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

s and n cwall (3)
Ninja, Carnyorth, Cornwall circa 2001.

s and n cwall (2)
Pawn star in person outside my office window enjoying the sunshine and not catching any voles despite his best efforts at home in Carnyorth, Cornwall, end Feb 2001.

To approach this most delicate subject with some sense of decency, to give you a clue, granted, Ninja is a bit depraved. Will she ever grow out of sniffing Tom’s dirty underpants and socks and wanting her bottom smacked?

Doubtful.

I knew her ‘uniqueness’ would be passed on down the genes but to this extent? Shingy can be considered strange but not half as strange as you realise. I’m still in two minds as to whether I should share this with you, or not. I mean… it’s embarrassing on a gargantuan scale.

Er, well, it’s like this.

Shingy is a virgin. He’s never been known to utilise his lipstick for anything other than his daily habits. The castration took place when he was a few months old. One minute he had bobbles with which to take care of, to proudly show off in the communal showers when the next – they’d gone. In one snip they went from a decent-sized pair of acorns to a couple of frozen peas. Sounds horrible, I agree, but unpreventable because try as I did, Shingy couldn’t get the hang of birth control. His claws got in the way and rendered every single contraceptive useless.

Put it this way, this type of contraception works better when intact. Better? I mean, it takes just one pinprick and you’re up a gum tree.

All right, back to embarrassing matter in hand. Hmm… is it hot for the time of year? What do you mean, no, get on with it you cowardy custard.

All right!

Shingy does porn. There! I said it.

Or should that be pawn?

It happens only when I’m in bed (don’t you dare say naturally) and only when certain conditions are imposed. No, not when the whips, chains and ice cream are to hand. Good grief! Maybe I’ve made more of this than there is.

Ice cream?

I have to be lying flat on my back and the bed covers must be right up under my chin (I imposed that) and only then will he jump up on top of me and begin. He gets into position. A sort of humpback whale pose ensues as his front paws slowly start to pull and claw at my duvet. I hang on to it with grim determination and the tips of my fingers but still it starts to creep its way down. It soon turns into a battle of wits. Who wins? Who’d you think! Not fair, he doesn’t have ME. That’s all there is to it except, should Tom walk in unexpectedly, Shingy will stop what he’s doing and jump off the bed.

It’s like the cold shower effect.

Every now and then he’ll interrupt himself and pause to glance over his shoulder to check the coast is clear before continuing. Meanwhile, I’m lying there underneath him like a hot dog wrapped up in its bun desperately praying this is the time he doesn’t turn around rendering my face two inches away from his frozen peas. On such occasions I have known to become the heavy parent and push him away.

I do have a cut-off point, thank you. I think it’s pretty liberal of me to allow him to do what he does in the first place. Only fair really. Ninja gets to nibble and dribble on my head while administering acupuncture and Shingy gets to do his thing but did it have to be that?

I don’t recall when it first began. It’s not exactly something you write up in your diary, is it. I didn’t know what he was up to until he was in full throttle by which time it seemed a shame to interrupt him. And so there we go! Happily it’s not a once a week event, more like once a month, on no particular day. Or time.

Sometimes, while under the spell of hypnotic animation, he’ll slip and I’ll get a back paw skidding across my chin with claws slightly extended. One time my nose got the full brunt of it. Thank goodness for make-up is all I can say. The whole thing lasts for about five minutes during which time his back legs start to wobble and they become bow-legged like Charlie Chaplin’s. His eyes resemble full moons along with a hypnotised look that makes them glaze over and I swear he has a silly grin plastered all over his face… until pow!

That’s it.

He jumps off the bed and toddles away. Not to smoke a cigarette, very funny, but I tell you this much. If he ever, ever, plants a wet nose on my cheek afterwards THAT’S IT! Africa it is. One-way ticket. Time to meet the cousins. Get some space between us.

Now I’ve managed to lose whatever street credibility I had, I’ll carry on with my story about my rapidly approaching classic car that is becoming more so with each passing minute.

As am I.

All right, what really happened?

Well, it is true we did climb into the car and find a hair belonging to Shingy on the area surrounding the gearstick that is still in need of a polishing. Must remember to bring my beeswax-environmentally-friendly polish outside and buff that up. It got me thinking. What if Shingy was taking the car out at night? Cruising. I embellished the story somewhat, this I confess. I do hold my hand up to that. With cats like Ninja and Shingy one does not need to embellish but in this case, I did.

It’s just that his hairs turn up everywhere.

It doesn’t matter if you take a trip to an office you’ve never been to before. There will be a Shingy hair waiting to greet you. It’s got so I look out for it. I can’t settle until I’ve come across it.

“So nice to meet you, Mr Brooke,” I say, pumping his hand in greeting while furtively glancing about me at the same time. “I knew it! There it is!”
“I beg your pardon?”
It’s the same in shops. “Hello, can I help you?”
“Yes, do you have this shirt in the same size but in black?”
“Yes, here we are.”
“Thank you,” I reply before screaming and pointing like a gibbering idiot as I spy a Shingy hair on the collar.
Tom opened up his new tub of margarine at work and guess what was in there? That’s right! Margarine. Was it alone? Of course it wasn’t!

