I've been experimenting with music for the Little Lady. She seems to enjoy my normal car music (usually indie or rock) well enough given her kicking and wriggling but I don't see myself being able to calm her to sleep with that in the future :)
So I've been playing the piano to her. Beethoven, Mozart, Bach and Mendelsohn seem ok - she wriggles a bit, jazz gets no reaction at all (I'm glad because jazz is not my style) and baroque was met with a little kick.
However.....I found out after an afternoon of playing she adores the Maple Leaf Rag. Every single time I play it she goes crazy in there. However, I can't play the whole thing. I used to be able to, but it has been a while since I seriously practiced mainly because the dogs when puppies would howl and it pissed the neighbours off. Plus Darth Lila ate my copy of the Maple Leaf Rag...
She likes it when I play it on the computer, but if I play it on the piano you can actually see her moving in there! I guess I need to go buy the music again, and get practicing.
I don't think I'll play the clarinet to her. I'm not going to have enough time to start really practicing that as well!
Showing posts with label From the recesses of my mind. Show all posts
Showing posts with label From the recesses of my mind. Show all posts
Friday, 21 March 2008
Saturday, 11 November 2006
Rememberance
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Tuesday, 15 August 2006
So sad
It was a lazy day last summer, when the sun was beating down and the scent of warm strawberries filled the air, that I first realised something was missing.
A very small Lila was snoozing by my feet, and I was idly watching the butterflies in my herb patch. I was completely contented and yet not. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I sat and puzzled, trying to make sense of that strange feeling. And then it hit me.
It wasn’t something that was missing. It was someone.
That was the first time that I was hit by the strength of my desire to have children. The power of that feeling shocked me. I knew I wanted to have children eventually, but until that moment, I didn’t realise just how much I wanted to.
The garden looked lovely that day, with the plants growing almost in front of my eyes. But it would look even lovelier with a little child playing in a paddling pool. A little child with curly dark hair and light eyes, laughing and splashing the dog so carefully guarding the pool.
That was a year ago. I remember thinking on that day, a year ago, that by next summer that dream would be real. Next year seemed like a lifetime away, but it felt close enough to touch. I could almost see the paddling pool. I could certainly see the dog…
The Baron and I talked about it, of course, and we did try briefly. Of course, then we decided to get married, and plans were put on hold. We decided we would start trying again after our wedding.
We’ve tried, on and off. Things kept popping up that meant we had to put it off a month here, a month there. Out of eighteen cycles, we have managed to try on eight of them.
And now the Baron has cold feet. He doesn’t want to continue trying right now. He can’t explain why. He won't explain why.
It is another summer now. The harvest is in already. The heat wave has broken and now it is cold and raining. It doesn’t feel like we’ve moved forward at all. That dream seems just as far as away as it did last summer. There will be no small child playing in our back garden this year, or next.
I think you can imagine how I feel right now.
A very small Lila was snoozing by my feet, and I was idly watching the butterflies in my herb patch. I was completely contented and yet not. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I sat and puzzled, trying to make sense of that strange feeling. And then it hit me.
It wasn’t something that was missing. It was someone.
That was the first time that I was hit by the strength of my desire to have children. The power of that feeling shocked me. I knew I wanted to have children eventually, but until that moment, I didn’t realise just how much I wanted to.
The garden looked lovely that day, with the plants growing almost in front of my eyes. But it would look even lovelier with a little child playing in a paddling pool. A little child with curly dark hair and light eyes, laughing and splashing the dog so carefully guarding the pool.
That was a year ago. I remember thinking on that day, a year ago, that by next summer that dream would be real. Next year seemed like a lifetime away, but it felt close enough to touch. I could almost see the paddling pool. I could certainly see the dog…
The Baron and I talked about it, of course, and we did try briefly. Of course, then we decided to get married, and plans were put on hold. We decided we would start trying again after our wedding.
We’ve tried, on and off. Things kept popping up that meant we had to put it off a month here, a month there. Out of eighteen cycles, we have managed to try on eight of them.
And now the Baron has cold feet. He doesn’t want to continue trying right now. He can’t explain why. He won't explain why.
It is another summer now. The harvest is in already. The heat wave has broken and now it is cold and raining. It doesn’t feel like we’ve moved forward at all. That dream seems just as far as away as it did last summer. There will be no small child playing in our back garden this year, or next.
I think you can imagine how I feel right now.
Saturday, 15 July 2006
Peace and quiet
It's mid-day. It's hot and sunny, and there is not a cloud in the sky. Butterflies are fluttering around the garden, gently alighting on my herb plants before taking to the skies. I can hear bird song, and the sounds of a distant garden party.
The Baron is asleep.
The dogs are sprawled on the floor, sleeping in pools of sunshine. I can feel Lila's hot breath on my foot, and the steady rise and fall of Zach's breathing against my leg. Zach is dreaming and gently whining in his sleep. Lila's ear is cocked in response, and she stirs.
The cats are snoozing in their favourite spots. Every now and then I can hear a little squabble as a sleeping cat is awoken by another seeking to swap places. I imagine by the time I go and check on them, all six will be laying in a heap on the spare bed. Paws, tails and heads entwined.
There is a book lying open in front of me, next to a cool glass of juice.
The peace is such that I am loathe to leave it.
I should go shopping. I ought to do some pruning in the garden. I need to put the washing away.
But I don't want to.
The Baron is asleep.
The dogs are sprawled on the floor, sleeping in pools of sunshine. I can feel Lila's hot breath on my foot, and the steady rise and fall of Zach's breathing against my leg. Zach is dreaming and gently whining in his sleep. Lila's ear is cocked in response, and she stirs.
The cats are snoozing in their favourite spots. Every now and then I can hear a little squabble as a sleeping cat is awoken by another seeking to swap places. I imagine by the time I go and check on them, all six will be laying in a heap on the spare bed. Paws, tails and heads entwined.
There is a book lying open in front of me, next to a cool glass of juice.
The peace is such that I am loathe to leave it.
I should go shopping. I ought to do some pruning in the garden. I need to put the washing away.
But I don't want to.
Tuesday, 27 June 2006
Friday, 3 March 2006
Bloody memes
Four Jobs I've had in my Life:
1. Fast food worker
2. Phlebotomist
3. Accountant
4. Auditor
Four Movies I'd Watch Over and Over:
1. Star Wars (any of them, with the huge exception of the Phantom Menace)
2. Memphis Belle
3. Finding Nemo
4. Back the Future
Four Places I've Lived:
1. London, UK
2. Herts, UK
3. Leicestershire, UK
4. Essex, UK
Four TV Shows I like to Watch
1. Nigella Bites
2. Long Way Round
3. Brainiac: Science Abuse
4. Red Dwarf
Four Favourite Places I've been on Vacation:
1. Cuba
2. Meedhupparu, the Maldives
3. Finland
4. Zante
Four Web Sites I Visit Daily
1. www.delphiforums.com
2. www.bbc.co.uk/news
3. www.fertilityfriend.com
4. www.about.com
Four of my Favourite Foods:
1. Bacon butty
2. Garlic and chili prawns
3. Thai green chicken curry
4. Chocolate cake and custard
Four places I'd rather be right now:
1. Cuddling in bed with hubby & cats
2. The pub
Thats it. I'm quite happy here at home.
