The everyday life of a cat sitter

So I haven't blogged here since July. Shame on me. But time flies when you're having fun.

And having fun I have had. I've taken on a lot more cat sitting work, and boy, let me tell you, it's the most stress-free role I've ever had.

Okay, so there's a lot of driving around, which, depending on the time of day, isn't exactly stress-free, especially when you encounter drivers who seem to have picked their driver's licence out of a cereal packet. But my feline clients for the most part are a joy.

In the last few months I've only come close to being attacked once. By a cat I'll call Sybil.  In fact I'll call her Syko Sybil. (Which looks better on paper than Psycho Sybil.) Here's a cat with personality plus. One personality is nice and normal. The other, the evil twin side, can take the lead in a second. Snarls, growls, hisses and threats. For no particular reason. She's healthy, before you ask. She gets regularly checked by the vet, but she's a rescue cat and who knows what went on in her life before her owner took her home and gave her unconditional love (and probably got scratched and bitten a lot since then).

Some cats are ambivalent. "Oh, you've come to feed me. Good. Feed me and I'll bugger off and sleep somewhere. Cheers." They eat, ignore you patting them and encouraging them to come for a cuddle, and stalk off. Cats will be cats.

Some are love bunnies, and it's these I enjoy the most. They miss their humans and want contact. Pats, strokes, cuddles, brushing. I have heard purrs in every key, and been climbed on and head butted by dozens of joyful furbabies who enjoy my company as much as I enjoy theirs.

The most rewarding in the last few months has been a pair of Sphynx brothers. I'll call them Da Boyz. I've never really been excited by the idea of a basically hairless cat. Photos show them wrinkled and often, it seems, with a frown on their face. I thought touching them would be weird. It is, in a nice kind of way. They are covered in peach fuzz. Their feet, bony and prehensile, are strangely enchanting. They are agile and very smart; think of a cat who thinks it's a monkey. Their tails are like whips; thin and tapered, and they curl them up elegantly against their flanks when they sit. Waiting for their food, standing up and yelling at me, their tails quiver expectantly.

I've minded Da Boyz twice. The first time was only for a few days and they were keen to tell me they wanted food, and didn't mind the odd pat. But no cuddles thanks. Feed us, clean up after us and we'll watch you and get a bit closer each day.

This month I've had them again, for two and a half weeks on and off. And things have changed between us. Firstly Smaller Boy decided he'd hop up on my knee for a cuddle after food, and he did, nestling his very warm body against mine and purring furiously. His bigger brother watched from on top of a cupboard for a couple of days and then decided it was his turn.

Well. Big Brother has been the most affectionate cat I've ever minded. After feeding (and settling himself for a pee on the toilet - they are both trained to pee over a human loo) he would run to the sofa and jump up, yelling at me to get my butt over there too. Then he'd settle on my knee, firstly kneading me, then marking me by rubbing his head all over the front of my clothing. I'll never wear a white t-shirt to his place again! He would gently touch my cheeks with a soft paw, and lie in my arms like a baby, purring furiously and gazing lovingly into my eyes.

I found I was really looking forward to visiting Da Boyz each day as they were so engaging and loving. After a bit you don't miss the fur; you just cuddle the warm feline body and get smooched and adored in return.

Their owner is a lovely person too; I contact all owners with updates and pics daily, and some respond at length and others don't. Da Boyz's owner is as outgoing and delightful as the cats.

Then there's Chubby Girl The Food Obsessed, who has to have her food measured out in timer bowls which go off at intervals so she doesn't binge eat. She's a butterball and on a strict diet but somehow doesn't seem to lose weight. She's quite affectionate and playful. Her friend Timid Tom on the other hand hides in a cupboard and has his food in a special bowl than will only open to the chip embedded in his collar so Chubby Girl can't steal it. My role with him is to leave the food out and just check he's okay; Chubby likes a brushing and for me to throw balls for her, or some kibble, so she gets exercise by chasing it, preferably up the stairs.

