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Tag Archives: Berkshire

Driving cats, Shingy goes X-rated, whatever next?

S in bag (1)
Shingy or Shingalana as a kitten 1997, Theale. Bet you can’t see me!

S in bag (2)
Here I am! I know, I know, corny as heck captions. Sorry about that but my creativity (such as it is) appears to be on extended leave hence my current “cheating” by posting excerpts from one of my books. What! So shoot me!

My car is fast approaching what is politely termed as a classic car. Shame they can’t do the same with people. “Ooh, she’s getting on a bit” is done away with. You simply become classic.

And on that note, I’m turning classic.

I know this because I find myself searching for songs on the radio years ago I’d have gone to any lengths to avoid. The type of song my mum would listen to given half the chance but for the Battle of the Knobs. It was a constant friendly war twiddling back and forth from Radio One to Radio Two and back again. Nowadays not even Radio Two is classic enough for me. Shut up do! I’m depressing myself. I think it’s too poppy, although, Shingy and Ninja appear to like the songs. Squeaking with delight when one of their favourites gets airplay. From some artiste I’ve never even heard of.

Let’s get back to the car.

The other day, Tom and I had some urgent business to attend to. Special offers on 3 ply recycled loo roll don’t come along every day. About twice a year if memory serves. As do the rude remarks the previous time when I purchased the toilet roll. I don’t believe ten packs justifies asking personal questions about my proposed bowel movements. Informing me their strawberry air freshener was selling for half price.

I opened the door, hopped in and promptly strangled myself as I always do when I buckle up. Would crashing through a windscreen head first be so unbearable compared to being strangulated and having your oxygen supply cut off? And that’s when I saw it. It was sitting there looking at me. Can cat hairs look? This one seemed to be. Right there on the polished walnut area that surrounds the gearstick, all right, all right, the area in need of polishing that surrounds the gearstick but I do know for a fact that it had been hair-free.

“Look at that!” I hissed.
“Look at what?” Tom replied.
“That,” I said, pointing with my index finger before getting back to wrestling with the snake in a valiant attempt to prevent it from crushing me as it always manages to do.
“What?”
“What? What? That hair. It’s Shingy’s hair. I mean, how did it get there?”
“Floated off one of us?”
“That did not float. That was already there when we got into the car. You know what this means?”
“Rex cats in future?”
“No, he’s been sneaking out and cruising about in the car again.”

That would be it. Absolutely. A cat sneaking out in the middle of the night to go cruising in a car in which he can’t even reach the pedals let alone see anything considering he would be on eye level with the steering column.

Had I finally lost it? Not to mention he doesn’t even hold a current driving licence.

Had those feline reprobates finally driven me insane? This is highly possible but not in this instance. I know what you’re thinking. How would he manage to unlock the car door? By using Ninja’s abseiling equipment it would be possible unless he’s borrowing Ninja’s trampoline of which she has no further use thanks to her organic wonder medicine.

Take a sip and become rejuvenated. (And that’s a tale in itself).

I still think I should take some.

Jumping up and down with the car key in his paw only to hang on for dear life when he makes contact with the lock. Swinging there like a commuter on the London underground. No, that’s not what happens. You’re forgetting one thing. You’re forgetting who his mother is. Not me, his real one.

That’s right! Ninja, the super feline spy who taught James Bond everything he knows. Except for the intermittent smug mode, drinking Martinis, and the fact he’s permanently randy… actually cut that last bit. Yes, Ninja had to have her paw in this somewhere. Shingy couldn’t have done this alone. Not having to dust off and recruit Lieutenant Columbo for his professional opinion because I know full well what happens.

Actually, I don’t. It grieves me to say so. I’m gutted. I’m crying all over my Prada handbag and I call myself a writer?

Creative imagination? Huh! I can’t even work out how Ninja and Shingy manage to open the front door, scoot across to the car and open it, jump in, and prowl about in the middle of the night through the country lanes like Burke and Hare. Shingy propped up on a pile of cushions or my large exercise ball whilst doing his best not to puncture it. Ninja crouched on the floor operating the foot pedals.

Is that what I’m saying? Really?

Yes!

Well, my instincts do tell me that Ninja along with her special cache of MI6 tools has to be playing a part in all this. I only have to dredge up memories of Ninja lobbing furry mice that emit poisonous gases whilst escaping out of a second-storey window to realise as much. She does it all. I admit I joked about Shingy having to use the trampoline but Ninja’s participation in all this is highly probable. The bit that has me stumped is – how did it all begin?

