It's not my responsibility to bring up support or help my sisters children. Further "never have any expectations" for expectations of reciprocal support or caring don't happen. I suppose if i really did have my own family, my own children, then I could indoctrinate them into my world and my wife's world. Make them as degenerate or respectful as I felt the need. Children are such vulnerable creatures unlike the pigeons in my roof. Children need some kind of stability. I hope, I provide a small bit of stability. Being around, being here, but I don't know. I have no idea if anything I do has any effect. Only in 10, 20 or 30 years time will it show.

On my wall I have an old picture Sparkling Eyes sent me. It's of a bright yellow sun smiling out. Although it probably took only ten minutes to do and cost absolutely nothing, it is one of my most precious possessions. It's personal, it shows an effort. It's like receiving and writing a letter on paper. It takes time, effort and love to do. One thing I do know, if one of those 6 little sprites I call my nephews or nieces had done such a thing I'd be in tears. Money really don't mean a thing against love, effort enthusiasm and a glowing bright sun of happiness.

Birthday morning

Well it's my birthday. The pigeons being so kind must of decided to give me the day off from listening to their dancing practice. Or perhaps Mr Travolta Pigeon is to knackered after getting his leg over so many other lady pigeons. So it seems even pigeons have to have a day of rest.

Life is so short, so precious and it's journey is a learning expericence, just as I get to understand more about it, another year comes round. Wont be too long before I'm pushing up daisys.

Went to the pub last night and had my limit of 3 Guinness's, they tasted great. Even tried to ring Sparkling Eyes twice, she said she knew I'd been drinking because I always try and ring her. Further, I was so predictable. Not sure if I like being called predictable. Reliable, punctual even a rock not predictable.

I sit in waiting for the roofing man and wonder about opening the incredibly large pile of birthday cards. All 3 will probably take a good hour or two. But the day is nice. Sun out. Yep it's got potential.

Bits and pieces

It's been a bits and pieces day. Where nothing large enough has taken up my waking thoughts to dominate my BLOG, except of course for a very recent discussion with Sparkling Eyes. Who said I'd been unfair in my birthday blog. Because she had put up with me for 10 years. Were I to have written a full blog I'd mentioned it would of taken up 100 pages she said more like 100,00 pages. And called me boring. Yes boring.

Great.

I rang a roofing contractor up, they are going to come round and have a look on Wednesday. I wonder if he's got his own Tommy gun. It's the quick old way of getting rid of pigeons. Watch this space. Had a comment on a blog which suggested the story was clever. I hope it is not thought as fictional because it's real. The hob nailed booted pigeons are still there. I checked them again this morning, after again waking up to the clatter of roof tiles.

The Team Leader Fish to our fish pool is leaving. Shame coz he is actually a nice bloke, someone who you can talk to and respect, although he talks to quite a lot of people and hardly ever sits in his fish chair doing his fishy business. He's still a nice bloke.

Birthday soon looms, such is life. Someone shoot me. No, someone shoot the pigeons then I'll sleep thru the morning, thanks.

Travolta Pigeon has a hareem

It's Sunday morning, I expect to lay in, take it easy, snooze and get up late. It's one of those relaxed days. Or rather the expectation of having a nothing-day, just to enjoy. So the picture is painted. But was this going to happen? Not on your Nelly. For Mr Travolta hot foot dancing pigeon has other ideas. Ideas which he shares with his pals.

So at 6:00 a.m this beautiful lazy Sunday, the tiles began to move. Like a cow walking down the slates in successive footstep each tile banged and made a progressively low to higher pitched bang. A percussive symphony to which I am sure many a rock drummer would have appreciation for. Except I'm not a drummer. As for rock, on a Sunday morning I have no place for it. But the dancing Cow, no I mean pigeon, no I mean pigeons plural had woken up. In their turn they woke me. I thought the slates were going to be falling off the roof. I envisaged having to call in a roofer and it costing thousands of pounds because if one is dislodged at the top it will then dislodge all the others in the sloping column.

