Regular readers of my blog will have realised by now that I have a certain affection for the feline kind. What I would like to share today is the significant efforts of a postman who clearly shares my love of all things feline.
Whilst trudging through the leafy suburbs of South Wimbledon, weighed down with 100 kilos of mail, (most of which is spam, I would imagine) he would come across a members of cat-kind. He decided to cat - alog (geddit?) these encounters with a camera and a blog has emerged which is absolutely lovely. Streetmogs details his every encounter with a cat which has occurred in words and pictures. To date over 80 have been caught on camera alongside their behaviours and assumed names.
This wonderful blog has captured much attention in the media, including pieces in the The Evening Standard, The Guardian and The Metro to name but some. Following on the coat-tails of such lofty publications I have added Streetmogs to the Stuff I Really Like section of this blog for posterity.
In 1786, the Scottish poet Robert Burns inadvertently disturbed a mouse nest whilst ploughing a field. The poem To a Mouse, followed as an apology to the uprooted mice. A necessary excerpt follows (with translations):
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane [you aren't alone]
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley, [often go awry]
Perhaps not the most promising start to a post I know, bear with me.
In 2012, I was summoned in no uncertain terms by the Dear Lady Wife from my upstairs position on the computer. When I say "in no uncertain terms" it was quite clear from the volume and repetition of the high pitched screech emanating from downstairs that I must come immediately.
I arrive in the kitchen, where the youngest of our cat brood, Randall, is sitting, smug, cheeks stuffed, like a hamster. There is a thin grey thing sticking out of his mouth. He then spat out the contents of his mouth, which transpired to be a field mouse covered in cat saliva. This post is an apology to that saliva covered field mouse.
The determination is real, the mouse tail isn't.
If I could do puffed cheeks I would.
Episodes involving field mice happen. One does what one can. Attempt to quarantine the cats, then capture the mouse and finally return the mouse to the wild. This is not always straightforward.
This occasion was particularly convoluted, some bullet points will be introduced:
Discover Randall in kitchen, mouse in mouth
Pick up determined Randall (see above) who is rigid, like a plank and then fights like a banshee
Eventually, Randall exhales mouse from mouth
Saliva covered mouse does not run away, instead sits between Randall and another resident cat, Pippy, blinking
I attempt mouse rescue
Randall, sensing what is coming, stores the mouse in his mouth again
I pick up Randall, who is stiff as a board, screaming instructions at Dear Lady Wife which amount to "bring me a glass"
At this point I have to drop out of the bullet points to make an observation. Cats are stronger than you think. Randall is not one for being picked up, or cuddled. He will tolerate about four seconds and then will start to squirm until you put him down. He squirms this time, but it is with the strength of ten Randalls, I place him on the floor, for fear of hurting him and the mouse is ejected again. Back to the bullets...
Quarantine cats
Find the mouse, which proves to be fruitless. I didn't see which direction it headed as I was too busy dealing with the banshee Randall cat. At this point there are choices, either give up and let the mouse meets it fate (the outcome of this can be very smelly) as our furred friends may or may not finish the job, or, release the hounds (cats) in the hope that they will find him/her before I do (highly likely)
Release cats
Wait
Wait some more
Whilst the waiting is going on a picture needs to be painted, regarding the behavior of our three cats in this situation. They begin alert, sniffing and searching, through many objects. Having exhausted the obvious possibilities (slippers, boxes) they revert to a state of mild disinterest, feigning sleep, whilst always pointed in the direction of where they think the prey might be. Are they trying to fool the mouse?
Guys, stay focused, it must be behind the radiator.
Two of my cats were on guard duty when this photo was taken so we had to use stunt doubles. Guard duty is not an exaggeration... if the prey does not emerge immediately (within ten minutes) they take turns observing the perimeter, whilst the others go and eat, stare at fish, sleep, lick bottoms etc.
Guard duty was being held around the base of the TV cabinet, designed (it seemed) for field mice in a bind. Too small a space for a cat paw but just the right height for a field mouse. As it got later in the evening I realised I would have to come up with another plan, as the cats would wait all night if necessary. I know this to be true as a mouse once hid in the vacuum cleaner, which I subsequently released. The cats chose to ignore the fact that I had released the mouse and stared at the vacuum cleaner for three days. They are determined little kitties.
More bullets...
Quarantine cats
Find object that will fit under TV cabinet that is long enough to poke out the other side. This proved to be a squashed roll of wrapping paper
Insert object under TV cabinet and fish around until the mouse emerges
Mouse emerges
Attempt to capture mouse in glass
Mouse goes back under TV cabinet
Insert object under TV cabinet and fish around until the mouse emerges etc
Repeat until bored
Eventually, out of sympathy, the mouse wanders into my clumsy trap
Once ensconced in the glass, the mouse is transported to the garden and released, out of sight of the cats, who, released from quarantine are staring at the TV cabinet again.
Three days later, the cats are released from their hypnosis, (might have been the Jeremy Kyle re-runs) and return to their normal lives.
On the fourth day, this happens...
Yeah, I did it again. You are getting real good with Photoshop.
And the whole mad saga begins again.
To complete my apology to mouse-kind I leave you with my favorite mouse-related quote from the legendary Les Dawson...
