pussy

In the Eye of the Storm (a photo blog)

We had weather that made me go Yikes! this afternoon.  Oodles of rain was accompanied by treacherous lightning and very noisy thunder. 

I took comfort with Tabatha-Cat.  We lay on my bed and, because she is unfazed by copious amounts of weather-noise (after all, it is cosy and warm and safe indoors, so why be fazed?), I took it upon myself to be pesky and I shoved the camera in her face. 

These are the result.

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I love my pussy.

*smile*

please God bless my Tabz and keep her safe and cosy and warm always xxx Elsabeth

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stolen pixie dust

I think that my house is visited at night by evil pixies. 

Not only do they jump on my bed (causing it to shake) but they also steal my belongings.  Seriously.

Just recently they’ve stolen some stamps [presumably they have pixie relatives with whom they correspond], some expensive eye cream [I don’t even use eye cream; I was forced to buy it from Avon because the brochure made me feel bad for being in my thirties and owning no eye cream (what about the wrinkles? gasped the scented pages)] and my adorable blue necklace, which I lovelovelove

A long time ago I mislaid my big chunky silver cross.  As it still hasn’t turned up I can only assume that the evil pixies have stashed it amongst their other stolen objects.  It is probably tarnishing (does silver tarnish? *shrug* idontknow) happily somewhere, along with those odd socks that never made it back into the drawers. 

I think that – very occasionally – the evil pixies realise the error of their ways and try to put things right.  Just last night The Blokey fixed me up with a new keyboard and what did he find?  My sparkly (but cheap) chunky ring.  Bless those pixies for giving it back, even if putting it under the computer desk was the wrong place.  They do try, sometimes. 

But they’re still inherently evil, the pesky buggers.

Tomorrow is T(he)B(aby)B(rother)s birthday.  He is old.  This means that I will soon be older.  Pffft.  Today is Tabatha-Cat’s Official Birthday [she’s like the queen, she is].  She was a poorly pussy last week – presumably not the evil pixies fault – and the cat-doctor made her all better with some magic medicine.  The magic medicine was very expensive.  Yikes.

I wish the hot weather would bugger off … but the blue skies may stay.

please God bless the evil pixies and help them return my things xxx Elsabeth

You can’t teach people to be lazy – either they have it, or they don’t.

I think pussy cats are cool. 

I think pussy cats that have hyperactive episodes are even cooler than cats that don’t.  The Hyperactive Episode Pussy Cat has no need to sleep, eat, wash, be stroked … no, the HEPC merely finds excitement in running around; playing violently with little creatures that exist only in the head of the HEPC; hiding in daft places and jumping out at people that only exist in the head of the HEPC; spookily seeing things that its human house-sharers are unable to see and running around some more, usually managing to take in every room in the house.

Eventually the HEPC manages to fall down in a heap, and sleep.  Soundly.  For ages.

And then s/he wakes up and normality is resumed.

I think that I was a pussy cat in a long distant past life.

I suppose I should have been warned about what an evening I would have when I unexpectedly took the rash decision to change the bedsheets.  Now, I don’t take rash decisions when it comes to changing the bedsheets.  We have a king size duvet and I usually end up mixed in with the duvet and the duvet cover I am trying to put on the duvet.  It’s not pleasant when I can’t find my feet, or I’m unable to breathe because I’m attempting to suffocate myself.  Therefore changing the bedsheets in this household has to be meticulously planned.  In other words The Blokey has to be on hand to save me from certain Death by Duvet.  Which he wasn’t because it was ten to seven and he doesn’t get home till gone seven. 

*sigh*

But hey, I survived.  I struggled and uttered a few choice swear words, but the manic rash decision making pixie in my head seemed to have gone out to play by the time I had finished.  Phew.  But then I had restless legs in front of EastEnders.  Restless legs make me fidget and squirm and humpf a lot.

I was watching the first episode of the second season of Life on Mars later on in the evening when it suddenly struck me that I must clean the fridge.  It was such a strong desire that I almost couldn’t be arsed watching the end of Life on Mars [which would have been daft].  Anybody who knows me will realise that such a strong desire is unheard of in the Land of KatieFinger, where the inhabitants believe that things like dirty fridges don’t exist if they can’t be seen, and as the fridge door is always shut apart from brief five second snatches …  However, if you had popped round to my house at eleven thirty last night you would have found me scrubbing the fridge [and then filling it up with bottles of Bud and Fosters Twist, so that was fandangly].

Kim and Aggie would have been proud …

Of course, by this time the manic rash decision making pixie in my head had firmly established a front-row seat and was directing me to do other things.  It didn’t care that it was late and things could really have been left for the morning.  No, it wanted everything done now.  At quarter to one the manic rash decision making pixie decided I needed a shower, which was fine, but why did the manic rash decision making pixie then think I needed to pretend I was on Big Brother and walk up and down between the living room and the hall for almost fifteen minutes? 