1. Fast food worker
2. Phlebotomist
3. Accountant
4. Auditor
Four Movies I'd Watch Over and Over:
1. Star Wars (any of them, with the huge exception of the Phantom Menace)
2. Memphis Belle
3. Finding Nemo
4. Back the Future
Four Places I've Lived:
1. London, UK
2. Herts, UK
3. Leicestershire, UK
4. Essex, UK
Four TV Shows I like to Watch
1. Nigella Bites
2. Long Way Round
3. Brainiac: Science Abuse
4. Red Dwarf
Four Favourite Places I've been on Vacation:
1. Cuba
2. Meedhupparu, the Maldives
3. Finland
4. Zante
Four Web Sites I Visit Daily
1. www.delphiforums.com
2. www.bbc.co.uk/news
3. www.fertilityfriend.com
4. www.about.com
Four of my Favourite Foods:
1. Bacon butty
2. Garlic and chili prawns
3. Thai green chicken curry
4. Chocolate cake and custard
Four places I'd rather be right now:
1. Cuddling in bed with hubby & cats
2. The pub
Thats it. I'm quite happy here at home.
Tuesday, 17 May 2005
A sad day
S joined us in the third year, I think. She was very shy and quiet. I don’t remember how she was introduced to the class, but I remember that almost immediately we all turned our backs and continued our conversations unabated.
None of us were particularly interested in her. We all had our best friends, and our little groups that we stayed in. We were only just fourteen, after all.
S sat behind me in the form room. I can’t remember who she sat next to – I think she was on her own. Our form teacher asked my best friend and I to keep an eye out for her, to try and make friends with her.
We tried. S was so difficult to talk to, that it was too easy to fall into private conversation again. We kept trying though.
S had some odd habits that annoyed others. She used to hide behind doors – that small space between a door and a wall when the door is fully pushed back. She picked at the skin on her lips but didn’t pick the bits off, leaving them dangling like little ribbons. She had eczema on her hands but didn’t treat it. She didn’t attend lessons, but didn’t get into trouble. She refused to use her desk or locker and instead carried absolutely everything around she might need. Her bag was the size of a small house and was not much smaller than her whole body.
I wish I could say that we didn’t tease her. But that wouldn’t be entirely true. We didn’t to her face, but we weren’t kind behind her back. She was just so different.
The day that I broke through her reserve and met the real S was a horrible day for her.
Someone accidentally kicked over her bag in class, on the way to the front for a French recital, and an unopened sanitary towel fell out. And he picked it up and handed it to her. He was honestly trying to help. We started to laugh at the look on his face – when he realised what he was holding, he looked like someone who had picked up a bomb.
This, of course, would be embarrassing to most fourteen year olds, but for one as painfully shy as S, it was just too much.
We were shell-shocked at the evident distress that she was in. The good natured laughter that had started rapidly faded away. S turned white, pink and then red in quick succession, and just started sobbing where she stood, hand still out to take the towel. Then she ran from the room.
None of us knew what to do.
I said I would find her, and see if she was ok. I didn’t like French recital that much, so it was for purely selfish reasons I went after her.
I found her in the lower school girl’s toilets. She was standing on the bowl so that I couldn’t see her feet and know where she was. Being shameless, I just climbed up in the next cubicle to check anyway.
She told me to go away. I remember saying that I didn’t want to leave her alone. I said that I would stay with her, but we didn’t have to talk. We were silent for a little while.
Then we started to talk. I’ve never been able to stay quiet very long, and to me the whole situation was funny. She thought that we were laughing at her because she had a towel in her bag. I can remember the feeling of absolute bewilderment I felt when I explained that most of the girls had something like that in their bag, just in case. That we weren’t laughing at her at all, but at our poor classmate who had picked it up.
I got to know S a little better after that. She trusted me. Her mother invited me out a few times. We went bowling. We went to the cinema. We talked.
S was a beautiful soul, hidden away under her shyness. She had a deep and profound faith, a love for poetry and the ability to make beautiful music. She honestly could see into your soul and share your feelings.
I could see all that then. But I couldn’t appreciate it. I was fourteen. Not heartless, not uncaring, but just immature. We were fourteen.
Then one day she didn’t come to school. I missed her that first day, but truthfully, I didn’t give her too much thought after that.
Days turned into weeks and we heard that she had gone into hospital. We weren’t told why. We wrote letters and had collections to buy her flowers and presents. Christmas, Easter, her birthday passed and we were told that she wouldn’t be back that year. It wasn’t possible for us to visit her.
S returned briefly the following school year. Nothing changed much. Her strange habits and behaviours had intensified and she was even quieter. She wouldn’t talk much to anyone at all. She refused to talk about why she had been in hospital. Rumours abounded.
S returned to hospital later that year. I never saw her again.
We carried on writing. We sent cards and presents, but as time passed, the rest of the class lost interest, until it was just my best friend and myself sending her letters.
I left school three years later. We still wrote occasionally, although the frequency was diminishing. I had the excitement of University, my first boyfriend, my first car, a new job to occupy me. S was still in hospital. Sometimes it felt stilted – I used to wrack my brains thinking of interesting things to tell S and not feel guilty that she wasn’t experiencing these things. We were the same age – she must have wanted those things too and she couldn’t have them.
I knew she was in a residential scheme for young adults. I didn’t fully understand why, but I never asked. I didn’t want to pry into an obviously personal matter. She could tell me if she wanted to.
S wrote about a cat she had. I told her about my dog. She’d met him and by this time he was getting old. We joked about which made the better pet – cats or dogs. I swore blind that dogs were perfect, and cats were rubbish. If only I could talk to her now!
In her last letter she told me that she was about to move to an independent living scheme. She seemed so positive and happy. I never did get around to replying to her. I had exams coming up……….
A couple of months later, I received a letter from her parents. They had found my last letter in with her papers. They informed me that S had taken her own life a couple of days before. They thanked me for having continued writing to her and asked me to attend the funeral. S would have been twenty one in the summer.
