Bene, bene

The removal of the evil cat grass caused both kitties to bounce rapidly back to their usual selves, and they spent the weekend galloping madly around the house and eating enormous amounts of food. Abigail’s stitches were removed without incident, and I’m terribly pleased at the prospect of not seeing the vet again for several months, by which time it will be Horace’s turn to be de-sexed.

I spent Saturday playing games at the baby shower, and taking photographs of my friend’s pregnant tummy and a conveniently cute baby, who was busily crawling around, a balloon attached to his ankle. It was a great occasion for photography - a bright sunlit room, and no-one paying attention to me and my camera, so I curled up on a couch and busily clicked away. The pregnancy we were celebrating hasn’t been particularly easy so far, and a premature birth is expected - I patted her tummy and told its contents to stay put for the meantime.

***

I’m having another go at my sporadic and repeated attempts to learn Italian - I think I may have found a magic combination in putting Italian podcasts on my mp3 player, listening to them while driving, and talking aloud to myself in the car. While driving to the baby shower, I learned to say “I speak a little bit of Italian” and “I am going to the pizzeria”. Oh, and I can do the usual exchanges of “Hi, how are you, I’m good, how are you,” except I can only describe my mood as “good” or “bad”. It’s a start, and it seems to be sticking in my memory much better than when I read a lesson. Here’s hoping this isn’t a fortnight’s phase like all my previous attempts!

Beyond rectangles

Abigail has recovered well from her operation - while I had to whisk her off to the vet once so he could check a swelling under her stitches, a few days of trying to keep her quiet helped, and it looks nicely healed. She has an appointment tomorrow to have the stitches taken out. Unfortunately, both she and Horace presently have little appetite and have had a few bouts of diarrhoea. I eventually realised that this had coincided with their special treat of a pot of cat grass from the nursery over the weekend. I presume that something in the potting mix or on the leaves of the plant is bothering them, and am hoping that after the removal of the pot they will get back to normal. Cleaning up sloppy cat poo is not my idea of a good time, and the lack of appetite is so at odds with their usual voracious hunger that it makes me quite nervy.

***

One of the secretaries at work is learning to knit, and I’m thinking that it’s getting cool enough to dig out the old needles and start on a few projects for the winter months. Doesn’t that sound impressive, like I’m planning to whip up a wardrobe full of jumpers and hats. I confess that all I can really do is knit rectangles. Big rectangles equal wraps, smaller ones equal scarves. This winter, though, I’m determined to progress a little future - perhaps to knitting in the round (I own double-pointed needles, but have never used them), or maybe knitting something with ribbing. I’m going to my first baby shower this weekend and am presently still puzzling over something vaguely original to take as a gift - what a pity I didn’t get the urge to start knitting a little earlier in the year. I have actually knitted baby booties before - the one non-rectangular project I’ve ever completed.

Mmm, beans

For the last few weeks I have been idly musing about an enclosed area of the garden which I’m certain used to be a vegetable garden. (There’s a rogue pumpkin vine in the near vicinity, as well as some parsley and chives in a raised container - surviving, miraculously, despite my benevolent neglect since moving in.) I took advantage of the long weekend to grab myself a spade and do some investigation into the deep leaf litter which had covered up the enclosure.

I was delighted to uncover a neat paved path running down the middle of the enclosed bed, with a little irrigation system set up alongside. The leaf litter had kept the soil fairly loose and moist, and I dug through it all, loosening it up further. There was a high circle of chicken wire that seemed to have been used as a support for either beans or tomatoes. A large bathtub that I had thought was filled with weeds was in fact filled with lovely moist soil that had been carefully covered up with sacks, over which leaf litter had fallen.

I took off to the nursery and bought myself a little selection of seedlings, as well as some commercial compost mix, which I dug into the garden bed and the bathtub. Sweet basil and dill went into the bathtub, and roma tomatoes went around the chicken wire circle, ready to support them when they grow a little taller. I planted dwarf french beans along the back of the bed, next to a large wall of wire for a climbing support, and I filled the rest of the bed with capsicum, cauliflower and lettuce seedlings. It was so much fun having such space to play with, a proper garden bed and not a tiny area of lawn like those I’d enthusiastically excavated in the past - I think it’s the first time I haven’t crowded seedlings together, or tried to grow things in pots. I have high hopes for the success of this vegie garden, and enthusiastic visions of home grown dinners of cauliflower and beans.

In stitches

Abigail went to the vet last week to be de-sexed.  I really should have read up a bit on what this operation involved - I was a bit horrified initially when the vet explained it was a full hysterectomy.  I said worriedly, “Oh, when will she be back to normal, up and about?” and was told the afternoon after the operation.  “They’re not like people, you know.”  I convinced myself that I was being a bit silly fretting over what was obviously not a very big deal.

When I picked Abi up, as she butted her head anxiously against the door of her carrier and wailed loudly at me, the vet told me that I would have to keep her quiet and away from Horace for 10 days “at the least”.  I gaped at the impracticalities of this.  “We don’t want her stomach to fall out or anything!” she said gaily.  “Yes,” I said grimly.  “Ha ha.”

