Early Morning Thoughts

It is early morning.

Black as your hat in the bedroom.

Something has awoken me, but it is all quiet in the house.

Brain fuzzy and unsure.

Surfing the darkness like an expert.

Been here before.

Off in the distance lies the madness horizon.

Beckoning like an ancient Greek siren.

Voice and words enticing.

But James Joyce pipes up and reminds me that this is just a stream of unconsciousness and to pay it no heed.

Quiet as a graveyard in the bedroom (once the priest, the diggers and the wailing mourners have departed)

"Breathe, breathe in the air", the great words of Mr Pink wander into my mind and then crept out again (or was that the cat?)

My mind wanders amongst the planets to be found in our bedroom, they glow in the night.

Swift and flighty Mercury, like a broken Icarus, burnt and fallen but staying close to the heart of the sun

Venus hot and dangerous, an atmospheric hot house made from a runaway climate change, does our future lie there? 

Earth blue and beautiful, seven billion of us plague the planet and with an inevitable mathematical geometry there will be three billion more in my lifetime.

Mars, tired and worn, rusted and arid.

Seas and oceans lost over the aeons of time.

My Holst suite ruminations are interrupted as the sound of the cat wailing downstairs breaks me out of my reverie

Light and noise appear, is it the light of an oncoming train?

It is!

An electrical fault has started the very expensive train set that skirts the edge of the room high up towards the ceiling (it was the only place we could put it, there are space restrictions in a Victorian two up two down)

The bright light from the locomotive strikes my face, and for a long reflected moment I see the steam from the funnel.

It is a very expensive train set

The train toots, and Casey Jones, engineer extraordinaire, leaps into view from a distant time and place, extracted like magic from the depths of my memory

The shows theme song comes strongly into my mind, "Steamin and a Rollin, Casey Jones", a blast from the past, especially when he pulls that wire to trigger the Tootin'.

After the wail, and with padding, swift and silent no more, but heavy footed and unsure, age and senility claw at his very being as he struggles to understand what was and what now is.

The door is thumped, possibly with his head or more likely his shoulder, no longer a gentle push from a silent killing paw, that is long consigned to history

A plaintive cry, a possee of louder ones follow

Bridget, automatically and without waking, pats the duvet and the senile arthritic cats jumps up with a second or twos hesitation.

Everything about the cat is hesitant and unsure.

Age has wrecked this silent killing machine .

Once on the bed, loud purring ensues, strangely comforting, warm, relaxing, a primal throbbing, the essential cat noise.

At least someone is happy at this ridiculous hour of the morning.
.
Outside the window, birds start to tweet and twitter and start their joyful odes to the breaking  of another new day.

Can I get back to sleep again?

Apparently not.

Appear to be writing this post.

Damn it

Twenty two minutes before the 5 a.m. alarm.

I'll turn off the tablet.

Turn off the light.

Snuggle down next to a warm somnolent Bridget.

"Ignore the birds, ignore the cat", says a stray thought in my mind, much too wide awake for comfort.

"Sleeping minutes can feel like hours", I hope as I drift off.

Anguish in Aberdeen (Part 1 - from Home to Alton Station)

After the success of our Edinburgh trip back in February 2016, we had decided that the next time Bridget had to deliver training in Scotland, I would take a couple of days off and we would make a weekend of it. Strangely not in Edinburgh and not in Aberdeen, but in Inverness. Plans are wonderful things.

After some initial will it/won't it happen. The training dates were settled and I was booked on a Thursday afternoon flight from Heathrow up to Aberdeen where Bridget would meet me and drive me to the hotel she was staying at, where we would have dinner. She would get up early to go into Kintore to deliver her training and I would make my way by train into Aberdeen to spend a day wandering around (and wondering aloud alot of the time - ed) to see the sights.

It's Never Easy

As you can imagine, Bridget was concerned about my ability to:

