Friday, 19 October 2012

Man Flu...

Oh woe is me. Once more a victim. A victim of that most incapacitating and insidious virus known to the male of the human species - man-flu!

It's best treated via means of tender loving care, in the form of a nurse, a female at one's beck and call for the duration of the ague. But in this instance, due to the absence of this quasi-waitress cum tummy-tickling service, I shall manfully self-medicate with caffeine and digestive biscuits, punctuated by doses of Lemsip.

How fortunate females are.

Sniff.

Saturday, 29 September 2012

Solitude will not be the same without my furry friend.

Rosie is dead. Janet took her to the vets earlier today. The decision to terminate her life was relatively easy. She was weak. She was almost certainly in pain. She was in extreme old age.

It's sad. I've shed tears. What else to say? I don't subscribe to any dubious theory of an after-life... serious talk of this nature leaves me exasperated. You can't know, you fuckers, so what do you prattle on for? It's all very simple. Life is animated. If it ceases to be so, we call this death. All communication with the unfortunate (or fortunate depending on their circumstances) ceases. That's it.

I shall try to avoid using cliches regarding her death, saying only, and no doubt inappropriately (after all, she was a cat, dammit) she was a good girl

How strange to be without a furry dependent.


Sunday, 23 September 2012

Cat calls...

The cat is sick. As yet undiagnosed. She's not eating. She's vomited too, and uncharacteristically shat in the house, not once but several times, and in a relatively short period of time. Her preference now is for solitude over her recently acquired "social nature". If her condition continues, it's off to the Vet, though hopefully, that won't be necessary. Personal experience tells me, for animals of advanced age, such symptoms suggest the end is nigh, and much money, along with prodding and poking by the "experts", serves nothing except perhaps to salve one's conscience. But I mustn't get ahead of myself. Maybe this time, it will pass.

To accommodate Rosie's ague, the backdoor is left open, allowing her to come and go as she pleases. Meanwhile, I sit in the lounge, in direct line of the through-draught created. My legs are frozen. From my vantage point I see her, settled on the conservatory floor, a folded blanket her bed. She stares back at me. Inscrutable. If only she could speak.

I'm wondering, why do I have the central-heating on? There is no benefit, unless that is, I choose to go upstairs in the much smaller back bedroom. But then I can't monitor Rosie.  Should I then turn the heating off, thereby saving money? But that supposes the temperature will not lower, but what if it does? Outside it claims to be 10C, but it feels much colder inside, certainly around the lower legs. I don't know what to do, so I'll do nothing. So much for rationality. In my defence, I shall assert rational persons are uninteresting. Does that make me interesting?

Rosie moved, slowly, and I fancy, shakily, towards her drinking bowl. She lapped awhile, raised her small head towards me and mewed. I squeezed a little food out of a pouch, into a a saucer. She briefly stared, about turned, and walked back to her bed. If only she could speak. 

Monday, 10 September 2012

Good companions

It rained. Now it's doubtful the grass will be dry enough for cutting today unless the sun shines and the wind blows. Still, there's always tomorrow, and that's a fact, barring death, and even then - who knows? Though should there be an afterlife I doubt it extends itself to coming back in phantasmical form to cut the grass. I mean, would I even care? 

It's cold too. On occasion I'm shivering. Maybe I'm feeling the ghostly presence of a former occupant, fretting because he or she died before doing the last cut of the year? 

It's a sad time of year, don't you think? Autumn? The summer furtively slips by, almost unnoticed, and the Fall, though possessing it's own special beauty, heralds the start of the winter to come. That's the perception, in maturity anyway. If only I could return to those childhood days when summers stretched out infinitely long. When an hour was an age, a day an eon, and always set beneath cloudless blue skies. Sigh.

It's raining hard again, as if in response to my wistful muse, to create a back-drop to my mood. Thought control? I wonder? If I meditate on bright positive thoughts, will the sun come out? Probably not. I doubt that's what they mean when they speak of "making one's own reality". 

