The Wonderful Stove

As you will see, here are some pictures of The Fire taken at a rather peculiar angle - so you'll have to use your imagination. The bottom one is Mike burying the remains of Himself in the wall. New year? New man......

The mantel shelf on top was made by Himself and painted accordingly. He chose the pictures to hang up (us aboard the boat he was living on when we met) and put the teapots and clock on the shelf.

After all that, my mother isn’t coming to spend the night but at least it got the jobs done…

Last week I read of Oscar, a dog who was so devoted to his mate Arthur the cat, that he dug up his grave and brought the body back to the house.

When Oscar’s owners woke up the following morning, they discovered the dog curled up in his bed with the late Arthur beside him. The owners said that the dog and cat were close and constant companions and Oscar, an 18 month old Lancashire Heeler, had watched them dig a grave in the garden and lower Arthur into it. They believe that Oscar climbed out of the cat flap in the night, dug up the body and pulled him back into the house. As Arthur’s coat was gleaming white the next morning, Oscar must have licked him clean.

I’m glad to say that Arthur is now reburied in a secure grave and Oscar has a new companion. A kitten called Limpet.

More animals

Another one of Bussie in his box which has nothing to do with this post, but I like it.

On Christmas Eve we met another dogwalking friend who lives down the road. Betty has an Old English Sheepdog called Annie and we were talking about Travelscope going bust (see earlier post). Betty is going on a cruise in February, though not with them, and hoped that would be risk free.

‘What about Annie?’ I said.

‘My son’s going to move into my flat,’ said Betty. ‘But he starts work at 6am so I need to find someone to walk Annie in the mornings.’

Before I could think, I’d opened my mouth and said – yes, you’ve guessed it – ‘We’ll do it.’ I then looked at Himself who said, ‘We come up to the castle every day, so it’s no problem to take Annie.’

Betty looked and sounded overwhelmed, dear of her, and the next day she asked if we’d come for a drink on Christmas Day and bring my mother too.

So at noon we set off down the road and had a very congenial hour with Betty drinking wine and eating home made sausage rolls (don’t get those in this house I can tell you).

Betty is over 80 and has tremendous spirit and energy. Annie, by contrast, is a real softie who can be naughty but was incredibly well behaved when we were there. She gets Betty up at 6.30 every morning and at 8am Betty and Annie leave the flat to meet friends every morning and walk round the castle for an hour.

She always greets us with a smile and a laugh, regardless of rain or shine, gales or snow.

I’m using Betty as my role model.

A Feline Blog

This year Bussie decided to take over the box that the Christmas tree was stored in. As you can see, Mollie is wondering what the hell is going on…

Last year it was a lost girl on the Lizard who we rescued. She was lost, pissed and had broken up with her husband. Or so she said.

This year it was a cat hiding in the hedge at the end of our street. A passing shopper told us about it saying he’d noticed the cat there for several days and was worried; it was obviously ill.

We hurried along to look at it and noticed a swollen face: an abscess probably. As cats often crawl away when they’re ill, we said we’d keep an eye on it and bring it food.

Then we got back and tried to ring the RSPCA who were constantly engaged. I did think of the vet but didn’t really want to have to pay the vet’s bills as it wasn’t our cat. Then later, just before I was going to take mum to the crib service, I thought, well I’ll ring them and see what they suggest.

This was 2.30 on Christmas Eve. I rang the vet and explained that it was a stray (we’d tried other houses in the street and it didn’t belong to anyone) and the vet nurse who answered the phone said, ‘Oh that’s OK. Can you bring it in? We’ll treat him as a stray.’

So we managed to bundle him into a catbox and took him up to the vet – which is also an animal hospital. The poor fellow yowled a lot on the way there, but they took him in and I know he’ll be well looked after there.

So you see, there really is – or was – some Christmas spirit after all.

And on a similarly feline note, as I walked into town the other day I passed a fellow with terrible scratch marks all over his face.

Oh yeah, I thought. Been in a fight, eh? One too many in the pub? Too much festive spirit? Or wife/girlfriend pissed off – she should cut her nails, mate. Vicious, that.

As I drew nearer, a friend of his approached him and asked him how he’d got his scars. I slowed down to listen (as you do, it’s research, you understand, of a literary nature).

‘These?’ said the bloke, wincing as he brushed his face. ‘It was the cat.’

So there you go – how wrong can you be?

Progress reports - cats, dogs and great grandsons

I’m pleased to report that Bussie is now back to his normal self. He is eating – well, not as much as he used to, but that’s no bad thing, and has taken over reign of the bottom bunk, as normal.

Unfortunately (for him), my mother is arriving late this afternoon and given that we have a one bedroom flat, she sleeps on the sofa bed in the lounge, and the bunks are where she puts her case and clothes. You can imagine how Bussie is going to like that.

The Itching Moggie is no longer itching but the anti inflammatory pills (or antihistamines, whatever they are) have turned our bouncy girl into a very quiet, lethargic girl which is extremely unnerving. She didn’t even want to go for a walk yesterday which is unheard of. I persevered, as my back was hell from sitting in front of the computer for too long, and after a while she enjoyed it, but she is really not herself. Still, she's stopped itching which is the main thing and she won’t be on the drugs for much longer.

Going back to yesterday’s post, it turns out that my friend’s 19 year old grandson took his 19 year old, very pregnant and terrified girlfriend to hospital the previous night but they told her to go home as she wasn’t ready.