I can always tell when the mother in law's coming to stay; the mice throw themselves on the traps.
Occasionally the postman staggers to the door with a package containing a product I don't enjoy, normally because it isn't for me. Even more occasionally the postman staggers to the door with a product that is not only not for me, but it is actually abhorrent to me.
[Insert generic slap it all over tanning brand here] fake tan lotion has arrived. This product is not for me, it is for the Dear Lady Wife. She has been summoned to an outing of some description which means she must appear. This is not an ordinary outing, this is a major outing, not just your ordinary trip to the pub. Think hen-do, wedding, that sort of thing. Given the significance of the occasion a number of pre-outing rituals must be observed, namely...
Nails - potentially
Hair - obligatory
Waxing or shaving - the mere thought makes me shudder so I will not dwell
Shopping, online - a whole host of objects are required that bizarrely the Dear Lady Wife appears not to be in possession of...
Clothes
Handbag
Shoes
Make-up
Hair products
Moisturisers, balms, ointments and other unguents to be applied to face, hands, skin etc.
Shopping - in a shop if the on-line world cannot provide what is required
Visit to tanning salon - optional, or go for the alternative with more control which has arrived in the post today.
These rituals, ideally, take place in a period of about a week before the event. This is often not the case, though. Sometimes a dizzying number of appointments are made by the Dear Lady Wife for the same whirlwind day. Sometimes appointments have to be cancelled, which is my job, when I am not answering the door to yet another delivery man or being sent to the shops to make bizarre and embarrassing purchases.
If I have a purpose in life, it must be to provide entertainment to bored shop assistants when I am making these bizarre and embarrassing purchases. When I approach the till with two bottles of wine, a bottle of bleach, cat food and a bikini-line waxing kit in my basket, a number of things can happen. I have listed them below in order of probablity, least likely first.
Don't worry, I'll be along soon to brighten up your day.
The transaction takes place normally, money is exchanged and I leave the shop, glowing with pride at a job well done.
Whilst scanning the waxing kit the (always female) shop assistant will look me up and down but says nothing. I leave the shop feeling confused and slightly violated, but I don't know why.
Whilst scanning the waxing kit the (always female) shop assistant will point out a special offer. If bought in conjunction with a box of regular tampons I can save 50% on this item. This only occurs if there is a large queue behind me. I have to gracefully decline.
Whilst scanning the waxing kit the (always female) shop assistant suggests an alternative brand which she has used before. This only occurs if there is a large queue behind me consisting entirely of male rugby players and builders. Again I gracefully decline, which the shop assistant takes as a tacit acknowledgement of her perception that the waxing kit is for me.
Whilst scanning the waxing kit the (always female) shop assistant encounters a technical issue which will require the pressing of a button below the till. The button is labelled Attract the attention of all female shop assistants in the vicinity to come and giggle at the contents of this man's basket. Oh, can one of you also go and get another bikini waxing kit because this one won't scan.
My involvement in the rituals is not complete. So, after some considerable time, I have reached the point of my tale, [insert generic slap it all over tanning brand here] fake tan lotion, more specifically, the application of it. Generally this happens just before retiring to bed which means we have gone through the wine and most of the cat food. Wine and the application of fake tan do not make good bed fellows. Any slight mishap will stain something, carpets, ceilings, phones, cats etc.
The Dear Lady Wife, having covered all the bits she can reach then turns to me, offering the gloves and the bottle. I have to do the bits she cannot reach and also, cannot see. However this does not prevent a running verbal quality assessment of my handiwork.
DLW: It has to be even.
Moi: It is even.
DLW: You've missed a bit.
Moi: Is that better?
DLW: No, it's streaky.
Moi: How can you tell?
DLW: I JUST KNOW!
Not the look we are aiming for.
Conversation continues in this vein until the process is completed. I awaken the next morning to find the sheets have changed colour and I have a brown stain on my right hand, which normally fades after about a week. It seems I have negotiated the pre-amble to another major outing.
Once again on a deadline, fishing for anything that inspires me and I came up with Llama. I have always liked the animal, without ever touching one but also the word. So I googled it. Apparently it wasn't just me. The word llama will yield a number of interesting and some what bizarre results.
We have to begin with my first exposure to all worlds Llama. This happened when I was first exposed to a computer and the special talents of a man called Jeff Minter. Those of a non-geek mentality might want to bail out for a paragraph or so. Jeff Minter eventually, ran Llamasoft, provider of some very fine computer software, first for the ZX81, and later for the Commodore 64, Atari ST and others. One of the things that attracted about the games were the titles. Revenge of the Mutant Camels, Metagalactic Llamas Battle at the Edge of Time, and Sheep in Space still make me chuckle. I note Llamasoft lives still and is currently reproducing all of is classic stuff as i-Phone apps. I will be downloading once space becomes available on my rather clutttered phone. Also on the site is a rather entertaining biography of Jeff, by Jeff.
Then there is the nice people at Llamas with Hats whose YouTube animations are a joy to behold. Judging by the number of hits, it isn't just me...
So we have two llamas, one mild-mannered and the other a little psychotic and they both wear hats.
Then there is the song. If you have recently recovered from an irritating song related addiction DO NOT click the link below...
