Day eight: Cats got a bite


I was in a flap yesterday, not of the cat variety, how ironic that would have been. It was back to work ultramarine blues.  My full wrath of anger and bellyaching will come over the coming weeks, but not tonight: I am letting it swell into a mightier force, a tsunami of ill temper that I will unleash.  Remember this mid-life crisis comes early and it is planned.  No hasty decisions here.  Things on my agenda will include staffroom protocol… my blood boils.

I see the cat had a go yesterday instead of me, did a fair job too, perhaps we should form a coalition and scrawl together.  What do you think cat?… She’s not paying attention, she’s back on the hard stuff today. Biscuits that is, not heroine or smack but to her it’s probably just as good. Moments earlier the biscuits fell into her band-aid coloured bowl, it was a scene from a parachute drop in third world gratuity land – although with a cat and no helicopter, and due to personal preference as opposed to famine and desperation.

Snaffling and biting her way through the meaty atoms with aplomb she screams like a diva:


Yes you are.

***I had aspirations to blog everyday this year, but eight days in and already the cat is passing me a white flag purrrring for me to wave it aloft and have done with it.  The beers are doing exactly the same but so far I have been controlled.

I shall depart for the evening.  I am brewing a decaf tea for the other half, her new thing…

both cat and I will be on the look out for withdrawal symptoms.

What’s that cat? You’re passing her the white flag too?  Give her half a chance, she reads this.


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Day seven: The cat taketh over


He made it then, my owner, made a big song & dance didn’t he?  Anyone would think it was him who had to lick his anus in the hope of jump-starting his bowel movements. He came in all a fluster not long ago, 6PM our time. Looked thoroughly pi hissed off, like someone had farted as he pulled up his socks, that sort of look.  I must admit it was nice to have the pair of them out of the house, they’ve been under my paws these past few weeks, three’s a crowd and when you’re ill you don’t want people encouraging you to take a shit every few minutes.  I can’t believe he’s been wasting time rambling writing scribbling about it on here to be honest, no wonder he was flipping-a-lid last night mumbling  ‘I’m not ready, I don’t wanna go back, I hate it, is it really Monday?  ARHHHHHHH!!! Where are my work pants?’ Pathetic really, I told him as much.

It’ll do them good to work, she went back too, earn honest money to pay for my dentures – which I presume I will receive in due course after having my chompers torn out last week.  I like licking my gums though, you know, where the holes are, kinda painful but kinda nice…you keep going back for more – like Pringles.

I thought about going outside to stretch the joints but just one look at the weather and my nipples went dense, as solid as brass buttons.   I ran a bath and had a long soak instead, thought, whilst the cats away this c…a…t      w…i…l…l    p…l…a……… that doesn’t make sense, must be the dope the vet has asked them to ‘hide’ in my food.  I didn’t even have a bath.

I did really.

I didn’t have bath.

Anyway, after my bath, he returned, looking thoroughly cream-crackered, I don’t know what it is he does but it does nothing for his sense of humour.  I begged for some biscuits, some crunch to work my jaw…
but he said I’m still not allowed.  bastard. I’ve sprayed all over his beer bottles as he lead me to believe he’s not drinking alcohol this month, so if he lapses, …..WHEN he lapses, justice will taste sweet (and the beer will taste of piss).

Considering I only have paws I think I may have done rather well here.  I’m going to log out as I have some hair to strategically place on the pillows and cushions and those trousers he is getting prepared for tomorrow.

Over and Me..owt.

P.S: I have attached a picture of me pre-op (not that sort of op!! har har) sat on the books that my owner was supposed to do something with but had ‘better’ things to do over his two weeks jollies,  like write to you lot.

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Day six: The smell of nerves before the alarm


sniff sniff.



No, not another dirty job, nor is it the sniffer dogs from last weeks forensics case, wet nosing their way through suspects (of which I am not one) though my sense of fear and loathing may well arrest me for that assault on gluteus maximus as someone has to pay the price and I look shifty, on edge, about to break.  I am merely using a descriptive to show the nerves.  What else could I have used?

My nerves don’t really smell, but there certainly is an issue here.  Two weeks off and as always, with good intentions at my core to be ready, prepared, one step-ahead I am none.  Fail to prepare I am fully prepared to fail and THAT is causing an almighty stink.

Who else out there in this world has… I’m not even going to finish the question, it is just me, the one idiot who has spent the past week writing about a cat licking it’s arse when I knew full well I had real work to do.