So I went. My old best friend was there (we had drifted apart years ago) – she had continued to write. My form teacher was there as well – she had stayed in contact over the years as well. Another old friend was there. F was from a different class but we had sat next to each other for two years in maths class – she knew the family.
The funeral was beautiful.
At the house after the funeral, I caught up with my old friends and teacher. F had remained in close contact with the family and told us what had happened.
S had struggled with severe OCD for most of her life. Although she was very happy and excited that she was well enough to move to an independent flat, she struggled with her thoughts after receiving some distressing news. Eventually she returned to hospital, and unable to cope, she attempted to kill herself.
Her first attempt was not successful. S was placed under close supervision, but a few days later, she hung herself in a bathroom. Her thoughts were just too intrusive and persistent for her to be able to cope with anymore and she gave the nurses the slip just long enough to achieve the peace that treatment had not managed to give her.
Happy Birthday, S. It would have been your twenty seventh birthday today. I’ll be thinking of you.
None of us were particularly interested in her. We all had our best friends, and our little groups that we stayed in. We were only just fourteen, after all.
S sat behind me in the form room. I can’t remember who she sat next to – I think she was on her own. Our form teacher asked my best friend and I to keep an eye out for her, to try and make friends with her.
We tried. S was so difficult to talk to, that it was too easy to fall into private conversation again. We kept trying though.
S had some odd habits that annoyed others. She used to hide behind doors – that small space between a door and a wall when the door is fully pushed back. She picked at the skin on her lips but didn’t pick the bits off, leaving them dangling like little ribbons. She had eczema on her hands but didn’t treat it. She didn’t attend lessons, but didn’t get into trouble. She refused to use her desk or locker and instead carried absolutely everything around she might need. Her bag was the size of a small house and was not much smaller than her whole body.
I wish I could say that we didn’t tease her. But that wouldn’t be entirely true. We didn’t to her face, but we weren’t kind behind her back. She was just so different.
The day that I broke through her reserve and met the real S was a horrible day for her.
Someone accidentally kicked over her bag in class, on the way to the front for a French recital, and an unopened sanitary towel fell out. And he picked it up and handed it to her. He was honestly trying to help. We started to laugh at the look on his face – when he realised what he was holding, he looked like someone who had picked up a bomb.
This, of course, would be embarrassing to most fourteen year olds, but for one as painfully shy as S, it was just too much.
We were shell-shocked at the evident distress that she was in. The good natured laughter that had started rapidly faded away. S turned white, pink and then red in quick succession, and just started sobbing where she stood, hand still out to take the towel. Then she ran from the room.
None of us knew what to do.
I said I would find her, and see if she was ok. I didn’t like French recital that much, so it was for purely selfish reasons I went after her.
I found her in the lower school girl’s toilets. She was standing on the bowl so that I couldn’t see her feet and know where she was. Being shameless, I just climbed up in the next cubicle to check anyway.
She told me to go away. I remember saying that I didn’t want to leave her alone. I said that I would stay with her, but we didn’t have to talk. We were silent for a little while.
Then we started to talk. I’ve never been able to stay quiet very long, and to me the whole situation was funny. She thought that we were laughing at her because she had a towel in her bag. I can remember the feeling of absolute bewilderment I felt when I explained that most of the girls had something like that in their bag, just in case. That we weren’t laughing at her at all, but at our poor classmate who had picked it up.
I got to know S a little better after that. She trusted me. Her mother invited me out a few times. We went bowling. We went to the cinema. We talked.
S was a beautiful soul, hidden away under her shyness. She had a deep and profound faith, a love for poetry and the ability to make beautiful music. She honestly could see into your soul and share your feelings.
I could see all that then. But I couldn’t appreciate it. I was fourteen. Not heartless, not uncaring, but just immature. We were fourteen.
Then one day she didn’t come to school. I missed her that first day, but truthfully, I didn’t give her too much thought after that.
Days turned into weeks and we heard that she had gone into hospital. We weren’t told why. We wrote letters and had collections to buy her flowers and presents. Christmas, Easter, her birthday passed and we were told that she wouldn’t be back that year. It wasn’t possible for us to visit her.
S returned briefly the following school year. Nothing changed much. Her strange habits and behaviours had intensified and she was even quieter. She wouldn’t talk much to anyone at all. She refused to talk about why she had been in hospital. Rumours abounded.
S returned to hospital later that year. I never saw her again.
We carried on writing. We sent cards and presents, but as time passed, the rest of the class lost interest, until it was just my best friend and myself sending her letters.
I left school three years later. We still wrote occasionally, although the frequency was diminishing. I had the excitement of University, my first boyfriend, my first car, a new job to occupy me. S was still in hospital. Sometimes it felt stilted – I used to wrack my brains thinking of interesting things to tell S and not feel guilty that she wasn’t experiencing these things. We were the same age – she must have wanted those things too and she couldn’t have them.
I knew she was in a residential scheme for young adults. I didn’t fully understand why, but I never asked. I didn’t want to pry into an obviously personal matter. She could tell me if she wanted to.
S wrote about a cat she had. I told her about my dog. She’d met him and by this time he was getting old. We joked about which made the better pet – cats or dogs. I swore blind that dogs were perfect, and cats were rubbish. If only I could talk to her now!
In her last letter she told me that she was about to move to an independent living scheme. She seemed so positive and happy. I never did get around to replying to her. I had exams coming up……….
A couple of months later, I received a letter from her parents. They had found my last letter in with her papers. They informed me that S had taken her own life a couple of days before. They thanked me for having continued writing to her and asked me to attend the funeral. S would have been twenty one in the summer.
So I went. My old best friend was there (we had drifted apart years ago) – she had continued to write. My form teacher was there as well – she had stayed in contact over the years as well. Another old friend was there. F was from a different class but we had sat next to each other for two years in maths class – she knew the family.
The funeral was beautiful.
At the house after the funeral, I caught up with my old friends and teacher. F had remained in close contact with the family and told us what had happened.
S had struggled with severe OCD for most of her life. Although she was very happy and excited that she was well enough to move to an independent flat, she struggled with her thoughts after receiving some distressing news. Eventually she returned to hospital, and unable to cope, she attempted to kill herself.
Her first attempt was not successful. S was placed under close supervision, but a few days later, she hung herself in a bathroom. Her thoughts were just too intrusive and persistent for her to be able to cope with anymore and she gave the nurses the slip just long enough to achieve the peace that treatment had not managed to give her.
Happy Birthday, S. It would have been your twenty seventh birthday today. I’ll be thinking of you.
Saturday, 9 April 2005
Or not, as the case may be..
As my alter ego knows all too well, things are not always as is they seem.
Willow has bitten the end off of her tail before. Naturally we assumed that she had done it again. But something wasn't right.