• get to Heathrow from Alton, unsupervised (wandering about London asking how to get to Deathrow - gets you the oddest looks, even from our wonderful Bobbies - Bobby Charlton, Bobby Robson, Bobby the Sailor man - or is that Popeye)
• make it in time to catch the flight (it was just the one time, my watch had stopped and I hadn't noticed. Had wondered why time was passing so slowly - but then it just does from time to time. Watching paint dry would have been faster I guess)
• not get held up at security (again) due to throwing a strop about "perceived safety", and it all being, "for show"  and "time wasting security theatre" - as this had got me into trouble the last time (in my defence, spending an hour in a quiet area, away from the hub-bub of an airport was wonderful) - but the embarrassment factor for Bridget was off the scales and I was lectured about not upsetting the security natives otherwise it would mean no rhubarb crumble for me (I am sure that is not what she said, but that is what I took it to mean, I mean how can you live without rhubarb crumble - what would be the point. After this,"threat", which strangely for me I took very seriously, I pledged to be as good as gold next time I was going through airport security)
• catch the correct flight (it is surprisingly easy to mix up Zurich and Munich isn't it - or is it just me and honestly it was just the once - ed)
• manage to remember to take off only those items of clothing that they ask and not go the whole hog and strip down to my boxer shorts. (Again this was a one time misunderstanding as I was coming back to the UK from, "Foreign Parts", and had misheard or perhaps misunderstood the barked command from the Security Person. When someone in Authority says strip, you strip, they had actually said, "Strip off your belt and shoes", but me being me simply heard the strip off part, and back then I had a perfectly honed body (obviously in my tiny little mind), which strangely matched the phrase that Bridget used when the trousers came down, she may have used, "Are you out of your tiny mind?"....)  

So you can see, my track record is fairly poor, but I was given a printed set of instructions on a laminated sheets With Tick Boxes (tm) to allow myself to check them off as I progressed on the way to Aberdeen and give Bridget realtime updates as to my whereabouts. Perhaps and most importantly I could ensure that I was on track and didn't wander off either physically or mentally as is my wont.

The Day Before

The day before I set off, it was a Wednesday, though that isn't important right now, but I always find it useful to know which day it is, particularly at the weekend so that I don't unexpectedly find myself at work on the wrong day.

Only ever done this on a Bank Holiday - ended up at work,  wondering why the roads had been so quiet - and it wasn't until 10 a.m. when no-one else had turned up that I realised what had happened.

In my defence, your honour, I was working overseas so and was unaware that the Monday in question was in fact a Public Holiday, Luxembourg Freed From Nazis Oppression day or some such.

Anyhow, the day before the trip, I was at Sunny Works (tm) but had woken that morning (the word was originally typed as morking - which is a must more interesting word than morning - literary ed) with a very uncomfortable stomach. Gripey is the word. Spasms of discomfort were wracking my body around every fifteen to twenty minutes.

Being an ardent contractor and knowing a day at home suffering silently (silently - you - give me a break  - milk the illness ed) and generating no fee income whatsoever (I refuse to call this working from home - and ensure that my work laptop is at work so that this is impossible - contractor integrity ed) as opposed to a day at the office in discomfort and more importantly generating fee income.

But more importantly than that, there was a problem from the previous day that hadn't been nailed and needed to be, before I was off to Aberdeen - so work beckoned like a Siren and I managed to ignore the pain and head to work to finish the job (the waft of a melancholy violin is heard in the distance - ed).

The pressing question was, had I eaten something that disagreed with me the previous night or had I caught a bug in my interactions with Londoners the previous day?

After reflecting on my dinner;

• half a jar of wasabi peas, just to liven up the palate, 
• followed by a whole roast chicken, 
• an Esmerelda Blenkinsop special salad (containing at least: asparagus, tomatoes, avocado, red onion), 
• a whole wholemeal baguette (need to eat healthily you know), 
• a bottle of the finest Sancerre (a white wine - strangely white wines do not appear to be white - but range from pale yellow to rich amber),  to help wash down the bread
• This was followed by five portions of the finest Waitrose mini Lemon Meringue pies washed down with a small bottle of one of our lovely pudding wines (for some reason they are always small bottles - now I think I might know why - ed)

As my earnest readers might realise from the above, Bridget was away, so the cat could play - down Beau down, it's my chicken and I am not sharing it - I refer you to The Olive Tree and The Cat to explain my relationship with the cat.

So, no,  it couldn't have been what I had eaten. Simply had to be an infected Londoner.

I managed to get through the day, though there were a few precarious moments where I had to let out a few sounds to ease the pain.

I had been hoping to nail the work problem early and then go home to recuperate, however, the problem was one of those little blighters that lead you this way and that, so much so that I called in the King of Common Sense to pair with me to try and see what I had missed.

Sadly, the KoCs failed to solve the problem either, sadly for my stomach the problem wasn't nailed until someone else (eternally grateful to Jakob) looked at the configuration and after five minutes stated boldly, "I know what it is", and most importantly he did.

We fixed the configuration, and lo and behold everything started working.