I have, for my sins, agreed to work for four hours on Christmas Day doing cat sitting. The owner of the cat sitting biz has mobility issues and can't handle places with stairs, whereas I look on stairs as fitness aids. My husband G is ok with this, as we're having seafood for lunch rather than the whole baked turkey thing, but it's going to feel weird heading out to work on the country's Big Day Off. But if I don't feed these little sweeties, who will? It's not as if cats celebrate Christmas.

When good cats turn bad

I mentioned in a recent post my cat friend Fred. Fred has been an angel to look after in my fill-in-for-a-friend cat sitting business. He has a reputation for turning aggressive at the click of a finger, but I haven't seen it.

Until today.

Poor Fred. His owner is away for another 9 days, and he's feeling lonely and starved of his owner's affection.  I walk inside and he immediately head butts my legs. I talk to him, stroke him, pick him up and cuddle him.

Marion the cat sitter told me not to trust him. I haven't ignored her; I've simply come to my own conclusions and watched him carefully. I thought I had his measure. Thought I had the balance of affection just right.

Today I sat on the sofa as soon as I got there (my third day doing this as I've become more confident with this tricky boy) and Fred happily jumped on my knees, purring ecstatically. He purred so hard saliva dripped from his mouth onto my jeans, and I held him and stroked him and talked to him, and importantly, gave him the 'cat kiss'; that slow blink that tells him I'm not a threat. I thought we understood each other perfectly as he slow-blinked back at me and we stayed happily together for five minutes, until he turned and bit my hand.

Not hard, you understand. It was a gentle bite, the sort cats give you when they can't decide whether they want to sit on your knee or not.

So I took my hands off him and still kept talking to him in a quiet voice, soothing and calming, mentioning his name every five seconds and putting in "good boy" all the time, too.

Fred got off my legs and I could finally get around to fixing his food for the day.  He followed me into the kitchen, head-butting and happy.

I decided to do a visual check of the flat for furballs and vomits - you know what cats can be like. Fred followed me, chatting happily and meowing me details of his life. Clearly he slept in the main bedroom with his owner, as the duvet was cat-rucked and he jumped onto it demonstratively.

I checked the room and turned to walk out. And Fred pounced.

Gawd, my left leg has copped it from cats this week!

He grabbed it with both front legs and tried to sink his teeth in. Bless demin. Good old jeans. I felt his claws and teeth but he didn't break any skin.

I turned and shook my finger at him and snapped, "No!" and he immediately backed off. I suspect I was heading into "his" territory, his sleeping room, and made a note not to do that again.

He was still a bit swishy-tail while I cleaned his litter tray, but was back to smooching against me before grabbing my leg again in the living room. This time no claws or teeth, just a firm grip from his strong little legs, and I had the "No!" going at him before his legs were all the way around mine.

His owner has since told me he gets over-stimulated with too much affection; he does it with her too!

So it's a hard call. I want to give Fred the affection he needs while his owner is away, but not to the point that he attacks me.  He looks for me now every day and cries when he hears my step, as I go to his elegant flat at much the same time each day.  He engages with me, makes lots of eye contact, and is desperate for a cuddle and snuggle.

There are pills marked 'for emergency only' if Fred has a real conniption and goes truly violent with me, but I have left them on the bench for today. I'll see how he is tomorrow.

In a way he reminds me of a Siamese who shared my life for 13 years; another boy who loved a cuddle but would use his teeth.  Maybe so much ecstasy is too much?

Does your cat turn aggro after a cuddle?

Today I got smacked by a cat

I'm helping a friend out at the moment. She has a cat sitting business; she goes into people's houses and feeds their cat/s while they're away, cleans litter trays, plays with said felines etc. My friend - let's call her Marion - is finally having a holiday after seven years of running her business and building it up from scratch.