Then there was my honeymoon. I didn't go to Peru, (or wherever this particular animal hails from) because I didn't need to. The Llama's close cousin, the Alpaca had a herd in the UK in Devon, where we spent a couple of days on our mini honeymoon before our full-gas run through South-East Asia. I picked this location for two reasons, the alpacas and the private jacuzzi. So, first the jacuzzi... It was certainly private as it was housed in an outhouse / private building a significant distance from the rest of the accommodation. It was in fact, in a field. It did everything it said on the tin, I just needed to look at the tin more closely.
The main reason for the trip, was the Alpacas who were friendly, allegedly. They were in fact cute, but only from a distance. More stand-offish than friendly. Oh well.
See what I mean? Cute.
The more astute and regular visitors to this blog would know that this is an A-Z challenge post. It should have been posted yesterday. I am late. Perhaps slightly too far under the influence of wine last night I did publish this to my test blog, but not the live one. Better late than never I suppose. Normal service will be resumed later when I will be munching on the letter M.
I had a post for the letter C of the A-Z Challenge, all lined up and saved away. I liked it, although it needed some work. I looked at it again this evening and realised it would be better used under another letter, once again I am writing on the fly, as it were.
I have a memory to share, it was certainly a catastrophic event in my life. More importantly, catastrophe begins with the letter C.
So, to begin, I must set the scene. This memory is from my childhood, I am fuzzy on exact dates as I was quite young, but judging on the ages of some of the combatants involved this must have happened in the mid to late 70's. I was an only child, in a typical mid-terraced Victorian house in the place of my birth. This shouldn't have been a special evening, it was much like any other. Having returned home from school I sulked about some homework and piano lessons, had played out with some other kids and was now watching TV with Ma and Pa.
We had cats, several, over my formative years. I don't know why, but my memories of these cats seems a little different to the perception that I have of cats now. Whether it was because I was smaller than I am now, or whether there were just too many cats in our house at the time, or whether some of them were just plain old and cranky, I don't know. The cats I own can do little wrong, apart from the odd misdemeanor. The cats of my childhood seemed capable of torture of small children (me), random pscychopathic episodes and extreme violence aimed at small children (me, again) and fights so unbelievably intense that as a child I thought Bugs Bunny cartoons (substitute the rabbit and the coyote for a cat and another cat) were censored. An example follows if you are unfamiliar.
Granted the cats of my childhood rarely had deliveries from Acme delivered in big wooden crates labelled explosives but they had plans. Their plans were more straightforward but equally effective. Normally Cat A, who we will call Tinker, would be sleeping. Cat(s) B, who could be called Ginger, or Benjy, or sometimes both, being younger, would rudely awaken Tinker. Tinker was the oldest, most cantankerous and violent cat I knew. I still have scars on my hands which I can attribute to Tinker. Tinker was old and Tinker was mean. Tinker was not a social cat, he was not a social anything. The plans of Ginger and Benjy would result in two possible outcomes:
A huge standing fight, which involves paws becoming a blur, claws fully extended, if Tinker makes a hit, Ginger and / or Benjy back off, licking their wounds, sometimes all the way to the vet. Tinker goes back to sleep, one eye partially open.
Ginger and / or Benjy gain an upper hand, presumably because Tinker has not fully woken up yet. Consequently a house-wide chase ensues, which continues until one or the other either reaches a defensible position, like a high cupboard, escapes to the garden or gets a swipe resulting in a vet visit.
I had sort of become used to this. We had cats. They were mostly violent. Occasionally you got caught in the cross-fire. I would watch wildlife programs like Survival on TV. When they talked about big cats like Lions and Tigers. I thought ours were much more scary. This was true.
Returning to the plot... A confrontation occurred upstairs, which resulted in the second bullet-point listed above. On this occasion, it was just Benjy who has stirred the monster that was Tinker. We listened to the howling, followed by the running. We watched with interest as the battle entered the lounge. The running reached the television where Tinker was now cornered.
A historical note about televisions is required. Currently televisions are svelte, attempting, like a good supermodel, to become thinner and weigh less everyday. This was not always the case. Back in the age I am describing a television had three dimensions. It was made from components like valves and tubes. Also, it was very heavy at the screen end and deceptively light as you went further back. Weight distribution was assuredly biased toward the point of the action, i.e Coronation Street.
I mention Corrie as I am quite sure this was on at the time. The time being, the time of the catastrophe. So, Tinker is on top of the telly. We know the telly is about four foot deep and weighs about nine tons. This style of fight has played out on the telly before. Tinker fights and some cat goes to the vet. Not today. Tinker is in flight, not fight mode. This involves navigating a path over and behind Benjy, who occupies the other half of the telly. A dramatic leap is attempted by Tinker which takes his body over Benjy, Benjy, although initially surprised, mimics the leap whilst turning through 180 degrees to continue the chase. These mighty leaps require significant force to be propelled in one direction.