What a result, pity we had failed to find that out seven hours earlier.

[EBC - We have allowed the above aside, as the author has informed us that the context that it gives to the narrative is commensurate with the length of the interruption]

By Wednesday night I wasn't feeling too hot (even after turning the heating up and putting on a jumper, the weather at this time of the year is just sooo variable - ed), so much so that only had a little drink of water for my dinner as my stomach had moved into, Growler Mode (tm). At one point it growled and gurgled so loudly it startled the cat who had been sleeping peacefully beside me.

As Bridget was away, I had planned to Box Out (tm) on Series 5 of The Walking Dead, which had finally appeared on Amazon Prime, so was free to view (given that Bridget pays for it - win win for me! - freerider ed). But for once it failed to attract me, the violence, the groaning and moaning inside my tummy seemed more than enough for one man to bear.

Instead, after a Skype call to Bridget in which I manfully mentioned only once or twice how rotten I felt, I had an early night.

The theory being that an early night would allow the upset stomach to heal itself so that the next morning I would be as fit as a fiddle to ensure that I could do the journey to Aberdeen without let or hindrance. If only it had turned out that way, sigh.

The Thursday Journey

Now unlike most people (really, you think for a moment you are like anybody else - put him down ed) there were things that Had To Be Done before setting off.

• Bins to be emptied, 
• cat litter to be refreshed (not sure if that is the right word, but stuffing the old stuff - manky stuff covered in cat outpourings and things more solid than that into a clean black bag and the discarded into the outside bin.); 
• dishwasher to be run (well let off his lead for a quick run up and down the lane, before being tied back to the cupboard under the sink), 
• general tidy up to be done (as one of the neighbours, Peter, Bless Him,) so that the house at least looked tidy for neighbours, never is when it is just us.

Sometimes closing the back bedroom door after "tidying up", the rest of the house is the hardest part as the weight and volume of the material "tidied up" can be quite substantial. I really most throw away the 30 years worth of Economists at some point, but I know that as soon as I do that article from 1989 will come in useful.

So once the house was set, I did the final most unwelcome task.

That is: Telling The Cat that we are going to be away. No you may think that this is irrelevant, I used to think it was irrelevant, but knowledge is hard won on the cat front.

Bridget always tells the cat (Oscar we do still miss you - obituary ed) where we are going, how long we are going to be gone and who will be coming into feed him.

Believe you me, not doing this is not an option.

So, I wandered upstairs to find Beau (aka Black Hell Beast - I refer my reader to the Olive Tree and the Cat - again ... go on, go back and find the above link and read it -I ask you - just can't get the readers anymore....- rant ed) curled up in his basket.

His head was down, fast asleep. I stood watching him for a moment, debating with myself, should I wake him up and tell him, or just walk out and tell Bridget that I had told him. Well, if you are a reader of this blog, you know what I had to do.

I cleared my throat, in an "attract the cat's attention", kind of way.

From the darkness of the Cat Cave, I detected a subtle shift in the light, perhaps a glint of a half open eye looking at me. On that presumption (and fearing for my life - not sure why, but that just happens from time to time - I presume it is just me - paranoia ed),

Undeterred, I pressed on and gave a brief explanation of our (not me and the cat, but Bridget and I's) plan for the weekend ahead.

That job safely out of the way I headed for the door. Luckily there was a check list that Bridget had left on the back of the front door, to ensure that I left home with all the right items to hand.

The Checklist

• Are you decently clothed?
• Have you got your shoes on?
• Have you fed and watered the cat? Setting out the food and water is sufficient. Trying to force feed the cat IS NOT what I mean!
• Have you got your keys?
• Have you got your tablet (this is Bridget speak for, "Have you brought all the required happy pills - I have a varied selection of lots of pretty colours)?
• Did you remember to check-in and print off your boarding card?
• Have you got your boarding card on your person?
• Have you got your phone?
• Have you got a phone charger?
• Have you checked the bus times from Woking?
• Have you checked that the trains from Alton to Woking are working?
• Have you got your season ticket?
• Have you got your coat
• Have you had breakfast and a drink
• Have you got you rucksack?
• Have you got your wallet?
• Do you know where your marbles are?

Getting bored of the list now, time to move on.

Bridget does like to ensure that I do not have a, "D'Oh", moment in public. That usually ends up with tears and an early bed time with no dinner; sometimes I feel I am not treated as a grown-up (Bridget says. "When you act like a grown-up, I will treat you like a grown-up. Now stop complaining and clean your plate!)

