Aaaagh.......

I am writing this to Calm Down, having spent about an hour trying to sort out Claims.

The first concerns two payments from Paypal that were taken from Pip's bank account in January. Admittedly they were only of £7.81 but it's the principle that matters. It's taking so long to close his bank account (nearly 6 weeks so far) of red tape that I am about to explode. Now I have to ring Paypal and try and sort it out. You can see the fume coming out of my ears, can't you?

The second concerns an application for Bereavement Benefit that I completed over the phone 3 weeks ago but haven't heard anything about. (It used to be called a Widow's Pension. At least I think it did. I've got so confused now, I could hardly tell you my name, though I can tell you my National Insurance number as, in the last half hour, I have run 7 different numbers to do with the Job Centre, and had to recite it every time. Now, why would the Jobcentre handle Bereavement benefits? I have to say that stumps me.) It turns out there is no record of my claim, so they are having to send all the paper work once more.....

But on a lighter note, I was out with my friend Viv and her dog Titch the other day having a breather, sitting on a bench, when Titch bounced on Viv's lap. “I could marry you, Titch,” she said happily.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I don't know what I'd do without Mollie.” I stroked her thoughtfully. “I suppose I could marry Mollie now.”

“Well, you could,” said the ever practical Viv. “But it'd have to be a civil partnership. And you couldn't wear a white dress.”

Since when has tradition ever stopped me? So watch out - I will be sending out invitations when I have allowed a decent interlude to elapse.

Weddings and anorexia

The good news is that the wedding was wonderful – a beautiful day, they had a cheery little yellow Austin 7 that came and picked them up, and they both looked stunning and so very happy. We were proud and honoured to be there – and I managed to snuffle quietly into my hankie, rather than blubbing embarrassingly. (I noted that neither mother was crying so not sure how that reflects on me.)

We didn’t get to the reception as I wasn’t well on Sunday and was still feeling lousy yesterday, and also because we had to take Bussie to the vet again, but I’m sure they had a wonderful time and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

The bad news, talking of Bussie, is that the vet (not the lovely Helena) thinks he might be anorexic. For someone who squandered years as a teenager and in my twenties in and out of a psychiatric hospital with this chronic problem, this sent shivers down my spine. Ever since I’ve been broody I’ve consoled myself with the fact that I won’t, at least, have an anorexic daughter. How on earth would I cope? (How does anyone cope?)

What do I now have? An anorexic son. But enough of me, I’m still in shock.

Apparently anorexia is quite common in cats that have either got a serious illness or have suffered trauma. Bussie’s actually looking much better in himself so I don’t think he’s got a serious illness, but he’s evidently been traumatised. And being somewhat of an expert on the subject, I don’t know that feline anorexia is quite the same as what we suffer. I hope not, anyway. It’s as if he’d like to eat but he keeps retching at the sight of food – it just won’t go down. Either way, he still can’t eat, but it’s not quite so psychologically sinister. I hope.

Anyway, we didn’t see the lovely Helena which was a pity as this vet was rather more heavy handed and Bussie didn’t care for her at all. She tried to get some stuff down him with a syringe, and he hated that and spat it out all over the table, then she had to give him an injection in his haunch and he yowled and jumped off onto the floor. By this time I was a nervous wreck so god knows what Bussie felt like.

Luckily by the time we got home he seemed a lot better and actually ate a tiny bit of this high calorie food she gave us, but he’s supposed to eat a tin per day to build him up and he had half a teaspoon and that was it. If he doesn’t eat, she said, we must inject him. Oh God. This brings back very unpleasant memories indeed of my colleagues being force fed (I always figured I’d rather feed myself, thank you, but it’s not pleasant to watch).

So last night dear Himself managed to get some food down him with a syringe (I wasn’t in the room at the time) and I stroked and brushed Bussie afterwards while he purred and seemed much better, to our relief. He came back after an hour or so, so he evidently didn’t hold it against us. But we’ve had to do the same thing at breakfast time and it is just horrible. I’m still shaking from the experience and that was two hours ago, so god knows what Bussie thinks. Though I did do the same thing and he went off purring.

If he’s not eating of his own accord by tomorrow we have to take him back to the vet. I feel utterly at a loss here, sinking in a mire of ignorance. What happened to traumatise my cat so much? I’d kill the bastard that did it if I find him.

So watch out. Flowerpot’s on the war path.