Duck Squatters

Sometime last week, seven of the village ducks decided to pop by for a visit, the following day they were back again, and the day after that and after that. You get the idea. So, somewhere between 4 and 5pm every day they'd show up, quacking away and I'd try and find some remaining bird seed to feed them with.

This morning I was out relatively early getting everything watered before another hot day set in and the ducks arrived, before 8am. Definitely ahead of schedule!
It is now almost 1.30pm and they're still here.
I just popped down the garden and there they are, a couple hiding in the shade under the picnic bench.

And the others were hiding in the shade of the swing seat, until they saw me and assumed grub was coming their way. Alas, they were wrong.
However, I had just tweeted that I felt guilty for not having a pond, so I decided to improvise. Plus I figured, they had to be thirsty by now. It's a hot day out there people!

The seven ducks are Mum and her six ducklings, it's getting harder and harder to tell them apart, but Mum is a little more slow to get involved, she likes to keep her beady eye on me.

Anyway, they don't seem to mind that it's a poor excuse for a pond, they jumped on in, although it's strictly only 2 ducks at a time in the pool.

They have made attempts to disobey this rule, but attempts are usually scuppered when one falls out head first into the grass. Which, it has to be said, has yet to fail to entertain me!

Song of The Week LXV

Whilst listening to last.fm a few weeks ago this song was played and it just struck me as incredibly beautiful. I'm sure that it strikes chords with more than a few of us.
It feels like an incredibly brave song to me, I have no idea if it's autobiographical or not, but either way it's fabulous.

Maria Mena - Sorry:

Laughter

I was discussing with someone the kinds of laugh we all have, from the polite chuckle to the full belly laugh that you can't hold back until it takes on a life of its own and which you are powerless to stop.
In discussing that I was reminded of a couple of incidents and as I'm getting back to my blog world I had to come back with a chuckle or two.

A few weeks ago my niece, Chloe, and I decided to have a picnic. We couldn't decide where to go but eventually opted to chill out by the river at Newark Castle which also meant a quick trip for delicious goods from Waitrose. So we picked up some goodies, laid down a blanket and munched.
After a while, upon realising I was the second oldest person in the entire park I thought about jumping into the river to end it all but my fear of water saved me. Then Chloe realised that made her the third oldest.
At this point the snort of laughter was released.
After a couple of hours of lounging we got ready to head home, gathered up our food remnants and started to pick up the blanket. That was when we noticed it.
A piece of chocolate cake, or rather the mousse part of a very delicious slice of chocolate & raspberry cake.
But this piece. It didn't look like cake.
It looked like someone had taken a tiny, perfectly formed poo in the corner of our blanket.
Chloe and I made eye contact, looking from each other to the chocolate poo.
We knew it had to be moved.
Laughter ensued.
The blanket could not be folded with chocopoo in the corner.
I started to head towards what can only be described as the donkey laugh.
I found a tissue and reached for the chocopoo.
I didn't get it all, now it looked like a really sticky chocopoo.
At this point the laughter had reached hysterical.
There were tears.
There was pain.
There was a serious inability to breathe.
And a serious concern about bladder control.
And the donkey laugh was full blown. Eeyore on ecstasy.
Snorting. Squeaking. Squealing.
Desperately trying not to draw even more attention to ourselves. Although it might have been too late for that.

I cannot even begin to think of chocopoo without the giggles setting right back in.

Getting Back To It

So, it's been a long old time. Hello!

Losing Mifford really sent me into a funk, you know I went day to day in my jolly mode but something really left me when she did.

It's months later, I've just celebrated a birthday and it's time to get back into it.

First things first, an introduction.

This is Kini:

She came to live with me some months ago. I'd quite decided that I wouldn't have another cat, but the empty house proved too much. Then out of the blue I heard that a little cat was looking for a new home. I went to meet her, she was incredibly timid, quite the opposite of Mifford so I wasn't sure what to expect.
On her first night here I lost her, I knew she was in the house but she seemed to have just vanished, I eventually located her holed up behind the computer in a space about half her size.
Over the months she's changed considerably, she's shy around new people but the difference is tremendous. From hiding under the bed any time anyone even breathed in a different way she now wants to investigate every new person that comes round. She still refuses to leave the house but will always be found sitting in the window chattering away at the birds.
She has started to miaow and is quite vocal about her opinions on various things!

Her previous owners had named her Sacha and I hadn't really liked the name, but didn't have any new names in mind. She's black all over apart from a white neckerchief and a white bikini and thus Kini she became. Although her nickname is Pigeon. I have no idea why. Just as I have no idea why I called Mifford, Poodle. I'm just odd.

I've spent a lot of time in the garden of late too, I grow a lot of my own veg so I've been getting that going and also trying to make it look tidier. There was this one corner which was always dreadful, where my swing seat sits and where some of my beans & peas are growing. It was a nightmare to mow so I decided to take up the turf and lay bark chips with this result:

Feel free to come on over and chill out with me out there, once the cushions are in place you can lose hours just gently swinging, plus, the fire pit I ordered for my birthday arrived yesterday so we can even spend the cooler evenings swinging away. I'll light the lanterns, fire up the barbeque and it'll be spot on!