Trip to Heathrow

The walk to the station was pleasant, if uncontroversial. There was only one slight near death experience, but the car managed to stop in time and I was not flung into the air to my immediate death (you really should learn to use crossing points and not just wander across the roads putting your hands out to the oncoming traffic. I know it works it films - but this is real life - green cross code ed)

Alton station, Place of Magical Sunrises and Sunsets (tm), was reached with no further incident. The train was waiting for me (well not exactly waiting for me, trains are not yet on call like Uber taxis - but that time will come -technology ed). But waiting for anyone who had the time, inclination and more importantly the money to get on board.

As I wandered onto the station platform a waft of cooked bacon entered my nostrils, "Hmm", I thought, Bridget had reminded me that morning that I should eat before I set off, but given that I had set off and failed to eat - I though that I could rectify this oversight with a Bacon Roll that was on offer at the Whistlestop Cafe (Yes, really, this is really what it is called, not sure where the Fried Green Tomatoes have gone, probably gone off  -  film ed)

The chap behind the counter surprised me, as not only could I not see him, as he was sitting down behind the hot food counter, but he came out with, "What can I do for you young man?", I looked about for the young man in question, but nobody there but me. For this I intuited that he had some kind of visual impairment.

Checking out the hot food counter, "Whoargh", I thought to myself, then realised that this was probably inappropriate, and just gave the contents a once over without any further thoughts of sexual excitement.

The counter was sparsely populated, a single sausage roll and a single bacon roll. You'd have thought they might have hooked up and become a bacon and sausage double roll, "Whoargh", I thought again.

..........

Part 2 is coming Real Soon Now - covering

• the problems of finding a seat on the train, 
• how to get off a train at the station. 
• the bus to Heathrow and 
• the interactions with Security at Heathrow Airport.

At some point (possibly in Part 2 - but it might migrate into Part 3) we will get to:

• the excitement I generated at the Vulcanology department at  the University in Aberdeen
• the long smelly drive to Inverness aka My Own Personal Yellowstone
• the three hotel rooms in 12 hours (When It Rains It Pours)
• the long damp stroll around Inverness 

Moment of beauty

On my more than occasional walk to Alton Station, yesterday morning (or Monday as it is for all you late readers of this post. Can you hear the voice of your parent, school teacher or employer speaking to you in your head, "Late Again!, you'll never get on in your life if you are continually late for everything").

But, I was not late, (well not yet at least, but in due course this will occur, but I won't be in a condition to give a hoot, or even two hoots about it, that is the beauty of it. Yes, when you are finally late, the lateness is irrelevant. If only it could be that way when you are alive - philosophy ed).

.. no, I was not late, I was on the back route to the rail station (for my youngers readers, "The Chuff Chuff place" - nursery ed), up Amery hill, past St Lawrence Church and associated graveyard, across the main road,  down Chauntsingers Avenue, before going gently round the bend (glad that you have finally admitted that, this will give us another topic for next weeks session - psychiatry ed)

Now Alton Station (place of many are beautiful sunrise and sunset photos if you have been following this blog, all available on first some first served basis, very reasonable rates - photo sales ed) is 12 1/2 minutes from our house (well technically and legally Bridget's house - I am a paying guest) or if you are like me (no-one is quite like you - ed), 2869 steps, at a medium pace, slightly more or less depending on my speed, as it appears that my stride pattern alters depending on my walking speed. Not that I ever count the steps you understand! (he says this quickly and moves on hurriedly in case someone twigs that he counts his steps - sanity clause ed)

I had, as usual, plenty of time to spare (he does like to be early, sometimes he is so early for the train he gets the earlier (half an hour earlier!) one by mistake - timekeeping ed).

I turned right onto Victoria road that leads down to the now ex-Magistrates Court (I look on it fondly, many a fine court appearance had I seen there - sadly now up for sale in a, "Phased Development", I am not quite clear what that means, but it may mean they knock it all down, dig a big hole or two and then refill it all with something called, "Executioner Housing", I guess even executioners need somewhere to live, or was that Age Exclusive house, which you can only get into if you are old enough - I don't understand that - you would have thought that would be against the law?)

As I crossed the road I found myself under a tree full of blossom, and the blossom was falling, fragrant pink petals floating around me. I was so stunned I stopped walking (the count wasn't lost, am intricate pattern of fingers and toes in a custom pattern that I have ready for this kind of eventuality kept the count on track, but unmoving - there's a condition for that ed).