There is something to be said of Rex cats… as ugly (but in a good way) as they are. It’s bizarre. It’s as if… hello? That sounds like the car. Must be Tom. As I was saying, it’s as if… eh? Tom’s still in the house. I can hear Lara Croft. Wait a minute. Let me look out the window. Hmm… it appears to be a car that looks just like ours. Staggering off down the road. Talk about bunny-hops! That’s strange. All I can see in the driver’s seat are outlines of what looks like two little triangles bobbing up and down.

Forgotten what I was going to say except don’t take this seriously, obviously it’s fabrication. Sadly, apart from the pawn. Two triangles bobbing up and down? Got it! It’s one of those hats that are all the rage. A woollen article with a flap that folds back on to the top of your head that from a distance looks like two little pyramids, yes, most cool. Wish I had one.

Driving cats? Ha! Ha! As if. Yes, sure, absolutely. Naturally it’s a hat, I mean, what else could it be.

Big, big, universally huge thank you to all you kind souls out there who take the time to visit my page and / or Like and / or Follow me and I will, I really will get around to visiting each and every one of you but for the moment I need to divert my incapacitated energy to other things which will also have an affect on my weekly blog resulting in an intermittent blog. So I might see you in a week or it might be a month. Don’t forget me. I won’t forget you. Be kind to yourselves, your kids, don’t eat sugar eat STEVIA instead. Anon, R.

s and n cwall (1)
Ninja taking time out from eating or rolling around in knickers and socks or dribbling all over my head.

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Posted by on March 18, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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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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So, that’s how it is, is it?

Rosie and Tina Nov 2013

Nov 2013. I do this a lot and other days hardly or not at all. I’m not in bed just under cover, resting, furry attendant on hand.

Just like to start off by voicing my sincere appreciation and delight to all those of you who have taken the time and trouble to read my rubbish and actually enjoy it. Thank you. Much appreciated. And profuse apologies for not being able to reciprocate and therein lies the crux.

Where I’m concerned it’s not so much a lack of time although that is an issue as my days can be very short. Part of my concern has to do with energy.

Okay, what am I going on about now?

Well, put it this way. Can you hoover or vacuum without too much trouble? Yes, I know, it’s no problem you have Ethel come in twice weekly. How about washing your hair? As in the bath or shower? I could go on with a list of questions but as I’m not a masochist, I won’t.

When I’m in the bath and I’m not getting X-rated here, I sit down with the shower hose in my hand, I rest my head on my drawn-up knees and simply let the water run over my hair as it is too painful to raise them in order to rub at my head.

It’s always been the arms. The arms always get it. Hoovering can sap what strength I have and so can brushing my hair, the latter of which can be a pain because of the action of lifting my arms up. And the severity of that depends on if I am having a good day or a bad one.

I have what I call Malaria-like attacks. That’s the easiest thing I can relate it to for easier understanding, although, every day is never free of pain be it in my back, my legs, arms or head, but I’ve learnt to live with that and just get on with it. No problem but it’s there.

I also have a limited amount of energy be it mental or physical so I have to be careful how I use up that parcel of energy. Do I use it up on cooking myself something to eat, cleaning up cat sick, or attempting to write or read something or simply getting out of bed? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve held full-time jobs down in the past. Just to confuse the issue.

Well, there’s nothing wrong with you then!

Actually, I don’t know if I’d refer to it as something “wrong” but I do have ME or ME/CFS or CFS call it what you will as it comes under all those terms.

How can you work but not wash your hair “normally”!

It’s all to do with putting all my energy and concentration on the job in hand be it my full-time job (I’m talking late nineties) watching television, whatever really which leaves me with nothing left over for anything else. Any activity no matter how simple it may appear but both physical and mental activities can be a pain of a strain.

If you’re that sick you can’t do your job properly you should be in a wheelchair!

If anything I do, or did, it better! Purely because with the ME you have to be methodical, extremely so, and because you are acutely aware of your “quirks” you pay extra attention to the job in hand. When I worked all my energy went on my job I led a strict life (I still do) and I had nothing left over for anything else. But I wasn’t complaining. I see it as nothing to complain about. I re-charged my batteries over the weekend ready for Monday and getting through each day the best I could. Which was pretty good considering. I might go a different route to most other people but I get the job done and I get it done to a high standard and simply because it’s done differently doesn’t make it wrong.

This is only touching the surface of ME/CFS. I haven’t even approached the subject of diet and allergies or stress, the mitochondrial, or how I can be quite well (at least for me) one minute when the next I look and feel like I’m auditioning for a part in a zombie film. For all I know I haven’t done a great job in explaining it. I appreciate it is truly hard to understand. I find it so although not so much these days I’ve lived with it for nearly 25 years, and I’m the one who has it! What’s going on here then! Oh, right, yep, it’s only my old friend, ME.

So that’s it really. I’m blogging to keep my hand in. Blame my old tutor! Not old in age old as in an ex-tutor. She was disappointed to learn I wasn’t writing much these days so I made the effort and got two blogs up and running (one is for Wolf Black my male alter ego) aspiring to getting my impetus and energy enough with which to finish my autobiography. On top of getting my jewellery out there. And if anyone enjoys my blogs whilst I’m at it that’s really cool, that’s fantastic, and I’m sorry I can’t keep up the pace and buzz about and reciprocate.

Just wanted to let you know.

Take care, be well, be happy.
Rosie

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 February 10, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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