Mr John Travolta Pigeon must of been really successful in his dancing lessons, because by 6:20 a.m. I then went out in the garden, wearing my PJs to have a look. I glanced up at the side of the house and there looking down from the edge of the roof could have been no fewer than 50 or so pigeons. This is worse than I thought. It wasn't just the banging roof tiles which were the clue as I woke. It was the flapping of wings, from my bleary eyed sonambulance I heard a flock. When I looked up from the garden I saw a flock. Picking them off with an air rifle would of left a pile of pigeon carcasses 4 foot high. Besides I don't have a air gun. No wonder the cat just lazes about doing nothing, because if he catches one there's always another 49 sitting in the wings, looking down at him, taunting poor Tigger and most likely having a shite from the roof. Any cat would have a nervous break down at the prospect, too much prey and not enough lives.

Feck what am I going to do? Mr Travolta Pigeon has a harem, he's happy, life is wonderful when your looking down from a great hight waking up unsuspecting humans. Especially when each night you can have another different Ms Pigeon to tuck up in bed. Feck I'm now desperate for ideas. Anyone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Roof Pidgeon Carpenters

This morning I woke up early, for two reasons. Firstly because I'm in a waking up early frame of mind, and have been in it for the last week, and secondly I had no choice. Pigeons in the roof and possibly an assortment of other birds were having their usual morning Disco. I'm sure the pigeon dance king aka John (Red Beak, head hopping) Travolta Pidgeon was putting on yet another display of his foot work. No doubt trying to pull in the birds so he could get a leg over. But I'd wish he'd go and do his goose stepping in someone elses roof.

The roof and the birds has been a problem vexing me for a number of years. My first method of solution is just to ignore it. Like I suppose all men. We're of the breed, if something needs to be done ignore it first because it might go away. Particularly because sorting out the roof means buying a new ladder, at some expense and then even worse having to go up the thing. Alternatively I could get a man in go up there and sort them out, but you just never know if the person you get in will actually do the job. If I do it myself I then got a set of ladders and it probably hasn't cost me a great deal more than it would do to hire the man.

I've spoken to the cat. Who nowadays resembles more of a teddy bear than a cat and he's got cataracts. I said to him to try a bit of pigeon, and it's about time he earned his weight. I'm sure Tigger didn't take in a word, probably through indifference, ignorance of the human language and his greater interest in cat biscuits. Which may be just a small bit more than my sudden binge last night of chocolate digestives. I think I downed 8 or 9 of them with a cuppa tea. But still the question of the birds remains.

So if there happens to be one person with an idea which might help and is reading this probably ignored BLOG, drop a comment and I'll read it later.

Another Year

Another year looms close to me. Another year when a day comes and I get a little older. Unfortunately, I and Sparkling Eyes wont be able to see each other. Not of my doing. This of course made me pretty sad, mad and obdurate. Sparkling Eyes retorted equally mad, possibly sad, and just as obdurate. So I'll celebrate without the one person I love more than any other in my life.

OK what will I do? Take in a movie alone, watch a play alone, eat a Chinese meal alone, feck look at the bottom of a pint glass think where I'd rather be and then order another.

Cat sitting comes to an end

Yesterday the Talkatives returned and I finished cat sitting. They looked tired and refreshed. I asked Little Angel if she could speak any Spanish and she said "adios" quite appropriate in the circumstances. I was happy when I saw them. For some reason I felt emotional. It has been some years since they had a holiday and it was just wonderful to see them all. They needed it and enjoyed it thoroughly.

As I had spent quite a lot of time doing the garden, it was also good to see dog, cats and Talkatives outside enjoying their own garden. Little Angel shot her dog with a water pistol and found it highly amusing.

I took Long Haired boy back with me, and it was obvious his demeanour had become less happy. It was with my own sadness I saw Silly Sophia's front room and wept inside for the lives of her children. For the poverty she allowed herself to dwell in, and for the poverty of her children's lives. Being poor doesn't mean you have to be without self dignity and composure, without happiness or self value. I really do cry inside.

On a much lighter front I was told of Rock Chick getting herself drunk, spending most of a day with a hangover and head in a bucket. Sparkling Eyes telling me she'd taken photo's and how Rock Chick just wasn't cut out for being one of the boozing types. I asked for a picture, but of course was not going to get one and was subsequently threatened with ex communication if I'd asked again.