Today I had two visits to make. One was for a cat I'll call Fred. Marion warned me he can turn aggro for no reason. "Never turn your back on him," she warned, but Fred so far has been a snuggly, purry angel of a cat. I've got him for the whole two weeks and hope I don't need to resort to the emergency pills on the kitchen counter. Fred lives in a posh suburb in a flat right on the water. He has views to die for (not that he appreciates them I suspect but I'm sure his owner does). He greets me at the door and flops at my feet, rolling back and forth in delight. I have long conversations with him as I clean his bowls and other paraphernalia, and there's never a hint of aggro. I do watch his eyes. If a cat's pupils suddenly turn big and round - watch out and take cover!

My second visit was one closer to home for two Ragdoll cats, Sunny and Shadow. Marion had a warning about Sunny. "He may rush at the door when you arrive and he can be territorial." Another Fred! Anyhow, Sunny was very pleasant to me and I was happily patting him and talking to him. Shadow was hiding as he apparently does. So I put food down while Sunny purred at my feet. I cleaned the litter tray. I went to find Shadow upstairs and Sunny trotted at my heels.

Unfortunately he was TOO close to my heels. I checked the upstairs rooms (no sign of the little bugger but apparently he can hide only too well) and turned around.

Only to stand on Sunny's foot.

He screamed.

I screamed.

He pounced on my ankle and gave it his best shot with teeth and claws. Luckily I was wearing boots, it being winter here after all, and I only have a small scratch to show for it.

I apologised, in the softest, warmest voice I could. I sat on the steps in front of him and held out a hand, offering a gentle pat.

Sunny narrowed his big baby blues and hit my hand with a front paw. No claws, but his body language said it all: Fuck off, lady. You hurt me.

Tail swishing furiously, he followed me down the stairs. Not a limp in sight, thankfully. But no, just slapping my hand wasn't enough.

With every step I took with my left foot (the one that landed on his paw), he grabbed my ankle and bit my boot. His tail was swishing like a metronome. This was one seriously pissed off cat. I don't blame the poor little thing; I felt dreadful for stepping on him.

As I was inching my way across the living room Shadow flew down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the hall, disappearing into a front room.

Well, at least I could SMS the owner that I had visual sighting of the elusive Shadow!

Sunny wasn't letting up. I shuffled, cat attached, to the scratching post trees with toys attached to them. Thankfully one had elastic and I pinged it and pinged it and bounced it until his attention went from my foot to the toy.

With one bound, I was free!

With two bounds I was out the door with a huge sigh, still feeling awful for poor Sunny.

I have two more days feeding the pair of them. I hope Sunny has forgiven and forgotten by tomorrow. But I'll wear different shoes just in case.

Dogs are from Mars, Cats are from Venus

There are dog people and cat people. And then, there are people who behave just a bit like dogs and cats.

I always joke that I am part cat; I share a cat's liking for my own company, I prefer peace and quiet to parties, elegance and order to chaos, and the opportunity to have a thorough bath/shower every day and feel well-groomed. I have a regrettable sense of schadenfreude that any cat would appreciate, and my night vision isn't bad either. There are times when I don't want to be touched; if I had a tail it would swish with annoyance then. I am a cat person.

That being said, I also own a dog whom I love dearly - I have had both cats and dogs in my home since childhood. But I relate better to cats than dogs when all is said and done.

My husband G on the other hand has something dog-like about him. When I first met him I was reminded of a jaunty terrier, cheerfully sniffing around me. If he had a tail it would wave plumily and happily. Many men are like that; they're like dogs sniffing for a bitch on heat. G is gregarious, and enjoys human company far more than I. He's bigger than I both in height and width and when he walks in the door at the end of the working day the house seems much smaller and less spacious. It's a small place anyway but suddenly, like the cats, I'm having to weave around furniture and G to get from point A to B.

You've all seen that joke Diary of a Cat and Diary of a Dog. The cat's diary tells of plots and plans of escape; it is complex, while for the dog everything except a bath is simply "My favourite thing!"