From now on, things seem to slow down. As Tinker leaps the telly is pushed forward by the force impelled by Tinker's back legs. The TV tips forward a little, but then starts to rock back to its gravitional centre. Benjy responds, catapulting his younger and stronger body through 180 degrees in pursuit of Tinker. As a result the TV does not return to its centre, it is propelled forward again, past its centre of gravity. The TV, the centre of our little world, and Corrie descend face first from the TV stand to the floor. There is a huge crash followed by silence. The cats have escaped, oblivious. The TV is unhappy, probably dead. The silence that followed is actually a noise, a hissing noise. Escaping gas! The TV has fallen on to the supply pipe feeding our only source of heat in the house. It is Winter. We have no TV for three days and no heating for two days.
It was truly a CATastrophe that rocked our house to its core, I will never forget it. The cats were fine, both escaped with no injury. The TV was replaced, along with the pipe which supplied our gas fire. I could tell even as a child that this was a BIG deal.
Anyhoo, perhaps the reason this is all so vivid in my memory is that I have recently had the pleasure of returning to the scene of this catastrophe. Whilst there I managed to grab some photos of the combatants. When I was little they were old and dangerous. They, it turns out were kittens too.
I am Kitten! - Tinker, before my time.
Tinker, in colour. Note the unhappy pose on his "companion" .
Ginger - I was small and cute once.
Benjy - I was always this good looking.
They don't look so scary do they? They were though. They could disconnect Coronation Street and the heating in a single argument. They could, and did cause a catastrophe.
More tomorrow Dear Reader as we plunge into the dastardly world of the letter D
So, I start the A to Z challenge series of posts with a big word. Don't worry, this is not the theme, this is the only big word I know. For those unfamiliar with this term you can find a full and riveting description of it here. In short, anthropomorphism is when humans, like me assign human characteristics to animals, non-living things or abstract concepts. In our household we anthropomorphise a lot, often with non-living things, occasionally with abstract concepts, always with our cats.
Hmm, late for a very important anthropomorphism conference no doubt.
Should we go out for the evening, we will talk about the cats and what they will be getting up to whilst we are away. Playing cards is our theory. Anyone who knows anything, however, will tell you this can't be true, and they are right. Cats don't play cards because they don't trust the cheetahs.
Our cats send us faxes when we are out, often demanding we bring back live salmon. We have explained that before they can have live salmon they would need a pond and there isn't room. Make room, we are told.
Our cats will solve complex maths puzzles in their sleep, or working out the value of Pi to 25 decimal places just for fun. One of our cats has just completed a complex problem for NASA in his sleep. We know all of this because it is true.
More grandiose tales abound such as business trips to foreign countries, looking after ancient cat trading empires. Diplomacy is important, although sometimes claws help too. Apparently the Chinese are particularly difficult felines to deal with, the food is a bit strange too.
My dear lady wife and I believe all cat owners must do this, as it makes perfect sense. We could also have horribly misjudged this, which might result in a knock on the door from some nice men in white coats armed with butterfly nets and sedatives.
Assuming that is not the case, Dear Reader, I will be back tomorrow with somthing to do with the letter B.
So, it's that time of year again. If you don't have the time to be romantic with your dear lady love for the rest of the year why not be forced into it by greeting cards manufacturers, rose sellers and desperate restaurant owners. Notable mentions should also go out to jewellers and numerous other retailers for whom this day is a bit of a goldmine (pun intended). Valentine's Day is here.
Some flowers.
I was curious, what came first, the day or the greetings card? It would appear that Valentine's Day came much earlier, initially honoring a number of martyrs named Valentinus, first recognised in 469AD. However we have Geoffrey Chaucer to blame for the association between the date and the romance. What is clear, is that Chaucer's court was not short of romance. Roses abounded, confectionery and greetings cards were presented (no doubt on bended knee). All that was missing was a mass-market postal service and a whole card-board based industry would be born.
A truly lovely Valentine's Day Card.
Which brings us, after the consumption of much nice food, wine and chocolate to where we are today. Valentine's Day is an event, during which any couple, married or otherwise is obliged, nay, compelled to book into over-booked restaurants, purchase roses, presents, champagne, cards and all manner of other things just because some people died in unfortunate circumstances 1,600 years ago. The more astute amongt you may have picked up on the words "obliged" and "compelled" in the previous paragraph, as a result you may be sensing negativity to the fine and established event that is Valentine's Day. If you did, well spotted. I do have some problems with this occasion and I am not alone.
The following statement may sound like anti-romantic blasphemy to some, but to myself and the Dear Lady Wife it makes perfect sense; we choose not to celebrate Valentine's Day. To us it is just a normal day, cards are not purchased, roses are not purchased, restaurants are not booked, gifts are not exchanged, etc etc. There is a reason for this. Romance, surely, should be spontaneous, not prescribed by a date in a calendar. If I follow this logic to it's end when else would I be able to be romantic? Birthdays, Christmas? How about whenever I feel like it? What could be wrong with that?
Consequently Valentine's Day is a little bit different for me. It is actually a little surreal. The normal ebb and flow of people through my local supermarket is wrong. This year Valentine's Day fell on a Tuesday. I have previously noted that Tuesday is a quiet day because a local Pizza vendor has special offers on that day. This has been coined the Domino's effect. This Tuesday is different. Our local supermarket is busier than it should be. Men are exiting from the shop with nothing but flowers. Men are hovering around the greetings card section of the shop. Men are clustered around the Rom-Com section of the DVD shelf. I need to get out, this is freaky, my Tuesday shopping experience has been sullied by some weird religious cult, or maybe an alien invasion.