Or, it did, until today.

I jumped in the car. Wrestled with the anaconda. Needed a tissue. I went to open the glove compartment when it fell open by itself, the catch is a bit temperamental, and that’s when I saw it. Inside the compartment I keep a bag of hard-boiled sweets should we ever break down in the middle of nowhere and have nothing to survive on apart from tree bark and assorted pear drops. I pulled the bag towards me and peered at it more closely. Yes! Teeth marks! And unless the interior of the car had sprung a leak that was cat spit on the bag.

Cat spit on the plastic bag. I should have known. What does Shingy do? Double up as a bloodhound? That cat will go to any lengths to chew on plastic. His preference is clear plastic bags. I mean, how could he smell plastic that’s inside a car twenty feet from the house? He could have seen me putting the sweets in there, I suppose. I mean, the way he creeps about the house and suddenly pops up can be more than a little disconcerting.

Suddenly you’ll find a pair of unblinking ginger eyes watching you from the top of the stairs, the bottom of the stairs, underneath the stairs. Swinging from the chandelier if we had one… in fact they’d both be swinging what with their non-aversion to perversion.

What do I mean? Huh! Are you sure you want to know the answer to that?

I feel compelled to warn you it is X-rated. I know. I know! What does X-rated have to do with cats? Normally, not much but when it comes to Cynthia Ninja Payne and her son – anything is possible.

To be continued…

Ninja Theale circa 1995-6
Theale, mid 1990s. Ninja caught in the act of ejecting my video. A few times on coming home from work I didn’t get to see “Neighbours” and had to catch up on Sunday with the omnibus version.

Orb in France (5)
And here she is, my classic, and looking a dirty one too but then she’d recently motored all the way from the UK to France. For all you ghostly adventurers out there what do you make of that orb-like thing floating to the rear left wheel of the vehicle?

 
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Posted by on March 10, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Say what you mean and mean what you say, say what?

dinner dance lookalikes

You can look twice but that is not Marilyn Monroe snuggling up to Charlie Chaplin and neither is it Joan Collins looking sultry standing next to Clint Eastwood doing what Clint does best. They are lookalikes appearing at my company’s biennial dinner dance 1999 courtesy of yours truly. At the time I was a PA to a bigwig director and part of my duties included arranging the dinner dance. Nice one, Joanie.

The other day I was asked a question which I did my best to answer but as I found it rather amphibious it resulted in my waffling a bit, I know as hard as that is to believe, before realising the word I was looking for was in fact ambiguous. But then again considering the nature of the question it may well have been deemed fishy.

What question! What answer!

It was to do with my jewellery.

What jewellery!

I’ll get back to that. Talking of ambiguous I am guilty of this. Of being ambiguous I mean. When in 2012 I took my A-level equivalent in creative writing, my tutor had to pull me up a couple of times by my ear lobes when she deemed I was being vague. And quite right she was too. Simply because I follow what I’m talking about doesn’t automatically mean everyone else will. Take for instance when in a recent blog I spoke of vegan cheese and how I should be congratulated for at least trying it. Oh yes, the Vegan Trying It medal. This was way, way back when eating vegan cheese was as pleasant as having a red hot needle poked in your eye. Unlike today. One could be forgiven for thinking I simply went back to eating cow cheese. Wrong! I continued to go without but I failed to make that crystal clear, didn’t I!

I apologise for being an amphibian.

And there’s another instance too. Good grief, was I on drugs? No, but I did have a hangover and not an alcohol-induced hangover a caffeine overload hangover (if you can call two cups of espresso an overload). I referred to a white milky-frothy-so-it-looks-just-like-clouds coffee as a farty latte as in arty-farty because let’s face it, they are, and I figured my meaning was clearly evident. Or? Although farty could be appropriate too, I mean, coffee can have that effect on one. Baked beans does it for some.

So, what jewellery?

Well, I took it upon myself to design and create a range of jewellery. Personally, I’m not that into jewellery but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate nice stuff and neither does it affect my aim to make others happy with my designs. I am not a girlie girl. I don’t particularly enjoy shopping, gossiping (well, sometimes) and throughout my life my closest friends have always been male. Platonic male friends. Apart from a couple of very, very dear and long-suffering females with whom I am incredibly lucky enough to connect.