I stood and waited, as the gentle fall of blossom floated to the ground all around me (and into what is left of his hair - hirsuite reporter). There was a quietness, calmness and beauty to the moment.

It was a very special moment, and not a bad way to start the week and in particular start the week on a Monday.

Untangling my fingers and toes, to re-institute the step count (1845 in case you were wondering - step counter ed). I moved on.

Sadly I arrived at the station with minutes to spare.

• No missing the train due to the delay for the moment of beauty and wonder
• No train cancellations
• No late train
• No bus replacement service
• Simply a train waiting to taking me into the Great Metropolis that is London

Another day, but somehow special for that all too short moment of fragrant peaceful beauty.

On entering my usual carriage, to sit at my usual seat, ready to take off my coat. The other passenger (like all regular train passengers we are of a, "Nodding", and "Good Morning",  acquaintance only - commuting ed), spoke, 

"What HAVE you been walking under? ", 

luckily there was no-one else in the carriage and so I turned to face the window so that I could see my reflection and saw that my head, shoulders and coat hood were covered with pink blossom.

I brushed it off with alacrity, "Damned blossom,  gets everywhere", I said irritatedly.

And thus the spell was broken and Monday began in earnest.

Another interesting article from the Grauniad

The Guardian: Brexit may be the best answer to a dying eurozone. 

Brilliant article from the Grauniad

I read the Guardian to challenge my thinking and make me reconsider so called truths that circulate in the media

This is an article that should make all of us consider what is happening on our own doorstep,  the Mediterranean Sea, and our treatment of asylum seekers and the words used to describe people in fear.of their lives.Worth a read, maybe it will change your mind set (that may be a good thing - ed)

The Guardian: When people smugglers were seen as heroes, and we welcomed the dispossessed. 

The Olive Tree and The Cat

Olive oil

 from our adopted Olive tree. 

This quarter, Spring, we received one of each of: chilli, lemon and rosemary.

We had fresh bread, olives, artichokes,  road tested courgettes (surely you mean roasted courgettes - ed) and some Italian Jam (eh? Ham perhaps, damn this timy (sic) keyboard - ed) with a bottle of Cote De Rhine (the German version - vino ed)

A lovely way to spend Saturday afternoon, post morning Haircut (you cannot call me tufty anymore - ed).

The hoovering was also completed with few incidents, the cat, as usual picking up cat litter in his paws and resprinkling it around the house.

The Cat

What I don't understand (Quadratic equations to name but one - science ed); and that is many many things; but in particular just how he (the cat is named Beau as in Beau Geste (sp ?)) manages to place pieces of the nicely named, "Kitty Litter", the exact places where my bare feet are going to end up. 

Actually it is not "KItty Litter" but "Bio Catlet" or somesuch eco friendly dried out polystyrene like manky stuff - fit only for the absorption of cat pee and poop.

Beau must have some kind cat sixth sense, to go along with his nine lives to be able to place it in the most annoying and irritating places.

Sadly, the poor old cat has been losing his marbles over the last year, due to what the vet calls, Senility (or as I call it, about time - ed). I haven't seen a downside to this as yet (you horrible anti-catist monster - ed ) as he was a most vicious creature when I first moved in with Bridget .

The Incident

I was alone in the house, coping manfully with the solitude of a quiet night in (OK OK there were dancing girls and champagne - but a quiet night in as far as I was concerned.)

Bridget was out for the evening with her Curry Buddy (tm), Charles.

At this point time, there were two cats, the black hell beast, Beau, also known as Scarey Cat and The Scaredy Cat, real name: Oscar, they were litter brothers.

Oscar, sadly no longer with us, but buried/planted in the garden with a lovely small headstone stating, "Oscar Lies Here" - something he did a lot of in life and seemingly in death too, but that's cats for you.

Both cats had been neutered a long time before I arrived. In fact, Bridget appears to have convinced her mother, (my Mother-in-law), to take them to be "seen to", so it was not Bridget's fault that this had happened to them (super smart - ed).

They always treat Jo, (still my Mother-in-law), in a special way when she visits, (in my warped mind - it is a kind of questioning stance where the meow of recognition, leads to the miaow of "Where are my balls" - ed). 

Whereas the cats have always treated Bridget, as the lady who comforted them, in their moment of nadgerless need.

Cats eh!

Anyhow, back to the story, where was I... as yes, quiet night in....