The vet was sceptical that she could have done this to herself. The bleeding was caused by a straight, two and a half inch long gash up her tail - it was unlikely she could do that to herself.
However, the vet discovered evidence of previous chewing during surgery, so for want of a better explanation, the diagnosis was a recurrence of feline hyperesthesia.
But this was odd. Being a fan of murder mysteries, I decided to analyse the trail of bloodsplatters decorating the house. I don't have luminol, or a stringing kit, or even a magnifiying glass. I do however have a DangerMouse lapel pin and too much free time.
We started in the bedroom. We had found her there, bleeding out onto my pillow, panting and shaking. One huge bloodstain. One ruined pillow, but no help.
We tracked the spatters along the hall to the spare room. She had obviously cornered herself behind the door as another huge stain was evident on the door. There were spatters up the wall (five feet up) and the mirror also had droplets on it.
We followed her path back to the computer room (blood on my files, carpet and monitor) and down the stairs (blood up the walls). Into the kitchen.
At first glance, we couldn't find anything. I thought back to what had happened that morning. I had fed the cats that morning, and then fed Lila. Lila eats in the kitchen with the cats.
I remembered that I had left Lila's food on the side whilst I ran for a tissue - bloody hayfever again. Whilst I was out of the room, Willow shot up the stairs, Frankie hissed and tried to ignite the gas stove with his belly. When I returned, Lila was sat eyeing her food and Frankie was eyeing Lila. Pretty normal stuff. Willow doesn't tend to stay downstairs long for fear someone will steal her place on the Stuffed Rottweiler.
Had Lila tried to bite Willow? Why had Frankie hissed? Lila, being a rottweiler, is tailless, and has always had a fascination with the cats tails..........
It didn't seem too likely. I would have heard something, and Lila would not have been sitting waiting for breakfast patiently. If she had bitten WIllow, she wouldn't have just sat there.
There were no knives out. Or any other sharp objects. Or any blunt objects. In fact, barring Frankie, there was nothing on the side at all.
So we thought about it. Whilst we thought, we fed Lila again. And it hit us.
Lila's food had been on the side. She must have jumped up to sniff it whilst I was out of the room - she knows she is not allowed to jump up in the kitchen.
Willow must have been sniffing her food. She usually does and usually steals a mouthful as well. When Lila jumped up herself to have a sniff, her puppy sharp, but adult sized claws landed on Willow's tail as she sniffed the food. Willow jumped to get away and Lila's claw raked through her tail, leaving a straight, two and a half inch long gash.
Willow shot along the sideboard to avoid Lila, jumped down and ran up the stairs, leaving her trail of blood as she fled.
Mystery solved.
Willow has bitten the end off of her tail before. Naturally we assumed that she had done it again. But something wasn't right.
The vet was sceptical that she could have done this to herself. The bleeding was caused by a straight, two and a half inch long gash up her tail - it was unlikely she could do that to herself.
However, the vet discovered evidence of previous chewing during surgery, so for want of a better explanation, the diagnosis was a recurrence of feline hyperesthesia.
But this was odd. Being a fan of murder mysteries, I decided to analyse the trail of bloodsplatters decorating the house. I don't have luminol, or a stringing kit, or even a magnifiying glass. I do however have a DangerMouse lapel pin and too much free time.
We started in the bedroom. We had found her there, bleeding out onto my pillow, panting and shaking. One huge bloodstain. One ruined pillow, but no help.
We tracked the spatters along the hall to the spare room. She had obviously cornered herself behind the door as another huge stain was evident on the door. There were spatters up the wall (five feet up) and the mirror also had droplets on it.
We followed her path back to the computer room (blood on my files, carpet and monitor) and down the stairs (blood up the walls). Into the kitchen.
At first glance, we couldn't find anything. I thought back to what had happened that morning. I had fed the cats that morning, and then fed Lila. Lila eats in the kitchen with the cats.
I remembered that I had left Lila's food on the side whilst I ran for a tissue - bloody hayfever again. Whilst I was out of the room, Willow shot up the stairs, Frankie hissed and tried to ignite the gas stove with his belly. When I returned, Lila was sat eyeing her food and Frankie was eyeing Lila. Pretty normal stuff. Willow doesn't tend to stay downstairs long for fear someone will steal her place on the Stuffed Rottweiler.
Had Lila tried to bite Willow? Why had Frankie hissed? Lila, being a rottweiler, is tailless, and has always had a fascination with the cats tails..........
It didn't seem too likely. I would have heard something, and Lila would not have been sitting waiting for breakfast patiently. If she had bitten WIllow, she wouldn't have just sat there.
There were no knives out. Or any other sharp objects. Or any blunt objects. In fact, barring Frankie, there was nothing on the side at all.
So we thought about it. Whilst we thought, we fed Lila again. And it hit us.
Lila's food had been on the side. She must have jumped up to sniff it whilst I was out of the room - she knows she is not allowed to jump up in the kitchen.
Willow must have been sniffing her food. She usually does and usually steals a mouthful as well. When Lila jumped up herself to have a sniff, her puppy sharp, but adult sized claws landed on Willow's tail as she sniffed the food. Willow jumped to get away and Lila's claw raked through her tail, leaving a straight, two and a half inch long gash.
Willow shot along the sideboard to avoid Lila, jumped down and ran up the stairs, leaving her trail of blood as she fled.
Mystery solved.
Tuesday, 15 March 2005
Sandwiches
My favourite lunch ever.
Easy to make, carry and eat. You can eat them whilst sitting at your desk working (or playing Spider Solitaire), or whilst wandering aimlessly round the shops because you can’t face returning to that file review you have been putting off.
You can eat them at home lying on the sofa, or whilst chasing after the pets/kids/painter high on cocaine. In the garden. Stuck on traffic. So what to have?
Maybe I lied about sandwiches being the easy option……
Fish? Meat? Salad? Egg? Cheese? Mayo? Butter? Rolls? Sliced white? Wholemeal bread? Malted bread? Baguette? Ciabatta? Flatbread?
Normally I make my lunch at home. But……sometimes I get stuck in traffic and I get bored and hungry. On those days, my sandwich doesn’t even get close to lunchtime before meeting its demise. Of course, even if I get to work on time, the fact that I have a sandwich with me means that I don’t have to resist hunger in the morning.
So sometimes I have to buy one. There are too many choices – do I want the organic sweet-cure bacon, organic egg and sunblush tomato on the organic wholemeal bread, or do I fancy the rare roast beef and mustard on a sliced bloomer, or do I actually want the chicken Caesar wrap with croutons………..?
And every shop and its aunt sells sandwiches, so before I even get to the sandwich choice I have to pick what bloody shop to go to.