I watched Abi anxiously when I got her home, batting Horace away as he tried to lick her ears.  The day after the operation, she obviously felt back to normal, galloping merrily around, and trying to climb up every piece of furniture in sight.  I checked her stitches every 5 minutes, and tried, unsuccessfully, to calm her down.   “You know she doesn’t understand you,” said the Prince after I had carefully explained to the cat that she was supposed to be keeping quiet, and could she possibly not stalk and tackle her brother stomach-first?

The stitches seem to be holding together well so far, and they appear healthy and uninfected, so I am not worrying too much.  I have ignored the directive about Horace, as they are miserable without each other, and he is very gentle (even when she is leaping at him and landing on his head).  I decided that happy and boisterous was probably better for her health than being alone and miserable.  (Now that I’ve said that, all the stitches will go and fall out to teach me not to be so certain of myself.)

Starts with E

“He’s um… he’s… oh, what’s that word?”
“What does it mean?”
“Oh, you know - he buys nice clothes and cares about how he looks, and he goes out dancing…”
“Superficial.”
“No, no. Anyway, it starts with an E.”
“Elegant. Effervescent. Egalitarian.”
“No. It’s like - you know, dancing and nice shoes and um, people from Brazil.”
“Exuberant?”
“No.”

Eventually, we settled on “flamboyant”, even though it didn’t start with an E (but it had an E in it, which we decided was the important bit). Later that evening, I described something as “extravagant praise”. “EXTRAVAGANT!” he shouted. “That was the word. See, it does start with an E.”

It’s like having my own personal, very vague crossword puzzle. I am less tenacious - while “thing” is a major word in my vocabulary, I generally flap my hands around while saying, “Er, er, um” and conclude with, “you know what I mean”, and hope that people can fill in the gaps in the sentences. I have also noticed recently that I tend to trail off in the middle of sentences, either because I’m lost track of what I was saying, or I’ve forgotten a word and ending up vaguely waving my hands instead of speaking. I’m fairly sure I have my father to thank for that collection of genes.

I employ this a bit at work when I’m feeling out of my depth, mostly because people generally finish off the sentences for you. “Yes, I feel it has a similarity with that High Court decision…” I say, and they leap in helpfully with the actual name of the case. This goes into my bad habit file along with nodding seriously while someone uses a phrase I have absolutely no familiarity with and then Googling it, rather than just asking them what it means. Let’s hope they’re not checking up on my Google history.

Satin-lined cages

The woman smiled cheerily at the people seated in front of her on rows of plastic chairs, and held up a cat. “Good coat for this time of year,” she said, ruffling its fur. “The tail’s a bit long for my liking.” I tried not to laugh. A woman in the audience looked outraged. The cat, a squashy-faced Persian, wriggled. It was plopped down on a table, and had a finger pressed firmly between its eyes. “Nice skull.” The cat looked furiously cross-eyed, but I think this is a natural expression for a Persian. “Give me a smile,” cooed the woman, turning the cat towards her. “Oh,” she said, disappointed, looking up at her audience. “He doesn’t want to smile - he’s not in the mood for judging today.”

Our friends, whose Norwegian Forest cat provided us with our kittens, wanted to visit a particular breeder this weekend, and so we accompanied them to a local cat show, a new experience for us both. It was most peculiar, watching various cats being held up and turned around, their tails flipped up and their rear ends examined. As a particularly lush long-haired cat was brought out of its cage, our friend whispered that some breeders keep their cats in cold air-conditioning so that they retain a lush winter-length coat for shows. I gaped.

Some of the cats were very pretty, with shiny brushed coats, lolling in their satin-lined cages (females generally had pink or purple satin, the males tended towards silver or gold) - some I found terribly unattractive, hairless rat-like animals, one with a grand champion ribbon on its cage. “Oh Princess!” cooed an owner through the bars at her pet, “Who’s a clever giiiirl? Does oo want some bikkies? Some bikkies for Princess?” She then began to sing a little tune with the words, “Some bikkies for Priiincess, some bikkies for Priiincess…”, swaying away in front of the cage. I felt a bit embarrassed for her, although no-one even glanced in her directions. I am, unfortunately, guilty of indulging in ridiculous baby talk with the kittens, but I tend to avoid it in public.

A rather strange experience, really, and not one that appealed to me. I don’t think I’ll be moving into showing cats any time soon. Not that my sweet little cross-bred kittens would be in the same league as the rest of the show cats - I imagine their tail length would be simply unacceptable, not to mention the quality of their skulls.