This morning I go back to the Fish Factory with indifference I wonder whether that's good bad or just of no consequence. Thank heavens for Sparkling Eyes, i thought of her as I hugged myself to sleep.

Big Brother, it's a popularity contest

Last night I saw the final instalment of Big Brother 8, I think. The winner was the one who got the most votes, Brian. He was Black, exceedingly camp to the point I thought he was gay-but he wasn't and possessed an I.Q. similar to a close friend of Forrest Gump or indeed Forrest Gump. When he was asked what he'd do with the prize money Brian said he'd give it to his mum because he just didn't have an idea. She'd look after it. At times Brian was at times paranoid. But he is a nice bloke. I'm sure he got the gay vote, and because he possessed quite a large willy he probably got the vote from a lot of girls. Or other people who like men with big willies. Oddly in the compiled clips of Brian's best bits there were a number of scenes where he was running about naked. As a contest goes this is a popularity contest. I'd never want someone like Brian to do anything other than being a nice guy, but if he flew a jet and I was a passenger, I'd take up religion pretty quickly.

It is sad British society votes it's most favourite personality as someone who has no inclination of who Shakespeare was, what he did or what he means. In reality the voters are teenyboppers. Their role models are from a TV show with people who have no talent in the world, but can sit, eat, talk a lot of dribble and show the complete depth, breadth and odour of ignorance. They are immature and the contestants show varying degrees of similar immaturity. The stench of this ignorance is rife it seeps through the pores of anyone who has the unfortunate misshappence of catching an episode.

From first hand knowledge, it can be addictive. I have sat and been enthralled by it. Watched episode after episode, and then been disappointed at myself having participated. That I'd allowed myself to be drawn into the world of vacuous personalities with barely double digit I.Q.s. People who had one purpose in this stage of their life. To be rich, to be famous and to have done nothing for it. Not worked, not shown genius and barely showing enough talent to wash a dish. It's sad. Very sad. But we all grow up, eventually.

"...to thine own self be true..." It's from Hamlet, I like the Mel Gibson version.

I'm off to get an audition to BB9, I wonder if this banana costume will do the trick, I'll just sing 10 green bottles and juggle 2 lemons as well. I'm sure it will work. Damnn am I talented.

Only a few more days

Today is Thursday, great, that's Thursday night, Friday, Saturday and it is over. I can return home on Sunday morning.

Really do miss chatting to Sparkling Eyes even if she's not talking to me.

Such is the power of woman.

Get me out of here.

I am going mad.

The walls are full of my bare fingered scratches.

Help. Save me. Someone.

Clown Shoes

Sparkling Eyes said she's not talking to me. This is because I cut short a conversation on msn as i had to go somewhere quick. I rang her and her voice was defiant. "I'm not talking to you" it was emphatic. She would not be drawn into a conversation. The phone call lasted 2 minutes and was over with. Then for some reason I felt guilty. The blame had been shifted defiantly onto my shoulders. Such is the will of a woman.

When the conversation began we had both acknowledged being tired. Then by default it would be short. However, Sparkling Eyes had things to say. I wanted to sit and listen but I had to disappear. So I did listen and type for a little while, but because I was the one who closed the conversation even though it was acknowledged we were both knackered, I am the one who is in trouble. I sneeze I am in trouble. I blow my nose I'm in trouble. I look at the wall and guess what I'm yes, in trouble. I can't help it I feel guilty now. Someone shoot me. Put me out of my misery. Such is the power of a woman. Even when hundreds of miles away.

The 3 cats don't like me. Angel has now showed a liking towards Long Haired Boy. He said last night she was all over him wanting to be stroked, and dribbling. She dribbles because she has no teeth. Long Haired Boy has pulled a cat. I drink a glass of wine left over from last night and am asked if I have been drinking all afternoon. I feed Angel coz she is meowing outside the window but she don't want me to stroke her. Maybe it's the female sex. Maybe, I have some kind of disease which makes them dislike me. Maybe, I tread on toes too easily.

OK finished me delicious glass or rose wine, now have to decide if I am going down the street for another bottle. Which is a good 40 minute return walk. Oh yes, better take these clown shoes off, don't know who elses toes I'm going to tread on.