G reminds me of the dog's diary every mealtime. Even if it's only bacon and eggs for breakfast, or a simple steak and veg for dinner, or even just crackers and cheese for lunch, he responds the same: "Oh Wow!" When I present him with a divine and powerful curry, or a dish that has taken a couple of hours to pull together perfectly, it's still "Oh Wow!" My favourite thing! I have to laugh. (And he eats like a dog too, shovelling food into his gob as quickly as humanly possible!)

Like our dog, G manages to position himself in my path when I'm trying to do things around the house. I do most of the cooking because I truly enjoy it, and it's a creative release at the end of the working day - that or the opportunity to take my frustration out on food with a big, sharp knife! Whichever cupboard I need to open, I can guarantee that G will have moved himself in front of it, arms hanging gormlessly at his sides.  If it's not him, it's our dog. With the dog, I can point to the door and say "Out!" and she'll give me That Dog Look and move to the living room. With G, it's a constant, polite "Excuse me," as I move him from in front of the cupboards time and again, until he gets the message and stands next to the dog! (The cats, meanwhile, have found themselves high perches out of the way.)

G loves me with a dog-like devotion. This is a good thing, as my previous relationships were mostly toxic, with me being the one doing all the loving. He has had very high-maintenance, cloying women in his past and when we first started dating he used to ring me from his home interstate every night. I mean every night. Sweet as it was it could be a bloody nuisance if I was going out with friends; if he couldn't get me on the home phone he'd try the mobile, worried that I'd be annoyed if I didn't hear from him. When he's on business travel he tries to ring every night and I've told him not to when his itinerary is a full one. I am very understanding having had jobs in the past myself which involve quite a bit of business travel and won't get cross or feel abandoned if the phone doesn't ring. Like our dog, I think he suffers a bit of separation anxiety when he's away from me!

Still, I am blessed. I have two beautiful and loving cats (really! they are!), a lovely dog and a great husband. Love my own company and my solitude as I do, I suspect I am better with him in my life than I was before I met him.

So, can you draw a cat or dog parallel with your partner - or yourself?

Nudey Rudey's off to the show

This morning I'll be dropping off two paintings to the local art show. The Paris landscape I painted several weeks ago, and...er... a nude. Of me.

Shit that sounds pretentious! As if I stood in front of a mirror painting myself and admiring my boobs or something.

But no, I set up a tasteful self-portrait in the apartment in which we stayed in Paris. In the living room was a sofa with a throw over the back which was a tapestry of a Gainsborough portrait. I lay on the sofa in the same pose as the naked lady in the tapestry, as a kind of joke.

I don't as a rule take nude photos of myself. I don't have the bod any more; although the extra curves are probably artist model materials these days! But I was surprised when I looked at the back of my camera afterwards. The photo was artistic, not slutty or sleazy. I knew at that point I'd try and make a painting/drawing of it.

The resulting painting - technically a drawing as it's oil pastels but the pastels are so thick on the paper it's just about a painting - is 6 inches by 6 inches. I might be willing to put a nudey rudey of me on paper but not on a large scale!

Here it is:

Not only is it my first nude but the first time I've painted or drawn a human as the key focus of a painting. I usually do landscapes and still life. Or my cats. I have a great portrait of Hamish MacFlea which is life-sized and captures him perfectly, but I haven't tried capturing the human soul.

Here's the one of Hamish, although it's not going in the show.

I painted this for myself and my Mum; it's not something that's going to sell anyway. I did this one about 7 years ago, when I decided to start drawing again after many years.

So here I am, feeling nervous about putting these two paintings in the show, hoping like hell they get selected for hanging, hoping they sell and hoping they don't as I'm rather attached to them (which is why I will never become a cat breeder, you can sense the Crazy Cat Lady aspect of it from here, can't you?). I doubt they will win any prizes as the competition will be super-fierce - it's a big show - but if I don't try, I'll never know. 

