Monday, 17 February 2014


I woke up.

What am I going to do today? I asked myself.

And replied: Anything you want. We've got a free day. Absolutely nothing scheduled.

I considered going swim as I'd woken  up early enough to get there by my preferred time of 7.30 am but then remembered that I'd left my trunks and towel in the washing machine along with the rest of assorted stuff overnight. Oh well. I could, of course, choose to do lots of housework but then again I could equally and more likely choose not to. (Cleaning cat litter and feeding cats counts as compulsory and therefore choice is not involved.) 

I checked my emails and discovered I'd sold a graphic novel through Amazon Marketplace. I immediately located the book, wrapped it and addressed it ready for posting, and emailed the buyer that it would be in the post today. I'd only make about four quid on it but four quid in my pocket is four quid in my pocket.

Looked in the mirror and confirmed something I'd suspected for several days. I needed a haircut. I go to a local place just a few yards from the Post Office so that was a twofer which was good. I decided after that to go to PC World in town and buy a new printer, the other one having packed up. Turned out that Sweeney Todd's (which is not a poncy hairdresser's but a manly man's) Barbershop hadn't opened and was ten minutes late. Still hadn't five minutes later when I set off for PC World. Slept in? Killer hangover? Who knew?

I spent more than I wanted but less than I could have on a new printer. By the time you add in a cartridge set, a ream of paper, and a guarantee (if it breaks down in the first three years we'll replace it) costing £12.00 which seemed reasonable even to penny-pinching me, I'd spent just over a hundred. Checked out Sweeney Todd's on the way back an hour later. Still shut. Must be sick.

I put the new printer still in its box next to the desktop and proceeded to choose to ignore it which I'm still doing as I type this.  

What a day I was having, free to choose what to do all day. So, mid-morning I chose to watch Sherlock Series 1 episode 3 (the one which introduces Moriarty) and the making of on the DVD box set I bought last week, accompanied by a mug of strong black coffee and chocolate biscuits. Don't tell me, I know, you're just so jealous. Living la vida loca! But don't worry, my morning idyll is about over.

Just on lunchtime, the phone rang and I was asked if I could help with a cat which had been abandoned by its owner ten days ago and was being fed by neighbours and was in good condition. I looked at my empty conservatory with the litter tray, cat furniture, cat beds, bowls, and sighed. I'd call at her house when she got back from work after 4.30.

That still left most of the afternoon. Time for a nap after cleaning litter trays in the bedroom. That done, head down. Susan bangs loudly on the door.

I had to come with her straight away as I was the direct cause of problem so serious that it could split continents in twain and devastate the planet if I didn't do something immediately, preferably whipping my back with a barbed-wire flail to show due penance. (That latter bit might just be wishful thinking on my part.) So off we went.

No, I'm not going to tell you what it was about or what happened. Suffice to say it turned out to be a misunderstanding on several parts which wasn't really the fault of anyone involved. However to avoid any similar misunderstanding I'm going to introduce a new cat page entitled: Somebody has seen this cat [show photo] at their back door. If it's yours, get in touch and claim it as it's been coming here to get fed for weeks now.  Or something like that.

And so to Downhill so far on the other side of the city that it's almost in South Tyneside and a meeting with the cat that I've come to call-


I actually walked by him without realising as he sat at the end of a narrow lane on my way to the lady's house. When we came back the same way we found him sitting on the outside window ledge of the house where he lived until being abandoned ten days ago. He almost ran away when I approached him but had a secret weapon -a bowl of cat food which I placed in front of the carrier. I let him eat for a minute before, not without help, grabbing him and stuffing him inside. I left my details in case his owner turns up. (Stop laughing, it could happen. But then so could me winning the lottery.)

Off I set, having decided to ring Wendy the vets when I got home and book an appointment for him. Then, while driving over the Queen Alexandra Bridge, I asked myself: Why wait till tomorrow? We could call in now and I'm sure they'd fit us. They had a couple of weeks ago when we'd picked up the kitten. As I completely agreed with myself, at the end of the bridge we doubled back the way we'd come as it wasn't far.

They did indeed fit us in within about half an hour which I spent, as usual, chatting to other people and making a fuss of their animals, comprising several dogs and a sadly tumour-ridden pet rat. Edgar was declared to be about 8 years old, in general good health, and with no fleas. He was calm in the surgery despite being poked and prodded by Wendy.

He's now been with me a couple of hours and has settled on a chair in the conservatory. He doesn't run away from me and is quite amenable to being stroked. Initials impressions are that he's a very nice cat. Maybe later tomorrow I'll see how is with the other cats. Here's another couple of photos.

And tomorrow I've got another quiet day!

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