Do I want pre-made, or do I want a specially crafted sandwich? Which leads to even more decisions……….which client am I at – are there any shops around? How much time do I have to queue? Am I in an open office? Do I have a white shirt on? Do I have any cash?
By this time, of course, either my entire lunchtime has been spent fart-arsing around, or I am just not hungry anymore.
Today, I spent ages trying to pick a sandwich. I had had a lovely hoisin duck wrap earlier in the week, but then felt very ill after. It turns out that it had bloody cream cheese in it. I found it tucked away in the ingredient list after spending the afternoon inexplicably throwing up– what the fuck is cheese doing in a hoisin duck wrap?
Did I learn to read the ingredients? Did I bollocks.
I picked my sandwich. Being virtuous I had selected a low calorie roast chicken sandwich, no mayo, low fat spread. Well, my right hand was virtuous. My left hand was clutching a packet of Maltesers. I concentrated hard on that right hand. Left hand was hand non grata.
The queue was long. I flicked through a crappy women’s mag (“Eat nothing but chocolate and lose six stone”…… “My husband is a love cheat RAT but I’ll never leave him”……… “I am a man and I didn’t KNOW until I gave birth!”………. I got pregnant from wearing my husbands TROUSERS – whoops, that one was from Delphiland).
Two people from the front of the queue, and I glanced over the ingredient list of my virtuous sandwich.
Dear people, can you guess what was hiding in my roast chicken sandwich, no mayo, low fat spread?
Can you? That is right. Fucking cream cheese. What the fuck is cream cheese doing in my sandwich? Again? And in a low calorie sandwich? Argh.
So back I trudged to the sandwich cabinet and I started the whole bloody process over again.
I just had a crappy full fat chicken sandwich, with peppered mayo on malted bread.
I need inspiration for tomorrow. So tell me. What is your perfect sandwich? I need to know.
Easy to make, carry and eat. You can eat them whilst sitting at your desk working (or playing Spider Solitaire), or whilst wandering aimlessly round the shops because you can’t face returning to that file review you have been putting off.
You can eat them at home lying on the sofa, or whilst chasing after the pets/kids/painter high on cocaine. In the garden. Stuck on traffic. So what to have?
Maybe I lied about sandwiches being the easy option……
Fish? Meat? Salad? Egg? Cheese? Mayo? Butter? Rolls? Sliced white? Wholemeal bread? Malted bread? Baguette? Ciabatta? Flatbread?
Normally I make my lunch at home. But……sometimes I get stuck in traffic and I get bored and hungry. On those days, my sandwich doesn’t even get close to lunchtime before meeting its demise. Of course, even if I get to work on time, the fact that I have a sandwich with me means that I don’t have to resist hunger in the morning.
So sometimes I have to buy one. There are too many choices – do I want the organic sweet-cure bacon, organic egg and sunblush tomato on the organic wholemeal bread, or do I fancy the rare roast beef and mustard on a sliced bloomer, or do I actually want the chicken Caesar wrap with croutons………..?
And every shop and its aunt sells sandwiches, so before I even get to the sandwich choice I have to pick what bloody shop to go to.
Do I want pre-made, or do I want a specially crafted sandwich? Which leads to even more decisions……….which client am I at – are there any shops around? How much time do I have to queue? Am I in an open office? Do I have a white shirt on? Do I have any cash?
By this time, of course, either my entire lunchtime has been spent fart-arsing around, or I am just not hungry anymore.
Today, I spent ages trying to pick a sandwich. I had had a lovely hoisin duck wrap earlier in the week, but then felt very ill after. It turns out that it had bloody cream cheese in it. I found it tucked away in the ingredient list after spending the afternoon inexplicably throwing up– what the fuck is cheese doing in a hoisin duck wrap?
Did I learn to read the ingredients? Did I bollocks.
I picked my sandwich. Being virtuous I had selected a low calorie roast chicken sandwich, no mayo, low fat spread. Well, my right hand was virtuous. My left hand was clutching a packet of Maltesers. I concentrated hard on that right hand. Left hand was hand non grata.
The queue was long. I flicked through a crappy women’s mag (“Eat nothing but chocolate and lose six stone”…… “My husband is a love cheat RAT but I’ll never leave him”……… “I am a man and I didn’t KNOW until I gave birth!”………. I got pregnant from wearing my husbands TROUSERS – whoops, that one was from Delphiland).
Two people from the front of the queue, and I glanced over the ingredient list of my virtuous sandwich.
Dear people, can you guess what was hiding in my roast chicken sandwich, no mayo, low fat spread?
Can you? That is right. Fucking cream cheese. What the fuck is cream cheese doing in my sandwich? Again? And in a low calorie sandwich? Argh.
So back I trudged to the sandwich cabinet and I started the whole bloody process over again.
I just had a crappy full fat chicken sandwich, with peppered mayo on malted bread.
I need inspiration for tomorrow. So tell me. What is your perfect sandwich? I need to know.
Sunday, 27 February 2005
Cousin It no more
I finally set foot inside a hairdresser's.
I hadn't had my hair cut in around ten months. And it showed. God, did it show! Remnants of fucking scarlet mixed in with Brazilian Brown. Split ends up to my ears and broken hairs from badly placed slides.
I don't really like going to the hairdressers. The mindless and artificial small talk that one is obliged to partake in pisses me off no end, and I always without fail forget to put in contact lens so I can see what they are doing. Plus the tea always tastes like crap.
And yesterday was no different.
Many moons ago I used to be a skinhead. I loved it - no buggering about in the morning with hairbrushes, hot brushes and other hair shit. Get out the shower and be ready to go.
Times change and hair grows. My hair had reached lengths not seen since primary school and had managed to cascade down my back, like a brown and scabby waterfall. It had to go.
I went in at the appointed time. I had no clue what I wanted, except to lose as much hair as possible.
The stylist was aghast at her mission.
"Cut off all your hair? Are you sure you want to do this? How about we go for a chin length bob and if you want it shorter, you can always come back"
I was determined, if vague about small matters such as style. The hair had to go. We flicked through some magazines to get an idea of what I wanted. And we found it.
Snip, snip, snip.
Hair piled up around our feet, despite the best efforts of the salon junior. I didn't get to see too much of the transformation as I was without glasses for most of it.
I put my glasses back on and looked in the mirror. Greeting me was someone I hadn't seen in years, and hadn't realised just how much I missed.
Me.
I hadn't had my hair cut in around ten months. And it showed. God, did it show! Remnants of fucking scarlet mixed in with Brazilian Brown. Split ends up to my ears and broken hairs from badly placed slides.
I don't really like going to the hairdressers. The mindless and artificial small talk that one is obliged to partake in pisses me off no end, and I always without fail forget to put in contact lens so I can see what they are doing. Plus the tea always tastes like crap.