I get home and all is normal. Dear Lady Wife is on a conference call and our cats (all boys) just want food, not flowers, thank God. Later I am sent on an errand, to procure the evil cigarette. Wine has been consumed, so I walk to the garage. The garage is in the middle of being restocked with petrol, which for some inexplicable reason means that nothing can be sold. So I go to my local pub, this being the next nearest potential supplier of the evil tobacco. Being a polite soul I procure an alcoholic beverage and ask for change for the cigarette machine. This gives me a few minutes to survey the demographic of the pub on this y strange day. Things are not as they should be. The pub is full of men. There is not a female to be found, except for behind the bar. Scientific analysis is required. These men are either:
Single / Divorced.
In so much trouble for not fulfilling their Valentine's Day obligations they have been thrown out, which means they are heading towards Single / Divorced at high speed.
Like me, which means being in a pub on your own is perfectly acceptable.
I was tempted to ask these men which bucket they fell into but some of them looked grumpy so in the interest of science I guessed instead...
Single / Divorced .- 70%
In so much trouble for not fulfilling their Valentine's Day obligations they have been thrown out, which means they are heading towards Single / Divorced at high speed. - 23%
Like me, which means being in a pub on your own is perfectly acceptable. - 7%
So, single girls listen up. On Valentines's Day go to the pub. You have a 70-93% of pulling if you are in the mood. Science has proved this.
I recently (last post actually) blogged about a visit to Ikea to purchase a sofa and chaise lounge. This post covered the horrors of a visit to Ikea right up to eventually escaping to the car park with your portable purchases stowed and deliveries organised. This should have been the end of the story. Regrettably, that is not the case, hence this second post on the subject.
A timeline is required I feel.
06-11-11: Purchases made, already been covered previously, I won't go on about this again.
08-11-11: Delivery day. When delivery was arranged it was made clear that the delivery person(s) would be in contact by phone approximately one hour before the delivery was due to arrive. This did not happen. My delivery was first on their run hence it was early. I was on holiday, so I was asleep. A rude awakening by a knock on the door forces me to throw on a motley collection of clothing which was to hand and run to the door. So, clad in a paint covered t-shirt (I have been decorating) and equally paint covered jeans I answer the door.
Packages are transported into my lounge. The first large package is clearly a sofa. Followed by boxes that contains sofa and chaise lounge covers. A long rectangular, but rather skinny package arrives, then nothing. I explain to the driver that this does not look like my complete order. He looks at me in a manner that suggests I am from another planet. Apparently he is not used to such customer facing situations. He waves a delivery note at me, explaining that they have delivered everything on the delivery note. Usefully the Ikea Customer Services number is also on this note.
Before contacting Customer Services we thought it would be a good idea to work out what we had got. The assembly process begins. After much swearing, grunting and incredulous looks at some of the most ridiculous instructions ever written, a sofa appears, fully functional and surprisingly comfortable.
What remains is a rectangular wooden frame and some cloth. Perhaps this is a minimalist interpretation of a piece of furniture? Well whatever it is, it's time to call Customer Services. To be fair this was less painful than expected, surprisingly few choices were offered on the phone number when dialed, which suggests the number in question had a single purpose which is good. Although initially eighth in the queue I rapidly progressed to a human voice. The human voice assessed that this was a picking error, everything was OK with the original order, but unfortunately all the elements of the order had not been grabbed from the warehouse. The human voice apologised and said the remaining items would be with us on 11-11-11, an auspicious day as the figures attest.
11-11-11: Another delivery day. On this day I was not awakened by a knock on the door, or a phone call. I am still on holiday and slept in again. I was awakened by a hungry cat licking my nose. Time passes...
At approximately 2pm I am phoned by Ikea Customer Services again. The lady sounded a little confused. "Have I phoned you already?". "Erm, no" I reply. I am now a little off guard. I am speculating she may have been to the pub at lunchtime. "I've had so much going on I couldn't remember if I had phoned you or not.". Yep, definitely been to the pub. "Your delivery will not be arriving until tomorrow." Ah.
Apparently 11-11-11 is not an auspicious day for us after all. The doomsayers will be devastated.
12-11-11: Yet another delivery day. This time a new phenomenon is observed - the prior to delivery phone call. Only because they are lost. Never mind, at least they are coming. Within forty five minutes come they do. Complete with packages. The packages look suspiciously similar to the packages delivered the first time round. On closer inspection they are PRECISELY the same stock items delivered the first time round. Thankfully there was a shortage of blunt instruments and shotguns in the near vicinity. I merely sent the minions of Ikea on their way with their packages.