Gardening done me in

The Talkatives haven't done their garden in the last century, so I dicided to tackle it and spent maybe 3 hours, cutting grass, pulling up pieces of concrete imbedded in the turf and digging about. My back is killing me. Long haired boy didn't help out but I didn't ask him. He'd put the pizza's in the oven which is probably enough for someone who has nil cooking expeience. They tasted good, but still the garden beat me. Am whacked.

The cats are still playing their ellusive game. Angel walked up to the back door for something to eat, she seemed to be walking slowly. I think she's probably letting her fear of me take over her need to eat. So she slowly starves herself. When all I want to do is pet her and tell her the Talkatives will be home by the end of the week. She'd understand and perhaps realise I'm not an ogre. Well not yet.

I rang up Sparkling Eyes and Rock Chick picked up the phone. She was distressed and crying her words were "it's a long story." Sparkling Eyes filled me in on the details and I later offered to beat someone up if Rock Chick wanted. But I'm sure she thought i'd be more funny to watch than actually cause any physical harm. My physical prowess is deamed impotent by a teenager.
Sparkling Eyes told me the good news about her hospital tests. They will keep a check on her but no need to worry. What a relief.

The boy from next door called me Mr Bean again in conversation. He also insited his side kick call me Mr Bean. He asked if I had a girlfriend. Then later asked if I had sex. Hmmmm I think he was really trying to stereotype me into the Mr Bean personality. I acted half insulted to his question and told him "you shouldn't ask me a question like that, you don't even know me," I said it in a nice way. However he disappeared behind the fence again and I no longer saw him or his side kick Cool Hand any more.

Am whacked. Beaten by the garden? Thank heaven's for the cold taste of a well chilled beer. The top of which, I managed to take off with out any problem.

Audacious, proud, loud Terrifying Tigger

He turned up this morning. The cat I thought was scared. The scaredy cat. In the back of my mind. But he was now on a mission. He'd had enough of avoiding. He'd got his courage together, or some other cat sense and decided to sort me out. Don't make assumptions about the one who runs away. Coz you never know if he's going to turn up again. Tigger did.

For some reason I awoke early. Went downstairs had brekky and listened to the Today program. Angel was doing her, I'm-not-sure-I-like-him routine. Being obstinate, not coming in unless she could do it by a window where I couldn't see her. Buffy doesn't have this problem, she just comes in eats and enjoys a stroke. However, as if from nowhere Tigger turns up. He's at the back door. Tail standing erect, proud, tall and he's meowing to come in. My, this is a surprise. Maybe he'd had enough of the rain. Maybe now he wanted some food. He walked past me with disdain like a member of the royal family coming to tea and hating every second. He walked into the kitchen and meowed. He walked into the front room and meowed. He walked round and round meowing and ignoring the food. His fur was partly up. He looked bigger. Tigger was telling me something and it was along the lines of "how-dare-you-be-here-ass-wipe, where's my owners?"

I'd locked the door after he came in. My assumption was he would be harmless and now needed sustenance. I assumed wrong. He was as much as a cat can be, actually a little scary. I'd put the keys to the door down. Tigger went to the back door after his disappointed nose around. He meowed "let-me-out-idiot" in so many meows. Sodding ell. Where did i put the key down. I hastily looked around. Tigger made his way to the window sill and meowed "so-you-going-to-let-me-out-or-do-I-get-rough?" I wanted to reach to the window's handle but he was in the way. And looking mean. In a moment I spied the key. Opened the back door and Tigger walked proudly scarily out the back door. Shite. And I thought he was just shy.

There really is no reason for a human being to be scared of a cat. After all they are quite a bit smaller. But for a few short moments I actually wondered if he was going to attack me. And had he hissed I'm sure I might of been a little more panicked. But I held it together. Not only that his meow was a little pathetic in decibel level. Although he had the John Wayne walk he just didn't have the voice to go with it. It was a little like the early interviews with David Beckham, where you think what a squeaky poofed voice he has and how the hell can a thicko like him be so famous? But like Beckeham who's intelligence was in his feet, Tigger's was in his attitude.

Maybe I should of gone for a pint today.