And yesterday was no different.
Many moons ago I used to be a skinhead. I loved it - no buggering about in the morning with hairbrushes, hot brushes and other hair shit. Get out the shower and be ready to go.
Times change and hair grows. My hair had reached lengths not seen since primary school and had managed to cascade down my back, like a brown and scabby waterfall. It had to go.
I went in at the appointed time. I had no clue what I wanted, except to lose as much hair as possible.
The stylist was aghast at her mission.
"Cut off all your hair? Are you sure you want to do this? How about we go for a chin length bob and if you want it shorter, you can always come back"
I was determined, if vague about small matters such as style. The hair had to go. We flicked through some magazines to get an idea of what I wanted. And we found it.
Snip, snip, snip.
Hair piled up around our feet, despite the best efforts of the salon junior. I didn't get to see too much of the transformation as I was without glasses for most of it.
I put my glasses back on and looked in the mirror. Greeting me was someone I hadn't seen in years, and hadn't realised just how much I missed.
Me.
Friday, 25 February 2005
Angry
Oh yes.
Yet another dickwad politician is trying to interfere with women's right to privacy under the guise of "protecting children". Quite how obtaining the details of all women in Kansas who have had abortions past 22 weeks will achieve this is beyond me. Oh hang on, let me guess. The children he really wants to protect are the ones that women are having the temerity to abort for their own personal reasons.
Fucktard.
Then there are the good religious ladies of a forum I frequent. They are for the most part very nice ladies. But they have cottoned on to a fellow bloggers tragedy and are now slating her and her decision, because it is contrary to their beliefs. She is "hard hearted" and "selfish" for her decision to induce a child that will not be able to live.
They are concerned for the stresses that the child may undergo in induction. Fuck the stresses it will undergo at full term birth. Fuck the stress that the mother, father and sibligs will feel, watching a child growing that will die at birth. Waiting for the inevitable.
Can someone please explain to me exactly why an unborn child is of greater importance than the mother? The existing family?
Because I don't get it. At all.
Yet another dickwad politician is trying to interfere with women's right to privacy under the guise of "protecting children". Quite how obtaining the details of all women in Kansas who have had abortions past 22 weeks will achieve this is beyond me. Oh hang on, let me guess. The children he really wants to protect are the ones that women are having the temerity to abort for their own personal reasons.
Fucktard.
Then there are the good religious ladies of a forum I frequent. They are for the most part very nice ladies. But they have cottoned on to a fellow bloggers tragedy and are now slating her and her decision, because it is contrary to their beliefs. She is "hard hearted" and "selfish" for her decision to induce a child that will not be able to live.
They are concerned for the stresses that the child may undergo in induction. Fuck the stresses it will undergo at full term birth. Fuck the stress that the mother, father and sibligs will feel, watching a child growing that will die at birth. Waiting for the inevitable.
Can someone please explain to me exactly why an unborn child is of greater importance than the mother? The existing family?
Because I don't get it. At all.
Thursday, 17 February 2005
Stock take
I am back on a diet. A proper diet. With exercise. I will lose this excess weight and keep it off.
I have booked Lila's puppy training classes. She isn't allowed out for another three and a half weeks but as soon as she has the all clear, her bottom is going to training and agility. In the meantime, we will continue as we are. Lots of training and games and marching round the garden on lead.
I will get a new lead for my amp and get back to playing my bass again. It is not that much fun without an amp.
The Baron will turn his socks out or he will have no clean socks.
I will finish my photo album of the Harvey Cat. I have picked the pictures, I just need some printer ink to print them.
I will get on with writing my book.
I will get my hair cut.
I have booked Lila's puppy training classes. She isn't allowed out for another three and a half weeks but as soon as she has the all clear, her bottom is going to training and agility. In the meantime, we will continue as we are. Lots of training and games and marching round the garden on lead.
I will get a new lead for my amp and get back to playing my bass again. It is not that much fun without an amp.
The Baron will turn his socks out or he will have no clean socks.
I will finish my photo album of the Harvey Cat. I have picked the pictures, I just need some printer ink to print them.
I will get on with writing my book.
I will get my hair cut.
Wednesday, 16 February 2005
Older and wiser
I'm 27 now. Crap.
Things to be pleased about:
I live with my best friend and partner.I have seven great pets.I'm qualified (at last!).I own my own house.My family are reasonably normal.
Things that aren't so great/need work:
I miss my Harvey Cat.
I am three years away from thirty.I wanted to have finished having children by thirty. I think aiming to have at least commenced trying by thirty is the best I can manage.
Getting the Baron to turn his socks the right way out.
Stopping Lila sneaking upstairs to piss on the carpet.
Things to be pleased about:
I live with my best friend and partner.I have seven great pets.I'm qualified (at last!).I own my own house.My family are reasonably normal.
Things that aren't so great/need work:
I miss my Harvey Cat.
I am three years away from thirty.I wanted to have finished having children by thirty. I think aiming to have at least commenced trying by thirty is the best I can manage.
Getting the Baron to turn his socks the right way out.
Stopping Lila sneaking upstairs to piss on the carpet.
Wednesday, 9 February 2005
Bloody subconscious
I had a horrible dream last night.
I dreamt that the Baron had only a few hours to live after being poisoned (and no, I hadn't been watching the Simpsons!). He was paralysed on our bed, and for some reason I was sent to Australia that day. As you are.
He just stayed in that limbo state, waiting to die, and I stayed with him (when I returned from Australia a few hours later - great transport!). Just waiting.
It was horrible. I just sat and held his hand, whilst crying.
The legacy of that dream has stayed with me all day. Everything feels a little off kilter, out of focus.
I dreamt that the Baron had only a few hours to live after being poisoned (and no, I hadn't been watching the Simpsons!). He was paralysed on our bed, and for some reason I was sent to Australia that day. As you are.
He just stayed in that limbo state, waiting to die, and I stayed with him (when I returned from Australia a few hours later - great transport!). Just waiting.
It was horrible. I just sat and held his hand, whilst crying.
The legacy of that dream has stayed with me all day. Everything feels a little off kilter, out of focus.
Tuesday, 8 February 2005
Has it only been...
...two days since I last posted? It feels much longer.
I will post some dawg pictures soon........I really will. Lila is simply gorgeous (if a little on the bitey side) and is growing like a weed. Or is it a wild flower?
In the meantime, we have been busy with socialising the young Miss. She is very taken with her uncle, and he with her. Very cute to watch a huge dog playing so gently with a puppy, even when that puppy takes incredible liberties. She clambers all over his huge head and he gums her. She steals his food. He sniffs her girly bits.