‘He rang yesterday to ask how he could tell if his girlfriend’s waters have broken if she’s in the bath,’ said N. breathlessly. This was when she told him to time the contractions and ring her back.

‘I should think they were both petrified,’ I said, thinking of myself at 19. Utterly hopeless. Who knows much about childbirth at that age? And not a parent in sight.

‘Exactly,’ said N (an ex-nurse, which is one of the reasons why her grandson rang. Another reason, I suspect, is that she wouldn’t panic). ‘Poor lad – he said the contractions were 4 minutes apart but luckily they were able to get an ambulance, got to hospital and she gave birth 3 hours later.’ She paused. ‘I’m now great grandmother of a 6 ¾ pound boy.’

‘Congratulations,’ I said, though from her voice I wasn’t sure whether commiserations would have been more appropriate. ‘How are you feeling? I don’t suppose you got much work done after that.’

‘I’ve been trying to write all day, and now I’m exhausted.' She gave a hooting laugh. 'I feel like taking my false teeth out and going to bed.’

Back to normal?

A short post today as I’m off working on the Van Gogh (cruise ship) in a minute.

Bussie deigns to join us on infrequent occasions to tuck into liver served on a china dish, but departs before I can indulge in anything slushy like Conversation or Stroking. He is back to his role as Supreme Cat – not to be disturbed. We are, after all, merely servants.

Life back to normal, then.

Himself has finally decided to sell one of his cornets and the trumpet on ebay. I thought that the instruments would continue to gather dust in the Flowerpot museum forever, purely because he can’t bear to sell them. But nothing like a few bills coming in to force the issue.

He’s asked a friend of mine to sell them for him as she has an ebay account and has acted as agent for him before.

‘I was going to set up an ebay account,’ he told her. ‘But then I thought, why? I won’t sell anything else. And it would mean setting up a Penpal account as well.’

‘Penpal?’ she said, giggling.

You can understand why he’s never been able to sell anything on ebay.

He was busy sending her an email this morning, but to the wrong address, so I told her the new one.

‘…. @hotmail.com,’ he said, typing (with two fingers) as he spoke. ‘I wonder if she has hot knickers?’

Yes, definitely life back to normal.

A Catch Up

Bussie is still not eating – apart from about three biscuits last night – and has a lost even more weight poor darling, so I’m taking him to the vet later. I only hope he hasn’t got another infection from that s**ing cat that got him in the fight in the first place.

Later, at midday to be precise, when we’ve changed and slapped on a bit of make up (Himself looks wonderful with a bit of lippy and mascara) we’re going to a wedding – well, it’s officially a civil partnership, but as they presumably have the same service that we did in a registry office, who’s counting? I must remember to take enough hankies – I’m bound to sit there blubbing.

But to start with the weekend. Av and I got some sarnies and spent the afternoon walking along the South Devon coastal path from Maidencombe back towards Teignmouth. It was very hilly but a wonderful way to catch up on the last few months (without other halves) and the weather was warm but not sticky, not a breeze anywhere. The sea was eerily flat, only broken by the occasional water skier rippling the surface.

It was so strange walking without Mollie – because I never do, now. But she was there with me (she would have loved the walk), and I could almost see her prancing ahead or stopping to sniff and chase, looking back at me with ears pricked, saying, ‘Come on, Mum.’ When we got to a road, I bent down to put her lead on, was surprised to see her not there. My girl. My pal.

The following day, after a mushroom stroganoff at the local pub that night, we went to a nearby animal rescue centre as that’s going to feature in the next book. I was hoping to interview the staff there and find out more about how it’s run, but we made the mistake of seeing the animals first. They have an amazing selection – dogs, cats, birds, rabbits, geese, ducks and all sorts. I was OK until we got to the kennels for the dogs to be rehomed. There I started reading the reasons why we were there – through cruelty, neglect, because they weren’t wanted.

Well, that was it. ‘I can’t understand how anyone could be cruel to animals,’ I wailed as we left the building, the hopeful barking ringing in my ears. I couldn’t bear their looks of desperation, the questions in their eyes.

Dear Av hugged me as I sobbed my way out of the kennels. ‘I don’t think you’d better to your interview now,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s go and have a cup of tea and I’ll put you on your train.’

Now that’s what I call a wonderful friend. We go back some years, Av and I, through countless heartbreaks and the occasional triumph. Through several men and two husbands (one each). She now lives in Dorset so we don’t get to meet very often, but she is a great friend and a rare person. She is also one of the few people I know who still looks beautiful when she’s crying. Sickening if I didn’t love her so much.

Sitting on the train was wonderful – for two whole hours I could please myself so I did some of my course, then sat and read the paper, eavesdropped and made notes for the new book. No phones ringing, no sick animals to worry about (well, not on the train) and I loved it.

I think I’ve got a new character for the next book. She was sitting in the opposite aisle to me, so I had to be careful about not turning to stare too much. She was tiny and very neat, in her early 80s at a guess, her sprightly face lined and carefully made up with a rather curious shiny foundation. Her eyes were clear and surprisingly young and despite the wrinkles, inside that you could see the face of a twenty year old shining through.

She wore a thick zip up brown cardigan, a twill cotton green skirt with thick mesh tights and sensible brown lace up shoes. Her crumpled thin fingers clutched each other as she talked, animatedly, to what looked like her daughter opposite. (Same bone structure, same eyes and nose.) Her voice was high and clear, with a strong Cornish accent but her daughter, by contrast, seemed older and tired. She lacked her mother’s sparkle – or perhaps she’d been worn out by her.

So - what shall I call her?