I've slept awhile since writing the above. Rosie still sleeps, curled close-to. She seems lonely since the demise of the dogs, an unusual trait in a feline, yet still, it appears so. She doesn't get so close as to feel my body heat, my near presence is all she seeks. The security of companionship.

I like solitude. Being alone, but not feeling lonely. I can spread myself in every sense. It allows me to think, to not-think, to meditate, so to speak. The cat allows me that, whereas people don't. The ideal companion, par excellence. 

Life's not so bad.



Sunday, 9 September 2012

A Basking Case

We're currently enjoying an Indian summer here. The local temperature is 24C, as hot as I like it that's for sure, and the perfect opportunity to cut the grass out front, but I doubt I will. That would be too easy for "Mr Procrastinator", the guy who needs to take it to the brink, to the point of, "it's almost too long, almost too late in the year, and if left any longer it won't get properly dry till Spring". It's good to know I still have that devilment, that, derring-do. I mean, anyone can follow the "rules" and do their chores when it's easiest. It takes balls to flout common-sense and convention. That calls for a double-woot. Woot! Woot!

Talking of temperatures, it's hovering around 40C now in Egypt. Why do I mention this? Well it's the perfect segue to inform you I'm not only basking in the autumnal sunshine, I'm basking too in glorious, splendiferous, oh-my-fucking-god-it's-great-erous, solitude (that's the kind of solitude that includes cats, but is bereft of that troublesome species, humanity). Yes, it's that time of year when Janet goes a gallivanting to exotic climes (this year it's the aforementioned Egypt), and leaves me, yes me (the guy who only learned to tie his shoe-laces last year) with the responsibility of the house, it's immediate environs, and the cat. And so, here I am, at my most responsible, like all good managers, basking yet again, but this time in my inflated sense of self-importance, with my feet up and coffee with biscuits to hand. For those of you concerned about the running of things, fear not, I delegated all to the cat! [raises feet into a more comfortable position, takes a deep contented sigh, and muses - the only thing missing is waitress service!].

On a guitary-note (do I hear groans) I did my first re-stringing this week. A relatively simple affair, especially when armed with a string-winder cum peg-popping string-cutter. And the result was spectacular. I had no idea (being so inexperienced) just how dull my strings had become, indeed, maybe they were like that from the start, possibly cheap and nasty 'forrin' affairs? Now the instrument rings bright and clear, making it almost a joy to listen to my rookie-fumblings. You know, a long long time ago, as a boy, a teacher described me as highly-strung. I've been thinking since, wouldn't it be good if I could be re-strung, not wound so tightly, so I ring out more brightly, more cheerfully?



Thursday, 6 September 2012

It's not weeping yet, but I'm optimistic...

Listen up, everyone, I have an important announcement to make. There may be some of you (amongst my vast readership) who are not aware of my four-month-long sojourn into the world of music. Yes, it's true. I am now a  musician! And before you protest at my seeming presumption, let me tell you, not only do I have a guitar and a hard-case, but 5 assorted plectrums , a capo, and a string-winder cum peg-popper string-cutter thingy . Yep, s'true. To utter those immortal words [in mock cockney accent] "I got all the gear* so I gotta be bona fide, aint I?".

I wont bore you with the details, but as I never tire of telling those willing to listen (and often those totally uninterested too) I'm at the stage where pain and suffering rule. You know, I never dreamt the time would come when I'd pay a young woman (aka, my tutor) to devise ways of inflicting pain upon me! I mean, I thought I was biased towards the dominant side. Anyway...

I needed a focus, but it had to be something sedentary and practised within easy reach of coffee beverages and biscuits. Added to this my lifelong dream of playing an instrument other than my... erm... maybe not... ahem... I chose the accoustic guitar. Well, it's iconic and it's cool. Moreover, it's.. it's... er.. iconic and cool. So here I am. Kind of enjoying the process. It's tough, and more so because I'm hard on myself, but let's face it, someone has to knock me into shape, and who better than myself?

Seriously, this is for the long haul. It has to be. Otherwise I'll hate myself.

* Gear - accessories

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