If the paintings don't get selected for the main show I have ticked the box to allow them to be selected for the Salon des Refuses, for paintings that didn't make the main cut. It may sound loserish, but it isn't. It gives them another chance at getting a gong and/or a sale. 

I'll know in a couple of weeks if they have been selected for either show, or whether I will be taking them home (and putting them in the Hunters Hill Art Show next year!)

The Bah Humbuggery of Christmas - in image form

I can't resist using 'humbuggery' as a word. There's something very satisfying about 'bugger' as a curse; it can be plosive and very expressive, more so I think than the conventional four-letter words we hear most often.

When I was a child language in our house was very proper. There was no swearing, or very little. If something really upset my Mum, she'd exclaim "Buggery!" and that was the worst she'd utter. It had to be something worth swearing over, such as if she hit her finger with a hammer (with Dad long gone from our lives Mum took on the role of household maintainer and carpenter).

But I digress.

This post is a short one, and it's about the Christmas card I drew yesterday for a friend of mine who has a black Persian cat, and is currently quite unwell. She won't want a cheerful "Merry Christmas!" emblazoned across her card as this year won't be merry for her. She can't even enjoy her customary glass of bubbly on Christmas Day. The odds are she will recover well next year, but in the meantime, I think this will make her smile:

Frankenstein's Cat and other stuff

What a ridiculously hectic few weeks it's been. Tons of work on for one of my clients, sadly the one who can't afford a high hourly rate, a not-for-profit organisation. I've been meaning to post on a whole bunch of ideas but haven't got around to it. Some of the stuff I've done has included meeting the Prime Minister, organising a big lunch with another prominent politician as guest speaker, attending industry meetings on behalf of the client, submitting a grant for the client to fund a website redevelopment... it's been manic and I've done no writing, either. I've been working long hours each day, and at the weekend I'm just glad to get away from the blasted computer and work in the garden or just get out and about.

My little girl cat broke her hip several weeks back (don't know how... vet said you have to see them do it to know HOW they did it) and she had a operation nine days ago to cut out the necrotic bit of hip joint which couldn't be fixed. She looks like Frankenstein's Cat, with a three inch long curving wound and ten big stitches. She's limping as they had to cut through a bit of muscle to get to the offending bone, but the vet says the muscle will heal in a few weeks and the limp will improve. She's happier, though. I found her on top of my 2 metre tall bookcase on Monday, sleeping peacefully. She'd jumped up from a little filing cabinet next to it. It's her favourite place in the house, as high as she can get. She hasn't been able to get up there since she broke her hip. When I reached up and patted her, she opened her big blue eyes and I could see the happiness and contentment in them. She was feeling much more her old self.

We have friends flying in from the UK next week and have had to rearrange the spare room somewhat. We have a sofa bed in the living room for overnighters, and a single bed in the spare room which my stepdaughter used when she lived with us. Our friends are staying for a fortnight, so the sofa bed was not an option. We considered buying a new cheap sofa and moving the sofa bed upstairs, but as I pointed out my mother has a sofa bed she doesn't use, and we really, between both houses, don't need yet another sofa. So we swapped the single bed for the sofa bed. I put up some filmy curtains. The whole tenor of the room has changed now. It's my husband's office and with the sofa looks much more businesslike than with a single bed.

T'other half has applied for a job, too. He's been a freelance specialist journalist for 20+ years and has reached the pinnacle of where he can go in the industry in which he specialises. He's a bit tired of doing the same old, same old. And the pay isn't great; we've been a bit starved for cash over the last six months. He's found a government job that pays a bomb, and went for the interview earlier this week. The interview panel seemed impressed with him, thankfully. He'd seen an interview coach (someone I know) and we'd done a couple of mock interviews to get him thinking about responses to standard questions. I really hope he gets this job. We need the money and he needs the intellectual challenge.

The weather here has been revolting. The wettest February in years and when it wasn't raining the humidity was indescribable. I haven't been cycling for almost 3 weeks now. We've taken the dog for early morning walks though; it was a tossup whether to cycle or walk, but she needs the exercise as much as we do, and she loves going with us and chasing a ball in the park on the way.