When that alarm sounds in the morning I think it is in for a bigger shock than me.  I have a thwack ready.  I will probably not clean shave, my shoes have not been polished, I never visited the barbers, I have not purchased myself a new outfit as planned so I will basically look no better than my dishevelled cat; rushing around trying to catch it’s tail.

So when everyone tomorrow congratulates themselves for looking so well rested, smug at how prepared they are, dancing in the corridors of new year optimism I will blame! I know it is not fair, but I will look each and every equipped member of staff in their bag-free eyes and suck their hope of a good beginning into my needy veins, because of YOU.

I had two weeks for all this stuff (papers about papers, folders with things in, charts about results that I don’t understand but promised myself I would understand by now) and yet I find myslef writing to nobody…what on earth is my problem?  Do I like to take a beating? Am I into that?  Oh my.

Oh no…

…….it will happen, tomorrow some ‘ever-so-nice’ person with an easy life will ask ‘did you make any new years resolutions?’

I hope I can hold myself together.  I am choking at the thought of it, and also on fresh air-mile Almonds (from California) and Soft Apricots (from Turkey)…I love eating local produce!  I am close to ranting…I can feel it.  Can you?

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Day five: Write the list, tick the list, re-write your list (neater) tick it again.

It is what it is.

What is it?



Let me gloss.  I have just completed a large project, operation Wash Up.  I feel almost snooty in the completion.  It involved the usual but multiplied by three.  Yes three.  One more than double, that is why it progressed to operation and not just loads of washing up.  But that is life currently, jobs are building up and concluding them seems less inviting than starting a new one.  We all like something new don’t we? Shiny, shiny, new. Take operation Wash Up as prime example, midway I lost focus of the job in my bubbled hands and went to visit my stricken cat – a cement mixer with construction team on strike- her poo remains concrete and imprisoned, her hair remains unstylish and her voice is a meek meow.  Poor cat.  Yesterdays nugget remains on the mantelpiece as a reminder that when push comes to shove rewards do come. I have advised cat to take inspiration from this trophy of achievement but she stares at me and says shit a brick son.  I digress, again, just as the point of my post.  I was talking of taking on new rather than completing what you have started last night with a friend whilst watching a Scandinavian thriller (Headhunters…worth a cross-your-legs-edge-of-seat-watch).  We agreed there is something largely satisfying in finishing a job, rubbing your hands together on completion, ticking the list with flamboyant vigor.  It is also a great feeling telling someone a task is complete knowing they still have to complete it! Strut, posture, swank… mwah ha ha.  It doesn’t happen to me often, usually I’m the one bent out of shape.  Back to operation Wash Up.  As the water started to cool and discolour I decided breakfast as a breaker, to give me the energy to finish the initial task.  This only created more washing up, one step forward two steps back.  I must not make that a mantra this year or I’ll end up back in 2012.  The cat would love that.  Oh the days of regular body hair, regular bowel movement, a happy time when she wasn’t spaced out and flaked out on antibiotics.  My fiancée also, rewind to before she grew a third rear cheek and I am sure she would be thankful.  We still don’t know how it occurred, forensics are still trying to get to the bottom of it! Cheap.  Buy cheap you get bitten – all fingers point to a creature from the black lagoon that was hidden within the sheets of toilet roll… we should have gone for double-downy-fleecy-velvet-double sheets but how were we to know?  Once bitten twice shy – I hope she doesn’t abandon trust in toilet paper.

A dirty job.

I am starting to panic slightly, not due to her bum, that will sort itself out I’m sure…unless an exotic spider has laid… let’s not go there (she reads this).  I am panicking as I am back to work on Monday after two weeks off.  I had plenty of work on my list to tick off: I can’t even find my list.  I shall spend time on writing a new list.  Blogging was not on my list.  Operation Wash Up should not be on a list but it will and furthermore ticked off instantly to give me some form of boost, similar to the poo trophy that cat won yesterday.  I best get ahead or I’ll be behind or worse still bent out of shape come Monday when every other staff member has ‘done’ their work.  Critters.

As for my job.  I am not a Headhunter.  I am still not a vet.

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Day Four: Constipated Cat


The cat is back.

Poor cat.

She now has a lack of teeth, has been shaved in no particular fashion and can’t poo. I’m sure I have just heard her talk to her anus, not very polite in public but she did use the word please. I suppose I should not have been watching. I think of ‘Squeeze: Cool for Cats’ but this cat can’t and it’s not cool. It is merely a side effect of the drugs she is on. When I say drugs, I’m talking medication here, she’s not on stimulants, not to my knowledge- I suppose you can’t trust those dodgy-alley-cat-bastards. The other girls bum in my life remains an issue also… not on a superficial issue – don’t be foolish, I have no issues with her derriere (she reads this) though she may disagree with my honesty.