Mifford

At 9am on December 12th 2009 my cat Mifford passed away.

I'd known for a week that she wasn't well, I put her in her carry box and headed to the vet.

When he asked me what was wrong I said she just wasn't right. He asked what I meant and I said she hadn't come to bed. It's something that sounds so silly, but in the years I had Mifford I could count on one hand the amount of times she didn't come to bed.

She was my shadow. Where I went, she went. From room to room, from house to garden.

I just knew in my heart she wasn't well and I knew that it wasn't good.

The vet examined her, couldn't find anything really wrong, gave her a shot of steroids and sent us on our way. We were back two days later, she wasn't eating, she wasn't moving but the only course of treatment would be the injection she'd already had and that had made no difference. I took her home, I made tuna smoothies, I made sardine smoothies, I can't tell you how terrible these things smell, but nothing induced her to eat. I brought her glasses of water to the sofa so she didn't have to get up.

I spent Friday night sleeping curled up alongside her on the sofa. I knew time was short and I couldn't bear to spend a moment away from her. It was the worst sleep I've ever had and I wouldn't change a minute.

We went back on the Saturday. We can operate he said, but if I open her up and there's something bad in there, I won't wake her up again. We could put her on a drip but I don't think that's fair he said. I can send you home with a syringe to force feed her he said, but for me, that just wasn't an option. If she didn't want to eat, what business was it of mine to force her to do so?
Which left only one option. I wasn't going to be going home with Mifford. I knew it was the right choice for her. I knew that any decision I made that wasn't euthanasia would be purely selfish and unfair on her. I knew in my heart she was ready.

When I had to make the same decision for first Smudge and then Lightning, years ago it was horrible. I can tell you these are the three hardest decisions I've ever had to make in my life.

I went home alone and my heart was broken.

Her things were everywhere, her favourite catnip pillows, the little mice she batted around the lounge. Her bottle tops that were chased up and down the stairs, then left to attempt to kill me.

I could do nothing but lay on my sofa and cry.

My best friend, my very best friend was gone.

I used to walk in my front door and know she'd missed me.

To anyone that hasn't had pets, that doesn't understand the connection you have with your animals, it's impossible to comprehend the grief and loss you feel. This is not just an animal. They're your family, your companion, your friend and your confidante. They don't judge you, they accept you any which way, they don't care if you're dressed up to the nines or in your sweats, they want to cuddle with you every day of the week and they never hold a grudge if you've been in a bad mood. They don't fight you for the remote, they don't mind what you watch on tv, they don't care if you cry over a silly movie and they don't want you to do anything but make sure there's food in their bowl, water right next to it and fresh litter in the tray, but mostly they just want to be loved and in return they'll love you right back.

I loved the way she laid down in the street and showed every passer by her tummy, demanding that they stroke her as she rolled back and forth.

I loved how she would wrap her front legs around her favourite catnip cushion and fall asleep.

I loved waking up in the morning and finding her face just inches from mine waiting for my eyes to open.

I loved the way she chased me round the bed every time I changed the sheets or made the bed, running from corner to corner.

I loved that she would run to the door every time I walked in, miaowing the loudest hello she could muster.

I loved that if I was away all day, or maybe a couple of days she wouldn't leave me alone, that I'd have to pick her up and carry her around just so she would calm down.

I loved how she had to be able to see me, so when I had a bath she had her own chair to curl up on so she would be comfortable right next to me.

I loved how she demanded that every single person through my front door acknowledge her, refusing to leave them be until they had greeted her.

I loved that she knew Friday was the day she got her special food, it was treat day.

I loved that she took every opportunity to cuddle up with me.

I loved how she made me laugh.

I loved how she loved me.

I miss her every single day.

Clean Up In Aisle 5

After Harriet and I spending the majority of our recent lives readying her shop for opening, we decided we needed a day off and possibly a spot of retail therapy.
By retail therapy I mean a desperate hunt for hair dye in order to address the inches of roots on my noggin in a shade I dislike.
So there we are, having a brief wander around the delights of the local JTF warehouse. I have tracked down the necessary bleaching agents for my locks and we're browsing. Harriet wanders off to look at toys, I glance at the trolley and there's a gaping hole where my handbag should be.
Both hands fly to my face. I am completely frozen as the thoughts run through my head, "my car keys are in there", "all my money is in there", "how will I get home", "how will I get in my home", etc., etc.
I managed to emit a strangled "Harriet" whilst obviously looking like I'm about to pass out.
She dashes over (as well as a woman with a week left till she brings forth a child into the world can dash).
I'm not sure I've blinked and manage a sort of quiet wail of "my bag's gone". She immediately starts to walk away, before turning back and ordering me to start walking up and down the aisles to look for it.
I did a dance not unlike that which accompanies desperation for the toilet. For some reason panic totally disrupts any kind of thought process and the decision of whether to head left or right to begin my search seemed impossible.
I finally began my slow walk down the aisles.
A tannoy noise sounded, my imagination let me believe they were going to issue some sort of code word for 'thief in store'. But they just called a member of staff to the barrier. Quite disappointing and not the red alert I'd imagined.