Back to Customer Services. The dear lady wife Smiffy had to step in at this point. I was a little emotional . So I went into the garden and spent a little bit of quality time with an Ikea catalogue and a crossbow. Meanwhile Smiffy dealt with the second call. Apparently getting in contact was a little bit more painful than my first experience. A queue was encountered, which Smiffy began at 20th. This news was delivered quietly, in a measured voice. Hold music, in the interim, was delivered at a volume that made the house shake. That music was Abba, Dancing Queen. 20 seconds of DANCING QUEEN, followed by "you are 20th in the queue". 20 seconds of DANCING QUEEN followed by followed by "you are 19th in the queue". Then the music changed. 20 seconds of WATERLOO followed by followed by "you are 19th in the queue". Oh you appear to be stuck in a Swedish music/on-hold hell. But then a ray of hope... 20 seconds of WATERLOO followed by followed by "you are 12th in the queue". Eventually, at some point during MAMMA MIA Smiffy gets to speak to someone. A transcript is required...
IK: Hello, Ikea Cutsomer Services.
S: Hello. I had a piece of furniture delivered, it was not complete. We phoned your good selves, who told us the error was clear, a warehouse error.
IK: Oh, ohhhhh, that is very unfortunate.
S: Yes it is.
IK: Erm.
S: So what are you going to do about it?
IK: Can I put you on hold for a moment. I just need to double check this situation.
ABBA: MONEY MONEY MONEY, IT MUST BE FUNNY IN A RICH MAN'S WORLD.
IK: Hello, Mrs Smiffy, are you still there?
S: Yes
IK: OK, I see what has happened here. You haven't actually bought the piece of furniture that you were expecting to be delivered. That is why it was not delivered.
S:. WHAT?
IK: Yes, I am afraid that appears to be the case. If you want this piece of furniture then the cost will be xxx
S: I wanted it, I ordered it, I was told I would get it, I still want it, I will pay for it.
IK: Great! We can certainly arrange this for you.
S: When?
IK: Ooooh, not for ages. We can have someone call you at some point next week and take payment. Then we need to organise delivery.
S: Oh dear god, NO! Give me the product code and I will send my husband to you.
IK: There is the small matter of the piece of frame you have, which is of no use to you and should never have been delivered. When will you be returning this?
S: Never.
IK: Right. Shall we pick that up then when we are next with you?
S: I would advise that. It's the only way you are ever going to get it back. By the way, we threw away the box, instructions and all the packaging and put the thing together. I even peeled off the un-removable price labels. I hope that doesn't affect my consumer rights?
IK: Not at all Mrs Smiffy. We value your custom and hope we have provided a quality purchasing experience.
S: *hollow crazed laugh*
Didn't think I would be back so soon.
So after all that I return to IKEA to make the amended purchase and sort out the chaos that has occurred, thinking this should be straight-forward. How wrong could I be. First I return to the Sofa department to explain the situation. They, like the delivery people before them, look at me like I was from another planet. At least five members of this team have different and conflicting views as to what the solution to this conundrum should be. There is much hammering of computer screens, head-scratching, wringing of hands and general confusion. Eventually a consensus is reached, which can be summarised thus: "We don't know, go to Customer Services".
My heart sinks, as Customer Services is also Customer Returns. Some people never come back from Customer Returns. I am sure I saw Lord Lucan there once.
Missing, presumed in Ikea.
I do not have three days drinking water and energy snacks. I do not have a torch, a blanket or a tent, prerequisites for such an ordeal. I go there anyway, with heavy heart to begin what could be a very long wait. Upon arrival, much as you would at the deli counter at your local supermarket, you collect a ticket. Mine says 69, they have just called 59, this can't be so bad can it? I spot a drinks machine, thinking at least I could get some water so I head over. It won't take my money. If there is such a thing as karma I must have annoyed a Swedish furniture maker in a previous life. I return to my seat to wait. A couple of life-times elapse. My number is called! Deep breath, here we go.
I relate again my sorry tale, again I am met with the alien from another planet look. Do they teach that look in staff training? Computer keyboards are hammered again, heads are scratched again. After some deliberation a member of the sofa department is summoned. More wringing of hands and puzzled looks.
Having seen what is going on with the computer I am beginning to have some sympathy with the staff in question. My stock item is not a single thing, it is an umbrella name for a line items of which there are 557 of in total. Sofas, chairs, chaise lounges, cushions, cushion covers, sofa covers, bizarre wooden frames and a small breed of dog all in different colours and fabrics.
Eventually a solution is found, as identified by the previous phone conversation. I have indeed been sold the wrong item. An order for the right item is processed, which I can pick from another warehouse a short distance away from the store. I emerge from the store older and greyer but triumphant.
Hopefully this is the end of the saga.
More soon dear reader xx
PS, whilst searching for images for this post I stumbled across this video, allowing me to tenuously link cats to my post. Hope you don't mind...
I was watching a haunted house-type horror flick over the weekend (Insidious - quite good actually!) and I was amazed to see that no-one seems to know the rules of survival and what to avoid. As it is now Halloween I have compiled a list of DON'TS that should allow you to survive the witching hour.
Innocent pumpkin attacked again!
A fair observation regarding this survival guide is that it is a little late. Keep it handy, you can always use it next year. If you have committed any of these then you probably have enough on your plate at the moment.
So, to the list. Avoid all of the following this All Hallows Eve (and generally) and all should be well with your world.
If there is a noise emanating from the attic, DO NOT investigate. It may be a trapped bird, or mice, but it is probably something far more sinister that will result in broken bones, possession of loved ones, death, or worse. Amityville Horror, Insidious and almost every over film involving a house.