Day 4, a small adventure forget the cats

Last night I locked 2 of the cats in the house. A black and white moggy called "Angel" who is very timid, needed the usual persuading. I saw her dart for an open window got there first and closed it. She lets me stroke her and tickle her chin, but she is not going to purrrrr for me. And she walks round me like she's on rice paper, scared I might get my skinning knifes out and make a lovely winter coat. The second cat who has a wonderful smokey grey coat and a white necklace don't care if I stroke her, she's Buffy. She stays out comes in when she wants and then just does her own thing. Lastly Tigger has a very inherent fear of me. She/he, will run and run and run on seeing me. Shit, I really didn't realise I was so ugly (or Fugly, for those in the know). Having enough of the cats and the prospect of yet another day of solitary confinement I decided to see Momma, which was a small adventure in itself. I tried to feed the cats then left.

Mrs Talkative has put me on her car insurance so for 2 weeks I can drive. Except it has been at least 20 years since i drove a car alone. A couple of years ago I re-took driving lessons just to get my confidence back. Although I had a driving license I was then incompetent at driving, taking the lessons over again was like starting from scratch. But I must admit I enjoyed them, the conversation I had with the instructor and getting the hang of a manual gear shift again.

I left mid morning, planing to miss the rush hour traffic, I had a pretty good idea of how to get to the train station. Then overshot a turning and nearly ended up in another town. But being quick of mind or perhaps it was the coffee, I turned the car round and backtracked. At the train station my dilemma was parking the car in the car park. Oh normally an easy task for most people. Except it seemed mostly full up, I found a space. Parked it once. Got out. Bought a ticket. Came back. Re parked the car cos it wasn't straight. Got out. Walked away, looked back to check the car and spied yellow writing on the ground. "Permit holders only" Bollocks. Went back to the car. Found another space even further away. Passed a red car which had a man sitting in it. Perhaps he was spying on me. FBI for neglect to cats no doubt. Except I saw the word "Parking" on the side. Yes, the official was spying on me. He wanted to "book him Dano" a nice fine ticket under the wiper no doubt. Nope, didn't work coz the grey cells were firing on all cylinders. Ok it took 3 attempts but I got there. Afterwards I had a sense of achievement. I was nervous to begin with, and had played with the idea of getting cabs. But I'm not made of money. Funny it was a red car. Perhaps he considered himself a sexy parking-ticket-fine-man.

I saw Momma, and chatted briefly to Sparkling Eyes online. Had a kip and then began my journey back. Being over cautious and running on all cylinders. Yes, I do on occasion. I had earlier printed off 4 pages of maps, and a set of instructions from an Internet site on how to get back from the station to my temporary house. I went over them several times trying to visual the reverse of the roads I had been along and a previous journey along the route back. Except this time I was driving. And although the lighting was dimming, I did it. Another achievement. Amazing, silly little things. My driving alone for the first time in 20 plus years. But I enjoyed it. Even the weird idiosyncrasies of an automatic car, which actually begins to move as soon as it is put in Drive, without having any pressure on the accelerator. And driving with one foot. Which must mean automatics are pretty useful for people with one leg. But I'm not going to get one leg chopped off just to drive about.

All I need to do now is make friends with Tigger. Perhaps lock she/he in the car and take it for a little drive. hmmmm no perhaps not, a fur coat sounds much better. Damn must remember to take my Wanted Reward poster down I'm sure Tigger's seen it.

Day 2, Where'd the Cats Go?

Well it seems like I must smell real bad. To cats anyway. There's only one who ventures close enough for me to stroke her. And it has taken some gentle persuasion. The other 2 have probably packed their bags and decided they can't live in a house which isn't as loud and noisy as a zoo. The Talkatives would of had their first full day away. I hope they can cope. It's raining cats and dogs here, while in Spain somewhere the sun is frying eggs in their own shells. I suppose ready made fried eggs could be quite popular. Except for the cats. The other alternative is they have found another home, taken a hike, or stowed away on some other flight hoping to catch up with the rest of the family.

If anyone reading this has an idea of how I can make myself more approachable to these fury beasts. Comments are welcome. But note I am not going to put on a Cat outfit, grow whiskers or meow late at night.