Several aisles later, more thoughts of "how will I get Harriet home? She's too pregnant to walk!" and "oh my god the keys to everything are in that bag" and there sits my bag on a shelf. Waiting patiently. Just where I'd placed in order to partially scale the shelving in order to reach something too high up.
Ah how clear your memory is after the fact.
I rang Harriet. I explained the fact I am a twat and she came on back to me where I stood shamefaced and more than a little covered in a film of cold sweat.
She suggested that we go sit down and get a drink.
I suggested I go to the loo as I was either going to wet myself or throw up.
Equally pleasing events for a day out.
She then tells me that the tannoy announcement that asked for someone to do the barrier was the red alert I'd imagined.
They'd closed the barrier meaning no one could exit the premises.
So even though I'm clearly an idiot, it was a little bit exciting causing havoc.
But I promise to try and control myself, and my handbags, in future.
Well at least for this week.
Or tomorrow.

More Wild Dreams

The past couple of weeks I've spent a huge amount of time at my friend Harriet's new shop. It opens on Tuesday and we've all been really pulling out all the stops to get it ready in time. It's involved me catching up on all of her paperwork and the like for her and my goodness there was a lot of it. All I've wanted to do is sleep!
I also hurt my foot. Well, rather I hurt my foot way back in June whilst leaping around at a festival. Following that with more leaping about in July at another festival didn't really help matters. Then a couple of weeks ago I went to a ceilidh. I danced a fair bit and by the end of the night I knew my foot was displeased with the galloping around the room.
As it had been nearly three months, I figured it was about time to get some medical advice (well, you don't want to rush these things), I had an x-ray, it's not broken so I have spent all my evenings resting it. And using a lot of ibuprofen gel every day. It's SO rock and roll.
When I went up to the x-ray department the receptionist motioned for me to take a seat, now we all know this is the point you make a vital decision. Who is going to make the least annoying neighbour?
I sat down, leaving the obligatory spare seat between myself and the gentleman to my right. At this point I am reminded how short I am when I realise that, once seated, I can no longer touch the floor, so my legs swing like I'm a toddler. I then realise I can hear the thud, thud, thud of a repetitive bassline. I had not chosen wisely in my neighbour.
He is listening to his thudding through only one earphone, broadcasting to the waiting room through the other. I sit and calmly consider ways of causing him pain or at least making him go away with his thudding. Then he leans towards me, points at my arm and says "that's a really nice tattoo".
Damn it.
Now I feel guilty for being mean about him in my head.
I felt even worse when the nurse came out and said to him (rather too loudly), "come and put on this gown, we'll need you to drop your shorts."

Anyway, on to the title of this post. I've mentioned regularly that I have some superbly weird dreams, but I think I might have excelled myself this time.

Some of the details have become a little blurry so forgive my jumping all over.
I'm at this house, I don't know who owns the house, but there's some sort of get together. The parents of my friend Harriet are there and suddenly a young woman collapses. Harriet's Mum decides that she needs to use those paddles you use to restart a heart - the name of which is really frustratingly evading me. Anyway, these aren't in evidence so her Mum decides to fashion some out of a pair of barbecue spatula things. (See, I said my dreams were nuts.) For some reason only one end could be a spatula and she sharpened the other to a point. Also, instead of needing a voltage, they needed heat, so she put them in a fire until they were incredibly hot. When she applied them it got a little gory - which is weird as I never watch horror - the flesh sort of burned off and I could see the heart.
I have no memory of whether the girl recovered or not!
But, it was somehow discovered that she'd collapsed because Harriet's parents were secretly evil geniuses and had been giving people this drink which made them split in two, whilst also remaining whole so that they were identical twins, but with only one heart between them.
Seriously, I would love a dream expert to tell me what the hell that means.
But wait, there's more...
In one of those dream jumps that you do to a totally different time, I was inside the house and watching a movie, even though it wasn't my house, when I realised something was going on outside. I snuck out and hid behind a bush whilst I watched Brad Pitt (!) and some friends standing on the lawn trying to come up with a plan to beat Harriet's parents!
At this point my friend Pete rode up on his motorbike and I went into a major panic because I wasn't supposed to be in his house and was really worried he'd be cross.
What in the hell?!
He doesn't even have a house! He's emigrating to New Zealand in a matter of a couple of weeks.
I never found out if Brad Pitt managed to overcome Harriet's parents, but I anticipate a Hollywood happy ending would have come along if my alarm hadn't prevented it.

Tonight I should like to dream about cuddly bunnies. And daisies. Or maybe cuddly bunnies eating daisies...