Ditto for the cellar.
Ditto for recessed cupboards.
DO NOT inhabit a house where the previous incumbents have met a sticky end due to a family member going crazy with a shotgun. This applies to any weapons, knifes, bats etc. Amityville Horror and many others.
DO NOT inhabit a house built on an ancient American Indian burial ground. Very bad things will happen. Poltergeist, specifically.
DO NOT bury a recently deceased pet in a pet cemetary built over the top of an ancient American Indian burial ground. The subsequent return of the roadkill that used to be Tiddles may seem like a good idea at the time but trust me, it isn't. Pet Cemetery.
Just to be sure, avoid anything to do with ancient burial grounds, regardless of the race of the deceased incumbents.
If you should happen upon a charming gentleman with icy white skin and pointed teeth, DO NOT invite him in. He is not cool, it is very unlikely that he is Marilyn Manson. Dracula (1931),Dracula (1992) and many more.
If you happen to be a priest or wearing priests' clothing, I would strongly suggest not standing near a flight of steep stairs. Also avoid churches (ironically) during thunderstorms. The Exorcist, (steep stairs), The Omen, (churches).
If your husband is a frustrated writer, DO NOT choose to take a three month sabbatical in a hotel that will cut off from the world by snow. The Shining.
If you happen to purchase small fluffy creatures from a dubious Chinese curiosity shop DO NOT get them wet and DO NOT feed them after Midnight. Similar instructions may also be applied to my good wife's hair. Gremlins.
If you happen to be going to a party resist the urge to drop a bucket of pig's blood over the Prom Queen's head. Bad things will happen. Carrie.
DO NOT leave the telly on static on Halloween and expect that somebody won't get sucked into it. Poltergeist.
Hopefully these handy little tips will help you survive this and upcoming Halloweens.
One last thing: if you have followed all of the above and hear a knock on the door it's OK to answer it. If you are greeted with a motley bunch of zombies, witches, vampires and werewolves shouting trick or treat DO NOT respond as follows, "Oh Trick please, can you make a rabbit appear from a hat?"
Once upon a time there was a cat who haunted us. Not in the ethereal sense but physically. This cat had decided that we were going to look after it, no matter what we did. This cat hung around in our garden for extended periods and upset the status quo of our house cats. None of our house cats liked this cat so we resisted. Then it got cold. Then it got really cold. Then it snowed (a lot). We watched this very determined cat sit on our lawn, as the snow fell around it. The snow got deeper and and it still sat. In the end we gave in and welcomed this strange animal into our lives. We called it Darren.
Darren was an old cat, this much was clear. The teeth, fur and claws told us this much. Once part of the family we sent this cat for a checkup with the local vet. The one surprise from this visit was that Darren was an inappropriate name for this cat as she was a girl. Consequently she became Derina. She was disliked by all the house cats, and she ignored this. She just sat around, in a warm place and ate lots of food. She was painfully thin, but lovely all the same. She had no collar identification or chip, so we had no way of tracking down her previous owners, if she had any. So, for a short while, we adopted Derina. Actually a more accurate description would be that Derina adopted us.
After about a year she passed away, much to our discontent. We were sad to see her go, but pleased in the knowledge that at least the last days of her life had been comfortable and warm.
Derina, in happier times.
The vet explained some of the options regarding burial... there were several. We opted for ashes in a box, as we intended to scatter the ashes somewhere suitable at a point in the future.
Herein lies my problem. The events described above happened a year ago. The ashes remain in a box, well two boxes actually (it's a box within a box) sitting on our hall table. She is quite happy there, although a recent visit from our parents suggested that maybe not everyone is happy with this arrangement.
We thought that it would be nice to place her ashes in a pot plant, so I visited a number of garden centres seeking inspiration. This proved to be an interesting journey.
Garden centres are staffed by two types of people it seems. 16-18's who lucked out at the supermarket and the over 65's who lucked out in their investment plans.
My first conversation involved the latter and went like this:
Excuse me, I am looking for a nice, portable pot plant that is big enough for a cat's ashes. Can you help?
Oh, I am so sorry to hear that, I feel your pain. We had the same dilemma when Toby passed, God rest his soul. Now, he was a big dog so we couldn't get him in the orchid pot. In the end we planted a hedge for him.
So, a hedge? Seems a little over the top for a small cat.
A small patch of hawthorne wlll do the job.
OK, have you any in stock.
Unfortunately the last one has been sold to a gentleman who sadly lost his hamster just the other day.
On to Garden Centre No 2 then...
This time I met the younger generation:
Excuse me, my cat has just died; I am looking for a pot plant suitable to bury him in. Can you help me?
DUDE, you are sick.
Ah, yes it may seem that way. However, I am aware that the word sick can mean a number of things. Am I cool or am I unwell? Can you provide me with a suitable pot plant?
SICK, man
I walked away. I have no pot plant, no resting place. Derina remains on the hall table. My parents are concerned. Any suggestions dear reader?