I only hope they feel the same.

On that note, I wish you well.

Best wishes and ttfn,
Rosie.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Blue Deep Ocean.
Jewellery Mizuki by Rosemarie

Ninja windowsill

Ninja at home, 7 Swallowfield Gardens, Theale, Berkshire, 15 June 1997. Beautiful, funny, incorrigible, intelligent, liked sleeping on heads mine in particular. All gone now. And I am being purposely amphibious.

 
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Posted by on February 3, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Maggots, great-grandfathers and stinky alleys

Ajax and cows

Lintig, Germany, back garden, circa 1983. I think I should name this picture “Spot the Cat”. He’s there. Look closely and you’ll see facing the cows two shadowy grey ears. His name is Ajax. Beautiful boy. Intelligent. Played fetch with his ball. Bless his soul. Always in my heart.

Hello fellow bloggers and I hope this finds you well and blooming in all the right places. A few years back… no, more like in the area of 17 years ago, argh! Slow down, do. Parts of me are still lodged in the 20th century. I can’t catch up. And gone off the subject, as usual.

Err, cheese.

Yes, cheese. Not your stinky, ripe old blue where maggots are practically crawling from it cheese. I’m serious. My maternal great-grandfather used to guzzle down blue cheese (and whatever inhabitants in it at the time) so ripe I am practically related to a fly. Anyway, in the mid to late-nineties and for a couple of years I became an absolute vegan and never felt better. Absolutely. And I did it in my own inimitable way (some would call it obsessive) of going the whole hog. Didn’t eat animals or their by-products and neither did I wear them. I would buy my footwear from a great charity called Animal Aid and my handbags from “Stinky Alley” in the heart of Reading, Berkshire.

Yes, so-called because this particular alleyway always ponged a bit.

A curious mixture of Domestos, raw meat and incense sprinkled with unidentifiable aromas would assault your nostrils whenever you were in the vicinity. Reading, for those who are unaware, is made up of old, delightful, narrow cobbled alleyways either side of which sit various shops. And one such establishment was an ethnical type of place that sold material bags made from velvet and anything else as long as it didn’t once have a pulse. Opposite and on the corner to the ethnics with supplies direct from India and Africa and the proprietor’s auntie from Bethnal Green who was a dab hand at sewing, sat a butchers which was the main contributor.

To the pong, I mean.

The smells emanating from his shop were delightful. Blood, fat, raw meat all mixed together with that most beastly of bleaches, Domestos. Hadn’t he heard of Ecover?

Anyway, bear with there is a point. I could never get on with vegan cheese. Frankly it was hideous. I tried. Give me a gold star for trying but honestly I’d have been better off melting the plastic packet in which it came and pouring that over my cauliflower.

And here’s where my ex-husband enters the picture.

Profuse apologies if you are finding this entry to be an elongated waffle. Next week’s will be shorter. Guarantee it.

Congratulations to aforementioned ex-husband for recently discovering a vegan cheese which tastes DELICIOUS! No thoughts of “Why did they bother this stuff is horrible” and “Good grief they must be joking I’m expected to eat that?” even remotely entered my head. Brilliant to see at least one thing has improved in the 21st century. Vegan cheese. Lovely jubbly.

Um, in case you are wondering, I lapsed. At least for the moment. No longer can I claim to be a vege not when I’m sitting here with dead Antipodean sheep gracing my feet otherwise known as Kiwi Ugg boots. And something else too. All vegans and vegetarians reading this cover your eyes. Eating the odd piece of fish. I know, I know, and yes, I have seen “Finding Nemo” maybe I should watch it again. Sorry, not proud of it but each to their own. Live and let live. Make the choice with your conscience. At which point I can’t help but wonder if there’s such a thing as an inverted type of VA? Vegans Anonymous.

Best, best.
Rosie.

PS. I mentioned the elderly woman in a previous blog let’s not forget the mature gentleman who lives alone at the end of your street. Why not take him out to your local for a pint? He’d like that. And you’ll feel none too shabby either.

Skip over to my counterpart as below to read more daftness about insects the size of a small country and their relationship to cooking utensils.

Wolf Black blog:
http://enigmawolfblack.wordpress.com/

Working website:
http://www.rosemarybachholzer.co.uk

Logo featuring my books

 
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Posted by on January 20, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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