Backwards In High Heels

Sad News

I'm afraid there is some sad news on the hand-rear kitten front. The little female passed away quietly in her sleep this morning.

She was the one the vet was worried about from the onset but she did take to the bottle well so I let my hopes be raised. Sadly it would appear her organs, notably her stomach, were perhaps not as developed as we could have hoped for. She certainly wasn't thriving as the two boys were. I was on night feed duty last night and although she'd have a little purr she wasn't very hungry at all and I just had that instinct that she had fought as much as she could. She cuddled up with her brothers after there 9am feed and slipped away.

Her siblings continue to grow like they are nuclear powered but needless to say I'm sad today that Wiggle, as I had christened her, lost her battle.

Afternoon Update: I thought this would be nice to cheer us up after the sad news - the chance for you to see, and hear, Bomber and Bruiser, the surviving siblings getting excited before an afternoon feed.

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

Meet The Grandparents

Excuse me if I shout, today the Grandparents visited and I the tinnitus to prove it.

I love my grandparents, do not get me wrong. I have been blessed. As some of you may have read on my blog my grandfather was sadly killed many years before I was born. We are an exceedingly lucky family though as my Gran married the most marvellous man shortly before I was born, who I have always affectionately called Uncle John though perhaps Saint John would be more appropriate. He has spoilt us rotten and has been one of the greatest supports you could ever ask for.

Back to today.

There is a ritual to their arrival. A human train is formed from their car to our back door as bag after bag makes its way to the kitchen. My Gran seems to be under the impression that we do not have food in the Midlands and therefore she comes armed with Oxfam parcels of Yorkshire's finest. Along with Hatches, Matches and Dispatches gossip, food is my Gran's obsession.

The first Gulf War started about nine months before my 18th birthday. A few days into the conflict Gran phoned me. "Don't worry" she said, "I've bought in all the ingredients to make your 18th birthday fruit cake so we needn't worry if rationing starts."

Today we went out for a bar meal, to the same pub we always frequent when they visit. Their carvery has been granted my Gran's seal of approval, a sort of Michelin Star in comfy shoes; I don't know if they appreciate what an honour her patronage is.

Lunch was followed by a drive to the local butchers. Unbelievably, it transpires the butcher in the next door village to us is the greatest butcher ever, not even in Yorkshire does a butcher come close to this man in Gran's opinion. My Gran and Les the Butcher are now on first name terms. As I type a large amount of his fine fare is packed into cool boxes on a two hour journey north to be the centrepiece of roast dinners for the next month. 

So having been well fed, having worshipped at the Temple of Les, it was home for an afternoon of the usual gossip. I am in a no win situation.

GRAN "You remember X, he was Y's second cousin and married Z's sister?"

There is no answer to save me from the looming story. If I say they don't ring a bell (which they usually don't) is to sentence myself to a half hour family tree lesson on top of the original story. Say yes and I am subjected to a story (which I have usually heard at least three times over the phone in the last week) about people of whom I have no recollection and on the few times I do recall them, I recall that I don't care. All the stories revolve around someone or something being born, married or dying - really good ones can include all three elements.

Some stories having me biting my tongue and others have me laughing at inappropriate moments, usually these stories involve 'Aunts' - the elderly stateswomen of the Yorkshire Dales. I suspect am a sorrowful case in their eyes, a 32 year old spinster who hasn't had the joy of bearing a boychild for the husband I should be dedicated to. In fact I imagine I hit spinster in their minds around 22, and all hope was lost post-25.

A few years ago my Gran overheard one of the best 'Aunt' conversations to date. It was at a funeral and the mother of a girl who was away as a (very successful) post-grad at University was getting the third degree on her daughter's whereabouts. The important question cropped up (I mean this girl was knocking on a bit, at least 23). Had she found a man and was she courting with a view of settling down? to which the answer was no. 'Aunt' in question looked perplexed for a second before saying quite matter of fact 'Is she a lesbian?'  I believe it was thanks to Emmerdale and the lesbian vet storyline of the time that threw up this new option. Who said soaps weren't educational?

So it was a lovely day, the waistband is fighting a losing battle and downstairs is a homemade apple pie. You can't grumble at that.

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Thanks to the lovely Kate I have been tagged by The Indie Virus.  As I am relatively new to blogging, and not at all new to being slow on the uptake, I am just coming round what a tag is and why blogs have them.

Technorati tags: grandparents, family, bar+meal, food, butchers, Emmerdale, The+Indie+Virus

The Three Ps

While the Education Secretary may be concerned with the three Rs, for me it is the three Ps:

Peeing, pooing, purring.

Happily all three kittens have passed on all counts and are continuing to thrive as my eyebags apply for their own postcode.

To other matters. I took a deep breath and sent in a couple of quickie gags for a Radio show looking for speculative material today. I am not thinking about whether or not they will be used, today is about clambering over the fear barrier of having a go in the first place. Small steps for big ideas. Perhaps if I can send one thing in, I can do two, or three and maybe, just maybe one of those ideas will tick all the boxes for the guy at the other end.