Evacuate (lord, what a dreadful pun)

I think the women’s bathroom on my level of our office building must be the most derelict corporate bathroom in the whole city. There’s the constantly flickering fluorescent light. There’s the gaping hole that’s been cut into the ceiling in one stall, so that you can see all the wiring and piping above you, and listen to a phantom breeze whistling eerily about in the roof space. When you stand at the sink, washing your hands or gazing thoughtfully at your reflection, you can hear a wailing sound of an evacuation alarm. I have no idea where this sound comes from - it’s always going, whooping away faintly, every time I walk into the bathroom. Maybe that’s why they cut the hole in the ceiling - someone finally couldn’t stand it anymore.

I’ve never actually asked whether anyone else can hear the alarm as well. Perhaps it’s my very own auditory hallucination. Which, for some reason, only occurs at the bathroom sink.

Overly dramatic

When my anti-virus program detects something entering the computer, it makes a loud wailing siren sound, and an American voice says, “Warning!  Virus has been detected!”

This is fairly alarming when you are peacefully surfing the internet in bed.  I may have made a little shrieking noise, but I will never admit it.

Something to do with swords

When I was in Melbourne, I planned to spend a day strolling around the city, and so after spending a leisurely hour in my cousin’s apartment eating breakfast and straightening my hair, I walked out into the windy squally day, and thought, “Oh. Bugger.” Hopping off the tram on Flinders Street, my hair rapidly becoming less straight, I began my day of wandering, thinking to myself, “I won’t look at the map - I’ll just explore organically, wander the lanes and alleyways, and let the city reveal herself to me.” (Yes, my brain is a wanker.) I did so, turning left and right at random, recognising the one street I knew (Collins Street! Hi!) and moving on. Trotting through one of a million little arcades, I gazed in the window of a science fiction bookstore, and decided that as I didn’t want to be carrying books around all day, I would come back later. Don’t you love the confident way I thought that, given that I hadn’t looked at any street names for the last half hour?

Meeting my cousin for lunch, I wailed at her, “I found a really cool science fiction bookstore, and then I lost it! I’ve been through every arcade I can find again and it’s gone.” She asked me what it was called, and I frantically looked up at the ceiling. “Um. Swords? It had something to do with swords. Space and Swords? Swords in Space? Something like that.” She promised to look it up for me when she returned to work and send me a message if she was successful. A few minutes later, I got it - “Of Science & Swords, The Strand Arcade, Elizabeth St.”

It was a cool little bookstore, and I was terribly excited to find the next three books in Karen Traviss’ Wess’har War series which I have looked for everywhere unsuccessfully. The dude at the counter engaged me in conversation, which was awkward because I’m so terrible at defining my tastes in reading. So in response to “What kinds of science fiction do you like?” I said, “Um? Like, not too heavy?” Which made me sound like I enjoy reading about fluffy pink unicorns in space, and also like I’ve never heard of finishing a sentence with a full stop.

Thankfully, I did not get hurled out of the store while Counter Dude shouted, “And take your fluffy pink unicorn with you!” But I did get talked into buying a local author’s vampire novel, and also couldn’t resist Elizabeth Bear’s Hammered, because I’ve heard she’s fabulous and yet for some reason my library doesn’t have any of her books. In any case, after browsing around for some time I was in a merry book-buying mood, and such moods are hard to resist.

I took my haul, found a convenient sofa in an arcade, and plunged into The World Before for half an hour. Then my aunt appeared and whisked me away for a reviving coffee, before taking me to check out her new (to me) apartment, with its two little mezzanine levels and airily high ceiling. While I adore my semi-rural block and looking out my window at the bush, it’s awfully fun having little tastes of city lifestyle - all that apartment living and everything-you’ll-ever-need a few blocks away. I can see the appeal.

I Remember

The morning after the funeral, I sat and wrote for a while, recording the afternoon for myself. But really, a description of 45 minutes of me crying and hugging people doesn’t make for a fascinating narrative. I thought I’d take a cue from a speech my cousin made at the funeral, which she began with “These are some memories I have.” So, these are some memories I have of my grandmother:

1. Playing in her garden, walking with my brother through the stepping stones between flower beds, and climbing in the fig tree. Eating figs warm from the sun.
2. Being given handmade lavender bags to put under my pillow, made with lavender harvested from her garden.
3. The container of meringues that lived on top of the fridge.
4. The time when she visited us up north, and came to a yoga class with Mum and me - we were three generations in the front row.
5. Lolling around on the squishy lounge chairs with the arm covers that always slipped off.
6. The beetle magnets on the fridge door.
7. Bringing her breakfast in bed - a pot of tea, and Promite toast cut into soldiers.
8. Sitting beside her dressing table and watching her brush her long white hair, and pin it up with combs.
9. “Yardarm,” she would say, glancing at the clock - it was always time for a little drink at 6pm.
10. Her loud and frequent laughter - I loved visiting her with my mother, and listening to us all laughing together.

I felt so close to my family as they all stood up and spoke of the wonderful woman we all loved so much, but I particularly liked hearing my cousin’s memories, mostly because I shared many of them. She had the pleasure of taking her own children to climb the fig tree, and eating home-made meringues - it makes me feel glad that there are so many generations of the family that share those same memories. She’s still there in all our hearts.