In cat news, Willow has taken to sleeping on the stuffed rottweiler upstairs. All the time. I'm not sure whether she actually gets up more than twice a day, which would conveniently coincide with feeding time. She just loves that rottweiler, and likes to be stroked whilst wrapped around its head. Hopefully this bodes well for her long-term relationship with the dawg.
Ellie appears to be possessed by Harvey. This is very strange, but she has picked up every one of his annoying habits with gusto. She likes to stand on the balcony and howl. She knocks things over when she doesn't get her own way. She bosses everyone around, and this has only happened in the last two weeks. It is nice to feel that he lives on here with us all, but luckily Ellie has kept all of her own sweet habits (and her less sweet ones, like trying to stick her arse in my face).
Charlie and Frankie are the same as ever. Laid back and lazy. My wonderful loving boys. They are always together now, and my fear of Frankie's face remaining forever unwashed has blown away after watching Charlie tenderly cleaning Frankie's face.
Hollie is brave. She still spends a little time under the bed, but mostly she she sleeps in the bathroom or on my pillow. She will corner Lila and whop her across the face before running. She still whops me in the face if I don't wake up at night and fuss her. She has a very loving heart, but a nervous body.
A cage in the local RSPCA centre may well be empty in the near future. A pure white boy with black splodges and a thirst for love and affection is awaiting the results of his blood tests. He is not a replacement for Harvey, but he reminds me of him in a very good way. Like the way I found Charlie, something led me there to find him.
In people news, the Baron is still off work with stress. At the moment, he is fart arsing around the garden and digging up the beds. He seems quite content and we will have an amazing vegetable garden come spring, thanks to his hard work.
Me?
Good days and bad days. The weekend, and last night were bad.
Today is a little better. But even now, as I sit here and look out over the gardens and fields, part of me expects a little white and tabby face to appear from behind the fence and come running in to me (Harvey would shimmy up the conservatory to come in at the window, miaowing and purring at the same time). And it hurts everytime I remember that he will never do that again.
The death of a cat is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. People say
"it was only a cat""these things happen""enjoy your other cats""you can always get another""its been two weeks, get over it"
but to me, this is a very real and painful loss. I loved that cat so damn much.
I do love all of my cats very much, and we are adopting another cat, but this doesn't in anyway stop the pain of knowing that my beloved, my first, my special cat is no more. It might have been two weeks, but that has just been two weeks in the rest of my lifetime that I will live without my HarveyCat.
It is hard.
I will post some dawg pictures soon........I really will. Lila is simply gorgeous (if a little on the bitey side) and is growing like a weed. Or is it a wild flower?
In the meantime, we have been busy with socialising the young Miss. She is very taken with her uncle, and he with her. Very cute to watch a huge dog playing so gently with a puppy, even when that puppy takes incredible liberties. She clambers all over his huge head and he gums her. She steals his food. He sniffs her girly bits.
In cat news, Willow has taken to sleeping on the stuffed rottweiler upstairs. All the time. I'm not sure whether she actually gets up more than twice a day, which would conveniently coincide with feeding time. She just loves that rottweiler, and likes to be stroked whilst wrapped around its head. Hopefully this bodes well for her long-term relationship with the dawg.
Ellie appears to be possessed by Harvey. This is very strange, but she has picked up every one of his annoying habits with gusto. She likes to stand on the balcony and howl. She knocks things over when she doesn't get her own way. She bosses everyone around, and this has only happened in the last two weeks. It is nice to feel that he lives on here with us all, but luckily Ellie has kept all of her own sweet habits (and her less sweet ones, like trying to stick her arse in my face).
Charlie and Frankie are the same as ever. Laid back and lazy. My wonderful loving boys. They are always together now, and my fear of Frankie's face remaining forever unwashed has blown away after watching Charlie tenderly cleaning Frankie's face.
Hollie is brave. She still spends a little time under the bed, but mostly she she sleeps in the bathroom or on my pillow. She will corner Lila and whop her across the face before running. She still whops me in the face if I don't wake up at night and fuss her. She has a very loving heart, but a nervous body.
A cage in the local RSPCA centre may well be empty in the near future. A pure white boy with black splodges and a thirst for love and affection is awaiting the results of his blood tests. He is not a replacement for Harvey, but he reminds me of him in a very good way. Like the way I found Charlie, something led me there to find him.
In people news, the Baron is still off work with stress. At the moment, he is fart arsing around the garden and digging up the beds. He seems quite content and we will have an amazing vegetable garden come spring, thanks to his hard work.
Me?
Good days and bad days. The weekend, and last night were bad.
Today is a little better. But even now, as I sit here and look out over the gardens and fields, part of me expects a little white and tabby face to appear from behind the fence and come running in to me (Harvey would shimmy up the conservatory to come in at the window, miaowing and purring at the same time). And it hurts everytime I remember that he will never do that again.
The death of a cat is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. People say
"it was only a cat""these things happen""enjoy your other cats""you can always get another""its been two weeks, get over it"
but to me, this is a very real and painful loss. I loved that cat so damn much.
I do love all of my cats very much, and we are adopting another cat, but this doesn't in anyway stop the pain of knowing that my beloved, my first, my special cat is no more. It might have been two weeks, but that has just been two weeks in the rest of my lifetime that I will live without my HarveyCat.
It is hard.
Wednesday, 2 February 2005
The water
Something odd is going on with the water. Everywhere but here, that is.
Vast numbers of women are succumbing. Virtually every woman I met today was pregnant (and the men I met had wives who were all expecting). It appears that the women of the forums I visit are falling pregnant at the click of a mouse.
Not here. My cycle is officially fucked.
I chart, but I have no idea what is going on. Harvey's death (I tear up just writing that) has left my cycle in limbo.
And yet, abortion is the main topic of the day in blogs I visit and forums I frequent.
Some feel that life begins at conception. Some do not. Some feel that that life must be protected at all costs - that a woman must sacrifice her body for nine months to bring forth life. Some feel that there are no good reasons to abort. Some feel that there are.
People have the right to believe whatever the hell they want. And to express those beliefs.
They do not have the right to hurt others. People like Holly, who uses Cecily's tragedy to further her own cause, regardless of how much pain that might cause. People like Holly, who hijack good and decent debates to attack.
I know where I stand on the issue. But I am not going to force my beliefs on to anyone, and insist that my way is the right way. It might be for me. It might not be for you.
Some might do well to consider that.
Vast numbers of women are succumbing. Virtually every woman I met today was pregnant (and the men I met had wives who were all expecting). It appears that the women of the forums I visit are falling pregnant at the click of a mouse.
Not here. My cycle is officially fucked.
I chart, but I have no idea what is going on. Harvey's death (I tear up just writing that) has left my cycle in limbo.