The local art show is coming up, and they have a new category this year, a 9"x5" challenge. Your painting has to be 9x5 either portrait or landscape, any subject. I haven't submitted anything the last couple of years, but will work on some 9x5 ideas this weekend. It's supposed to be raining and cool but at the moment the temperature is soaring like a lark and so is the humidity. I work mainly in pastels, although I do pen and ink stuff as well. I'm thinking quirky landscapes for the 9x5s.

So that's been my life the last couple of weeks. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible!

Bedhead - not just a hairstyle

I love cast iron and brass bedheads; I'm an antique and collectibles freak anyway and had longed for years for a lovely old brass and iron bed before I bought one for myself in 1996. It's a double bed, more than a metre high off the ground at the top of the mattress, blissfully comfortable for a single woman and a cat or two. However... not big enough for two people who are used to sleeping on their own and value their personal body space. Aside from which men seem to generate a lot of heat while they're sleeping.

So when my husband-to-be and I moved in together 3 years ago, we used his queen sized bed and parked my beautiful antique, art nouveau bed with its brass filigree at my Mum's house. It's our bed when we stay there overnight and believe me isn't the same as it used to be. I used to sleep bang in the middle with Hamish MacFlea my silver tabby snoring gently on my right arm, under the covers with his huge head on the pillow beside me. Now I sleep perilously on the edge just to stay cool enough. Hamish has gone over the Rainbow Bridge (and I miss him dreadfully) and now we have Charley and Annabel jumping up and sleeping on my feet. Unlike Hamish they don't like getting under the covers. It's probably a blessing.

Anyway, back to the queen bed. No bedhead. Just a mattress and base. It felt wrong. Cheap, almost; my mother believes firmly in bedheads making a bedroom look finished and I think I've inherited that. I loved waking up in my old bed, putting my hands behind me, gripping the iron bed and indulging in a superb stretching session. Do that at our place with the queen bed and you bang your knuckles on the wall.

Until this week.

Yes, I now have an iron bedhead, courtesy of eBay. It's not antique (remember, they didn't exactly have queen sized beds a hundred years ago), and it's not as heavy, solid and classy as my lovely art nouveau bed, nor does it have the brass decorations apart from knobs on the top. But it's much nicer than most repro stuff you can buy. According to the seller it's around 25 years old, and there's not a mark on it. Not a scratch or a dent. It's like new. And my husband, who between me and the interweb isn't the most diligent DIYer (Mum still brings up the time he put her stereo cabinet together and had three screws left over from the flat pack), got it attached to the mattress base (with the help of Charley and I) without a hitch.

So here it is. Bedtime bliss. I can't wait to get into it tonight and reach back and feel it there. That's Charley on the covers, exhausted after "helping" us and sniffing every bit of it. If one of the bedside lamps looks a bit squiffy, it's because Charley broke it last year; we've mended it but it will never be the same again. However, Charley is beyond rubies; and at least he can't break an iron and brass bedhead.

Just peachy... and then the oil exploded

In my pocket-sized courtyard garden I've got a veggie bed currently producing Rouge de Marmande tomatoes among other things, and it's a real delight to pick a fresh, sun-warmed tomato every day for our salad lunch. For the last few days we've also been enjoying our own peaches. I have a miniature fruit tree in a tub; while the tree is less than a metre high, it produces full-sized fruit and the flavour is soooo much better than anything bought at a shop. The tree is only young, and this year it gave me 13 peaches. We've eaten half, but here's a sample of what's left. A few marks from branches, but grub-free thanks to the EcoLure organic fruit fly destroyer I used earlier in the year.

Yum, yum, yum. But speaking of other yummy things I've been preparing recently....