[actually, as an aside, i can now see why they wander up and down in the garden in Big Brother.  it’s not purely for exercise, it’s actually very therapeutic in a weirdly odd way, especially when you can talk to someone while you’re doing it, even if that person is trying his hardest to watch [adult swim] and you’re just annoying him, like a buzzing fly that can’t be swatted … ]

And I couldn’t stop talking, which is something else very unlike the normally very quiet me.

You would have thought, after all that busy-ness at such a ridiculous hour, that the manic rash decision making pixie would bugger off and let me sleep in peace.  But no.  The manic rash decision making pixie simply stayed in my head making me play games on my DS-Lite.  Even Dr. Kawashima told me off for playing games at such a silly hour.  Being told off by an animated head on a small screen is quite something. 

I think that normality has been resumed after my very own HEPC evening.  The tidy bedroom wardrobe and drawers, coupled with the two bin bags full of unwanted clothes and the length of this random post may suggest otherwise though … I want my laziness back! 

I think I’d like to curl up like a cat and sleep soundly now.  However, I have a hairdresser waiting for me, so now is not the time for laziness.  Pffft.  Maybe later …

please God bless my laziness and let it return in fine form asap xxx Elsabeth

Every time I find the meaning of life, they change it.

I find it difficult to cope with change, particularly in routine.  I spill toothpaste down my [clean, grrr] top in the morning and the very act of having to change it will affect me negatively for the rest of the day. 

In my Ordered Little World everything is precise.  On a weekday I get up, I do my business in the bathroom, I get dressed, I pull the curtains in the hall, I swear at the cat if she’s done her business, I put the kettle on and whilst it’s boiling I feed the cat, fluff up the cushions on the settee, pull the curtains in the lounge, put the tellybox on, open the door into the garden.  I then put my cereal in the bowl, at which point I get the milk out of the fridge and put it into the cup, so that I can make my coffee, and into the bowl, so that I can eat my cereal.  I then sit on the settee and eat breakfast while stroking my pussy and reading the news on that Ceefax Thing, which is always different to the news on BBC Breakfast.  I get up from the settee at the same time each morning, clean my teeth, have a wee, kiss The Blokey goodbye, in a while crocodile, put my lippy on and leave the house.  I double check that the door is locked, and then check it again. 

My coming home from work routine is also very precise, but I shall spare you the details.  The only time either change is when I have to get the bus to or from work.  For some odd reason I can cope with this, perhaps because until Chav Who Drives Me To And From Work started to drive me – to and from work – I had to get the bus anyways.

Speaking of the bus I was on it last night and spent much of the journey imagining that myself and the Good Folk on it with me were from the past.  There was the extremely sexy young man that all the girls would lust after, the posh young squire travelling home to his wife and baby, the common as muck dirty paupers, a woman of the street and the travelling musician who wished the giggly girls would lust after him.  This is what happens when your brain gets tired and the only thing it can remember is trawling through census returns from one hundred years ago.

But back to change, particularly in routine.  I’m the girl who will panic if the bus is two minutes late, if the cat chooses to use the litter-tray just after I’ve freshened it [I have a picky cat – she won’t use her litter-tray more than once which can create problems], if there’s a traffic jam, if the phone rings when I should be in the shower.  I actually panic about everything.  This morning I was watching the car in front and began panicking about having to drive and how I can’t do it – this is despite me not having driven for over eighteen months and having no intention of ever getting into the driver’s seat of a car again, and not forgetting the fact that I don’t have a license anyway. 

Yeh, I digress.

There is some point to this.  What is it? 

*places chin in hand and drums fingers against cheek whilst gazing blankly at the ceiling*

… it’s ironic that I work in the place that I do.  There appears to be some secret motto, probably written in Latin and hidden in a locked box with no key in the boiler room, about how important change is and how it should be a daily occurrence.  Last academic year I knew my timetable off by heart.  This year I daren’t commit it to memory because it’s likely to change before the week is out, not once, not twice, but at least three times.  One minute The [Unable To Manage Anything] Boss wants TAs to be classroom assistants.  Then suddenly she wants us to teach 1-1.  No, we can’t do that, we’re incapable.  Oh, but now teachers can’t have TAs in their rooms because they should be able to cope.  So what to do with the glut of TAs?  I know, they can teach 1-1!  And then, when it becomes apparent that they suffer from some form of dyscalculia, I can accuse them of being incompetent as they obviously can’t teach GCSE Maths.  Oh, I’m waiting for her to say something about that and I expect that this quiet little mouse will really let rip when that one comes.  Let’s do this for the naughty children.  No, not with him – he’s special, we must not treat him as we do the others.  Everybody do this.  No, do that.  Oh, do this again. 

I wish I could spin my head round like that girl in The Exorcist.

please God, thanks … xxx Elsabeth