Unsociable Cats

My self imposed seclusion is much to the amusement of Sparkling Eyes. Whilst Rock Chick has tried to spook me by saying the house I'm sitting is haunted. Quite clearly it is not, and trying to send me scarey pictures to put the wind up my sails isn't going to work. As an aside, I'm wondering if I should stock the fridge up with Stella, for some reason I got a thirst for one.

The cats are warey of me. It's not because I prounce about in a large Chicken costume trying to instill a phobia of birds in them. It's for some unknown cat reason. The weather is on the turn and pissing down. So if the cat's don't like me and don't come in when it rains they are going to get wet. Though one of the cats a black and white one is quite a scaredy cat. Very nervous. I play peek the cat round the door. Trying to spy on her to see if she will come in for her food. But when she gets wind of me, not that I have much wind at the moment, she gently and tactily reverse steps away. They are going to starve and it will be on my head. Probably. I'll see how things develop over the next few days. After all it could hail stone then we'll see how many lives they have remaining.

I need to get out and buy a large sunday paper. Keep myself occupied. Infact maybe I'll do it at lunch time I can then eat in the pub, have a pint and read the paper. Hopefully i'll not be kicked out because I'm the little insane man sitting in the corner talking to himself about abandoning 3 cats.

The Talkatives take a holiday

Being related to the talkatives means every once and a while having to go beyond the call of duty. The next two weeks is my beyond-the-call-of-duty turn. One man in his 40s sits 3 cats and a house. I'd alluded to this in an email to a colleague at work, saying I was cat sitting, stating I wasn't sure whether it meant on or with the cats, in either case it was the cats problem not mine. It would be especially if I sat on any of them and it was snuffed. Then I'd have to find a Taxidermist and explain in some fashion while their furry love-able member of the family seemed so inert. Probably i'd have to make a quick getaway, just as they returned from sunny land and plonked their cases in the hallway. I'll get a taxi number and write it down. Just in case.

I been doing a lot of tidying up. The smaller Talkatives Little Angel Talkative certainly doesn't know where the bin is, Middle boy talkative I can't really comment on except each time he passes by me I have this irresistible desire to ruffle his hair. At the age of 10 I suppose I can get away with it. Unfortunately I was witness to a Terrible Tantrum from Angel Talkative who at 6 years old showed her colours, and they are very bright varied and not as fluffy and nice as the Angel I genuinely thought she was. Big Boy Talkative is not at all talkative, it must be the teenage boy hormone thing. For when he does speak the odd word his sentences can be broken up by 2 extremes of cantor, either a man who has something quite gruff going on or as a boy making a squeak. I wonder if I spoke this way when a teeny?

Though of all things I do realise about myself as a teeny I was pretty moronic. So now I see the light. Age bestows intelligence, but not always, some people just refuse downright to be intelligent at all. Even with age. So there is not always hope, especially for the stupid ones. Let there be light. Nope. Unfortunately this magic phrase doesn't work, the last bulb used years ago or just not replaced, ever.

What am I going to do with myself over the next two weeks? I'll find something. At least I worked out where the closest pub is. Unfortunately I don't have any friends in this part of the Cat-House sitting world. Fingers crossed I can get on with my own company.

Discarded Flowers

I finished at the Fish Factory and walked through Town on the way to the pub, where a pint of Guinness sat with my name on it. A beautiful thought in it's own right. A colleage briefly walked with me then had to run off to a Quack appointment. On my short walk I passed a bunch of flowers, they looked like lillies. In a discarded plastic carrier bag. The cream and shocking cerise reds were like spilt blood on a newly laid table cloth, except these were worse the wear. And had probably been dropped, left in the Sun and in the process of wilting. Curled at the edges of the petals their youth hand uselessly passed away. On the pavement for all passers to glance cursorily in their direction.

The memory lingers on.

We are here but for a short while. So what I say is, love those you love with all your heart, piss off those you don't love with every wit in your repertoire and hold judgement on the one's your not sure about. Till further proof decides which side of the fence to lean. But above all never let your Guinness go to long without some attention.

Oops. Always give all and every bit of attention to the very special ones especially when their hugs are the warmest of all.