And yet, abortion is the main topic of the day in blogs I visit and forums I frequent.
Some feel that life begins at conception. Some do not. Some feel that that life must be protected at all costs - that a woman must sacrifice her body for nine months to bring forth life. Some feel that there are no good reasons to abort. Some feel that there are.
People have the right to believe whatever the hell they want. And to express those beliefs.
They do not have the right to hurt others. People like Holly, who uses Cecily's tragedy to further her own cause, regardless of how much pain that might cause. People like Holly, who hijack good and decent debates to attack.
I know where I stand on the issue. But I am not going to force my beliefs on to anyone, and insist that my way is the right way. It might be for me. It might not be for you.
Some might do well to consider that.
Sunday, 30 January 2005
Just a week
It's been a week. Just one week.
This time last week, we were out searching for our errant cat. It was snowing, but we hoped he was just being naughty and following us.
The Baron thought he saw a little white face peeking out from under a tree. I felt him nearby. We were wrong.
Harvey was several hundred metres away, by the side of the road.
But we were right. We are both sure that he found us that night to say goodbye.
I can't believe it has been a week.
This time last week, we were out searching for our errant cat. It was snowing, but we hoped he was just being naughty and following us.
The Baron thought he saw a little white face peeking out from under a tree. I felt him nearby. We were wrong.
Harvey was several hundred metres away, by the side of the road.
But we were right. We are both sure that he found us that night to say goodbye.
I can't believe it has been a week.
Friday, 28 January 2005
When will it get better?
The day started off so well. I didn't cry when Harvey wasn't there to trip me up. I smiled when I saw the obvious pleasure Charlie gets from being the first to eat. Ellie spent five minutes twisting around my ankles and Willow sat on my lap whilst I got ready. Frankie followed me everywhere I went.
Then the post came. All of the cats micro-chip certificates had arrived. Including Harvey's.
Fat lot of good that will do him.
I remember when I took him to have it done. I was holding him - it is one big fuck off needle they use - and he cried out. I held him whilst the vet finished all the paperwork. We hadn't moved yet, but to save the change of address fee we put down my new address. I joked that I'd better not lose him or he'd get there before we would!
He was micro-chipped. He had his vaccinations. He was wormed and de-flea'd. I treated his weak eye whenever it got inflamed and sore. I took care of his teeth. But none of it was enough.
I love all of my pets but I can feel myself pulling away from them. I cannot go through this with each of them.
Then the post came. All of the cats micro-chip certificates had arrived. Including Harvey's.
Fat lot of good that will do him.
I remember when I took him to have it done. I was holding him - it is one big fuck off needle they use - and he cried out. I held him whilst the vet finished all the paperwork. We hadn't moved yet, but to save the change of address fee we put down my new address. I joked that I'd better not lose him or he'd get there before we would!
He was micro-chipped. He had his vaccinations. He was wormed and de-flea'd. I treated his weak eye whenever it got inflamed and sore. I took care of his teeth. But none of it was enough.
I love all of my pets but I can feel myself pulling away from them. I cannot go through this with each of them.
Sunday, 21 November 2004
Thursday, 18 November 2004
The size of a teabag
When sperm and egg meet they must enter into some serious negotiations for the zygote contract. Everything must be just right, as the contract must be delivered to exact specifications.
Picture the scene, about 27 and a half years ago, if you will. Mr Sperm is sat at one end of the table, and Ms Egg at the other. The hour is late, and the other sperm have called it a day. Ms Egg is the sole representative for her company.
Egg: I must pass on the ability to eat an entire packet of biscuits in one sitting. This is a vital skill, and cannot be lost.
Sperm: You have got to be joking! No way. Not going to happen. Why on earth would anyone NEED that skill?
Egg: Tough luck. No biscuits, no contract. That is how it must be.
Sperm: Fine. If you get that, then I want to pass on the ability to drink beer until it hurts.
Egg: Bloody pointless skill, if you ask me. But ok, what the hell. What's left? Are we nearly done?
Sperm: Hum. Only the unimportant bits, I think. Grey eyes ok?
Egg: They'll do. How do you feel about musical skills?
Sperm: If you get to pass on musical skills, I want to pass on the love of reading.
Egg: Deal. I like that. Last two. You get one and I get one.
Sperm: All I have left to pass on is short sightedness and an inability to map read.
Egg: Does that explain why you had trouble finding the venue today?
Sperm: Haha. You don't have a real sense of humour to pass on then?
Egg: I have a bladder the size of a teabag, and a clicky elbow left. Let's toss.
Sperm: I find that to be a deeply offensive remark. It is offensive to my millions upon millions of compatriots who met their end through tossing.
Egg: Shove it up your arse.
Sperm: I'll ignore that. I'm going to go with short-sightedness.
Egg: I choose the bladder the size of a teabag.
Sperm: But we agreed on the ability to drink beer until it hurts!
Egg: It will hurt now. Never let it be said I do not have a good sense of humour.
And that is how I got my teabag sized bladder.
Picture the scene, about 27 and a half years ago, if you will. Mr Sperm is sat at one end of the table, and Ms Egg at the other. The hour is late, and the other sperm have called it a day. Ms Egg is the sole representative for her company.
Egg: I must pass on the ability to eat an entire packet of biscuits in one sitting. This is a vital skill, and cannot be lost.
Sperm: You have got to be joking! No way. Not going to happen. Why on earth would anyone NEED that skill?
Egg: Tough luck. No biscuits, no contract. That is how it must be.
Sperm: Fine. If you get that, then I want to pass on the ability to drink beer until it hurts.
Egg: Bloody pointless skill, if you ask me. But ok, what the hell. What's left? Are we nearly done?
Sperm: Hum. Only the unimportant bits, I think. Grey eyes ok?
Egg: They'll do. How do you feel about musical skills?
Sperm: If you get to pass on musical skills, I want to pass on the love of reading.
Egg: Deal. I like that. Last two. You get one and I get one.
Sperm: All I have left to pass on is short sightedness and an inability to map read.
Egg: Does that explain why you had trouble finding the venue today?
Sperm: Haha. You don't have a real sense of humour to pass on then?
Egg: I have a bladder the size of a teabag, and a clicky elbow left. Let's toss.
Sperm: I find that to be a deeply offensive remark. It is offensive to my millions upon millions of compatriots who met their end through tossing.
Egg: Shove it up your arse.
Sperm: I'll ignore that. I'm going to go with short-sightedness.
Egg: I choose the bladder the size of a teabag.
Sperm: But we agreed on the ability to drink beer until it hurts!
Egg: It will hurt now. Never let it be said I do not have a good sense of humour.
And that is how I got my teabag sized bladder.
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