Exhibit A, Your Honour: He purchased a pair of dainty knickers just last week for a Christmas gift that were several sizes too big, with a matching bra several sizes too small.

Basically it went a little…no…a lot, pear shaped. No wonder the girls at the till insisted the gift receipt went in the box. “Sir, it really would make her life easier.”


No really, a nugget of poo…Yes! A conker, the cat has dropped it’s conker. (Buckeyes I believe is the US term but hey I’m no expert on this or poo).

Well, when it’s cool for cats, it’s cool for cats! Well done cat, that last lick was a master stroke. Any more from whence that came?

I digress from my rambling of the other bum, it’s still red, still hurts, still infected, she mentions it now and again but at least she can poo without her eyeballs popping out.

Today not much else has been achieved, but I am aware of how my life is moving in a direction, just like my cats bowels. You may be wondering… and I do this lots too, does this chap not work? Well I do, however, I don’t go back to work until next Monday, allowing me time to keep detailed logs on two bottoms. I won’t spoil what my occupation is but have faith that I do have employment. I am not a vet.

I bid you farewell.

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Day three: Cat teeth bum bite

It’s a dirty job.

Said the Vet.

It’s a dirty job.

Possibly said the doctor.


The cat is having her teeth out today.  A dirty job because bits of stray tooth/gum take to the air and grip to the wall.  Begging for a sticker and a lolly the rotten scoundrels will never return to the red, ROAR gums.  A pleasant image.  Next stop was the doctors, 11am. The same fiancée I told you of yesterday in a lowering of my shield had to lower her pants to share, bare-faced, her cheeks to the doctor.  She had been bitten on her bum, alas not by me (nor the cat though that would have been a tidy plot line) but a mysterious yet daring creature.  A dirty job indeed.  Leaving not only with smug memories the bug has left a reminder in on her rear, a honking great whoopee-cushion sized infection…how immusing it would be if it parfffed when sat upon, but it doesn’t – the infection doesn’t, her bottom may, but this is my fiancée, it doesn’t so stop suggesting!

She’s not back yet, apparently she’s acting insensible, still anesthetized and drugged up to the eyeballs.  The cat not my fiancée, my fiancée is back.  When cat does return the house will be two-thirds invalid, one-third detached yet still terraced.

The gym did happen as muttered yesterday.  You never forget how to ride a bike…you do forget what cartilage in your knees tastes like.  Are you proud? I thought so.  I never broke sweat to tell the truth.  To tell a lie I cried pain like the suffocated scrotum in the spandex shorts, leaving a puddle of DNA on every clanking machine in the windowless pit.  As if I would wear spandex, absurd!

A dirty job.

I am 30.  The Olympics have been and gone (hardly sneaked by did they?)  but I am confident the treadmill of time has not caught me yet.  To prove it I shall book an event to aim for…to give me another signficant event to focus on this year.  I will tell you of planned others in due course.

Must dash I have cat food to blend and a bottom to laugh at.

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Day Two. Dear Year…

Dear Year…

I expect much from you, just as you likely do from me. I will give unto you so long as you keep me sailing under your calendar.

As you know yesterday I triumphiantly posted my first blog and slept thankfully under a blanket of typeface and words. Dreaming of the success and the podium finishes these scribbles will grant me I awoke with heavy cat on even heavier bladder asking questions of where to go next. I was asking the questions not the cat.

The cat never answered.

The answer was to the bathroom but the bigger picture was to here. You see, I now have an outlet to vent my frustrations and victories, no matter how small or likely epic.


3rd letter of first pets mothers maiden name followed by a dizzying sequence of numbers?…Internet banking was shady frustration. However, momentarily becoming St. Andrew: finder of lost things was glowing light, as epic as they come. A sentimental brooch, passed through the family, belonging to my fiance and lost in the memory forever was victoriously found by myself!

It was under a wardrobe. £4.50’s worth of Tesco vouchers added a cherry. Can days come any better?

It is only Day Two, so rather than rest on my cheeks, striking whilst the iron is hot (I must start to switch said appliance off after use) I plan to dust off my gym membership and test the grey matter in asking it which direction the gym is. The cat might answer this one.

I mentioned fiance there didn’t I? So the detectives out there know I am a thirty year old male, I have a cat, today I claimed to be St.Andrew, I am doing the predictable and going to the gym in January and I have a fiancé. Stop asking for more…be patient, you are full for today and any extra will repeat on you.

I bid you farewell.

Which way?


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