So, I recently wrote about London Underground Fight Club which has proved to be the most popular posts on my blog. Today, I am writing about something closer to home, my cats. Specifically Randall, who has grown up a little since my previous post about him and has turned into a small, but perfectly formed adult Scottish Fold. If you don't know the breed enjoy the video below:
Randall is now an adult cat and loves his life. He is largely instructed by one of our elder cats who has taken a bit of shine to him. Most lessons have been taught well and learnt well. However, when it comes to battles over territory his teacher lacks the skills that need to be passed down. Our teachers' reaction to a territorial matter is not that of a typical cat. It is, shall we say, sort of Italian. That is to say, find reverse gear as quickly as possible and move away rapidly from a confrontation. Randall has either chosen not to accept this piece of wisdom or has made up his reaction to territorial invasion on his own.
These are the rules which most cats observe, if a cat violates my territory then the following should occur:
Staring and Freezing: Both parties, once aware of each others presence should hold stance at a significant distance and stare.
Having locked horns/eyes the stare should be held whilst the territorial owner should by small increments get closer to the other cat.
As the distance is slowly closed the invading cat should yowl, showing the other cat that it is not going to back down. This may take some time.
After some time the invading cat will normally start a very slow backing down process, which involves reversing very slowly to the nearest exit, whilst never taking eyes off the territory owner. Eventually the process ends at this point if it has not already been interrupted by an irritated neighbour or by me in my dressing gown.
Randall's approach is a little more straightforward and can be described thus:
Staring and Freezing: Both parties, once aware of each others presence should hold stance at a significant distance and stare.
Randall becomes bored and runs full pelt at the initially surprised invader. Unsure what to do, unsettled by this clear violation of the rules of engagement, instinct kicks and he (or she) runs too. No doubt pondering what the hell had just happened.
Oh, and he doesn't know the golden rule of cat garden fight club, as in, he always talks about it.
Oops, it has just been pointed out to me that this my third cat related post in recent weeks. Apologies dear reader I can't help myself. Time for something more fluffy, light-hearted and cute, like Rupert Murdoch and the imminent demise of News International.
Regular readers of my musings will be a little surprised by the question posed by this post. Up until recently I didn't think this was possible. However a recent discovery from YouTube has made me re-think my position. It seems that it is not only possible to love cats too much, it is possible that this love of cats is so overwhelming that simple tasks may become impossible to complete.
Like all afflictions, it seems the most extreme cases are the hardest to watch.
Just a quickie today. I stumbled across this video whilst browsing that tinterweb watchtube thingy. All my cats ever bring home is leaves, and occasionally the remains of a small dead animal. This little fella is a little more inventive and has been caught on film.
This site, along with it's not inconsiderable YouTube presence is a joy to me. It combines two things that are close to my heart, comedy and cats. Dogs and other animals do get a look-in as well. Mainly though, this site is about the exasperation shared by every cat owner about the behavior of their cat(s) amplified to the nth degree.
Somebody sent me the first video from this author some time ago and it is particularly resonant in our family as one of our cats exhibits pretty much all of the traits illustrated (apart from the baseball bat) in attempting to wake us up.
This first outing has managed to attract over 22m viewers, no mean feat I think you'll agree.
The website offers the prospect of watching all of the videos along with some rather cute merchandise which, having become a bit of a fan, I might have fallen for. There are also photo competitions for cat owners and all sorts of other good stuff.
A misguided soul walking down a road spies a cat. The cat is of an egregious nature and offers affection to this misguided soul. The misguided soul strokes the cat and this is where the story should end. Except it didn't, because the misguided soul in question took the cat by the scruff of the neck and unceremoniously dumped it in a conveniently placed wheelie bin and then walked off.
There was a time when this would have been an unfortunate end for the cat, and an unfortunate end to the story, but times change. The owner of the cat found the cat in said wheelie bin a day later, hungry, but apart from that unharmed.
What makes this happy ending interesting is the postscript that rocked the world. The owner of the cat had installed movement activated CCTV due to an ongoing issue with the neighbours/area, which was trained on the bin. The owner span back through the archive footage and published the offence on YouTube.
If you have been living under a rock for the last month watch it again here.
This story made the news in the UK and the video went viral across the world. It even spawned response videos on YouTube such as this, highly amusing.
The worldwide outcry to this video have been polarised to say the least, I reproduce some recent comments to the original video;
I hope that cat hunts that old bitch down and claws her death haha
THAT IS SO EVIL. SHE SHOULD BE LOCKED UP IN JAIL. THEY SHOULD THROW WAY THE KEY!
I imagine caps was important to making the point. So why the post, this all happened a while ago, didn't it? I do have a habit of being a little behind the times with posts don't I? Well on this occasion no, because the said misguided soul has been sentenced this very day...
A £250 fine along with some associated court costs coming to about £1100. That must have felt like a let off, really. I thought hanging was going to be introduced for this particular crime, although I suspect it might have been deemed too expensive in the latest round of budgetary cuts, but I digress.
What is pleasing about this whole affair is the power of the camera. A lot of people have been whingeing about the proliferation of CCTV in our country, and how damaging it is. Clearly this is only an issue if you are doing something wrong or something not neccesarily wrong, but a little embarrassing in public places. The technology in question was not government owned but in fact a piece of equipment inexpensively installed by an individual. Just goes to prove that if bad things are happening where you are then get it on tape, publish it and let the world decide. The court of YouTube is now in session.