Owning cats means you occasionally hear weird noises in the house often followed immediately by the sound of breaking glass, shattering china or something solid thumping to the ground. This year we've become accustomed to hearing the small Christmas tree we have fall over. I'm sure the cats think,"TimBERRRR!" as they give it a push. Last night we were sitting in the living room enjoying a re-run of Doctor Who when there was the ominous noise of breaking glass from the kitchen.

"Bloody cats!" grumbled my husband.

"Charley!!!" I yelled, for that is Birman Boycat's name and it's usually he who causes any breakages.

To our surprise no nervous cats came scattering through the kitchen door - they usually bolt from the scenes of their crimes. In fact they were both in the living room behind the sofa looking at us with mild surprise. Why were we jumping up like we'd seen a bird fly onto the fence? Had someone mentioned fish and they hadn't heard it?

In the kitchen my last bottle of Chilli and Garlic Infused Oil was in pieces. The top third of the bottle, cap intact, was on the floor. The rest of the bottle lay in splintered pieces on the bench. The oil was everywhere. All over the bench, all over the floor. The room reeked of garlic.

We came to the conclusion that the garlic - or the chilli - was actually fermenting, and had caused enough pressure during this process to make the bottle explode. I've never had that happen with my oils in previous years. I suspect the garlic clove I'd used for this bottle - which was to be my own - was a little past its prime hence the fermentation. It must have gone off like a bomb as it had knocked a plastic jar 1/4 full of honey to the floor.

Cleaning it up was a bugger. We scraped the oil from the benches into the bin, and used an astonishing amount of paper towel to mop up the remainder. Then it was time for the secret weapon. The Enjo green glove and mop.

I love Enjo. This Austrian company makes the best cleaning products ever. You can't buy them in the supermarkets, you buy them on a party plan basis where the sales rep demonstrates them and takes your order. I'd been sceptical until I bought the starter kit. Then I ordered other bits and pieces as the system is so good. All you need is the Enjo glove, water, and an old towel to dry the bench etc off with. I don't sell Enjo but I'd recommend it to anyone and everyone. Good for the environment, too: no chemicals or detergents are used when you clean with Enjo.

A couple of years ago I'd broken a bottle of olive oil on the kitchen floor and nothing could clean it properly. I tried dishwashing liquid, and floor cleaning detergent, but the floor was still slippery as ice. Then I tried my green Enjo mop and a bucket of hot water - should have thought of it first - and the floor was normal again after only one scrub at it. I was thrilled (gosh, how housewifey this sounds!), and grabbed the mop again last night to sort out the floor without mucking around with other detergents. Once again it worked a treat, straight away.

I think I'll be trying a slightly different process next time I make a batch of infused oil! :-)

Only 363 days till NEXT Christmas...

So now we're knuckling down to consuming turkey leftovers for the next few days. The cats think it's heaven and so does the dog. We had a good Christmas Day at my mother's house, where Birman Boycat amused himself by removing some of the Christmas tree decorations and batting them around the floor, then to make sure we paid attention to him jumped on the dining table. Luckily we'd finished eating. He doesn't dare jump on the table at home but takes enormous liberties at Mum's house. He simply turns those big blue eyes on her and she melts. Dog played politely with guest dog belonging to our friends and Birman Girlcat said "Bah, Humbug!", ignored everyone and slept through the day.

My ear, nose and throat bug is threatening a return, and I felt less than good yesterday. Scottish husband recommended a whisky cure last night so I had two nips followed by a hot toddy, and while I feel better today I still don't have the energy to go cycling. Which is annoying because it's stopped raining. Yes, we had a wet Christmas rather than a white one, and very grateful we were too in this droughty old land.

Never mind... I have eleventy gazillion new books to read courtesy of family and friends, which I can indulge in while my cough goes away and my ears return to normal. At the moment I'm reading a new bio of Anne Boleyn by Alison Weir, and it's riveting. The evidence points towards her well and truly being framed by Henry's cohorts and henchmen, who convince Henry she's been unfaithful and treasonous. With Jane Seymour already in his lustful sights Henry is all too willing to believe it...

Another hot toddy tonight and Penelope or Petunia should be able to have some exercise tomorrow, even if it's only a ride to the shops. Meanwhile, Tudor England beckons.

'Tis the season and all that

Did the last, the very last, of the Christmas shopping today as well as stocking up on so-fresh goodies at the local farmers' market this morning. Not that we'll get much chance to sample them this weekend. We've been deluged with invitations to parties.

Firstly we're off to a BBQ tonight with friends I've known for about 25 years. Sadly our spaniel (below) isn't invited. She used to be when she was a puppy but then she made the awful mistake puppies make when they're a bit nervous with shrieking kids running around them and did a small puddle on their carpet. I was mortified but heck, the two kids in the house had done a lot more damage than that over the years. Anyway, poor pooch, she's on their blacklist even five years later. Even though the party is out in their backyard and there'll be other dogs there. Makes me feel a bit unwelcome as all our other friends like our dog and she certainly doesn't pee indoors any more. I guess we're a bit different as we treat our animals as family members rather than pets whose place is firmly outdoors whatever the climate and weather, which is how these particular friends view their two dogs. Our spoiled lassie sleeps on her own bed in our bedroom. Our cats sleep wherever they want - usually on our bed :-).

And then there's the shoe thing. You have to take your shoes off at their door. Makes it bloody cold in winter when you visit them, and in summer I'm confronted with bare feet en masse, and I'm not a foot person. I guess I haven't seen too much of these old friends in the last few years for these two reasons; I feel a bit uncomfortable in their house. I could understand the shoe rule if they had a posh marble floor or valuable carpets, but it's a suburban house much like ours and has polished floorboards and rugs stained with fruit juice and other stuff the kids spill.

Tomorrow we have a lunch with friends of t'other half, who have become my friends too. Dog welcome. Another BBQ. Far more relaxed than tonight's I'm thinking! These two are a bit bohemian,which suits me fine.

And tomorrow night it's another friend's birthday party. Surprise - it's a BBQ. Dog welcome as their dog enjoys the company.

By then I'll be BBQd out! We grabbed low alcohol beer and wine this morning to take along to these parties to ensure we don't end up with the hangovers from Hell come Monday. I'm on holidays from Monday so am planning plenty of cycling for next week - hurrah! The weather is forecast to be Just Perfect for most of the week.

And finally... a cheerful Christmas wish to everyone from my Birman boy cat... aka Santa Claws in this case. Corny I know - we used this pic for our own Christmas cards to family and friends this year as he has such a cheeky expression.

Charley the Catburglar

Sharing a house with two blue-eyed mischievous cats provides us with a daily giggle. They're always up to something daft, evil or funny. Charley is one for choosing his own toys - which are items that were not designed with that purpose. As an adolescent he nicked a furry koala that is supposed to grip onto your bookshelves or act as a page marker or something. I had it high up on my bookshelf. Then it was on the floor. Then he was chucking it around. Two years later he still chucks it around but there's not much left of it.

At Mum's house he has a thing for clothespegs. When the animals stay with her, when Greg and I go away, she finds clothespegs in the living room and kitchen, or catches him in the act of ferrying them about. Unrepetant, he gives her a "What?" stare. It's not that he and Annabel (and Rosie the dog) are shortchanged on toys. They have dozens between them. Annabel scorns them all and plays with sweet wrappers.

Now Monsieur has decided he wants the clothes brush for his very own. It lives on the top shelf of our walk-in robe, and three times in the last week I've found it on the floor in the morning. On Sunday I found it downstairs hidden under a seat, tucked away next to my footstool (which he also covets and pushes into his favourite hiding place under cover of darkness). Yesterday I heard a thumping in the robe and there he was, picking up the handle in his mouth and pushing it towards the edge of the shelf before dropping it. He's doing it again now. We could find a different hiding place for it but then I suspect we'd BOTH forget where it was....until Charley found it again for us.