I was sitting on our aged sofa (a case of so far so good - rotten pun ed), and Beau came up and gave me a look, not The Look (tm), that I get from Bridget (see the post A Pressing Problem for context on this look - ed).

I acknowledged him with a terse,  "Whaddya want, pussy cat?",

I feel strong and manly when I do this, as its a wonderful put down to a macho cat;  both putting him in his place, and hoping to create in my mind the picture of a kind normal fluffy cat in my head. 

Strangely, it never seems to work.

As usual, the black hell beast, tried to intimidate me, with one of those cat things where he opened his mouth and did a yawn so big, you could feel yourself being drawn into that black bottomless pit at the back of his mouth; a mouth edged with fearsome blades (teeth - clarity ed)  and then releasing the yawn.

The sound of the jaw and head snapping back together with a fearsome ,"Clack",  is a not a pleasant noise. If there had been any small children about they would have run for the hills (but probably not fast enough to escape the black hell beast - betting ed)

"Ah", I thought, "Maybe I should have used, Monsieur Pussy Cat", however the die was cast and the incident was about to occur.

Caught Cat

Our old sofa cover was not very cat friendly as it had lots of places where a cat could entangle his claws and get itself stuck.

Beau, stood up on his back legs, and stretched, it always surprises me how long a stretching cat can become, they are like snakes (are you sure you mean snakes - wildlife ed) and put his claws out and gripped the side of the sofa. Then he released his stretch, retracted his body back towards the ground. 

Not for the first time, but the first time with me, at home unsupervised, a claw (cats - red in tooth and claw - ed) was caught in the sofa material, so he was left with three legs and paws on the floor and one left attached to the sofa. He tried to free it and failed.

Naturally, I laughed, which on reflection was the incorrect response.

The cat (this is a corrected typo - originally was,  "the car miaowed" - which is a darn sight funnier than the corrected spelling - comic ed) miaowed; I stopped laughing, and after a few moments I realised this was a plaintive cry for help (not knowing cat speak this is my best guess. On reflection it was the cat simply saying, "Got you where I want you - now you are going to try and help and I will 'ave you - ed)

I watched him struggle for a few moments more before I was overcome with the need to, "Do Something About It". Surely, if I just left him to it, he would rip his way free, but that would potentially damage the sofa cover more than it had already been damaged (Oscar was prone - much of the time, but he liked to use it as a cat scratching post - cat ed).

But what if Beau didn't manage to free himself?

What if Bridget came back in a couple of hours time and he was still stuck? She would ask why I hadn't helped, and that would lead to Awkward Questions in the house (You do realise you are not in parliament, you know - political ed).

I considered an emergency house exit, that is to leave the house, perhaps go the local pub and drink beer until after Bridget came back. In that way I could not be blamed for leaving the cat in this situation as I could say that it must have happened after I left (but that would be a lie - ed)

The Outcome

So, after waiting for as long as I dared, the cat making more and more plaintive wails (sucking me in to help him - ed), I leant over the sofa and did what I had seen Bridget doing, that is to lift up his paw, and stroke it to make the claw retract and so free himself...

Like a flash, Beau was free and I was in striking distance.

There was a "Claw, claw, bite", attack, but I was quicker than he thought and rolled away across to the far end of the sofa, Beau followed with a leap on to the sofa followed by an unfriendly hiss (is there ever a friendly hiss from a cat? - ed).

"I was just trying to help you, you daft moggie", I shouted, looking for something to protect myself with (sadly there were no small children to hand - safety ed). Beau looked at me and got ready to spring. I waited for his move, and then leapt for the door hoping to be able to close it behind me. 

However, the other cat, fat Oscar, was blocking the door so I couldn't close it behind me.

I needed a weapon so ran for the kitchen. A mistake as there is one was in and one way out and I had headed in through the in door, and when I wanted to leave it would be the outdoor and it would have become Cat Territory.

In our kitchen, we have a small wall of knives (much like our favourite shop in Guildford, which has an entire wall of knives. This is a tough shop to get out of, as the knives glisten and wink at you from behind the triple protected glass, enticing you to free them from their wireless tagged prison of constraints and let them roam wide and free amongst the killing fields of London.)

What is it about kitchenware shops; you go in looking for some cling film and are transported to what seems a kind of techno-kitchen-heaven (kitchen porn - ed) where all these shiny (David likes shiny things - ed) that you simply need to have, even though you hadn't realised that they even existed.

Who knew you needed a Kumquat peeler, I didn't even know what one was (for the unenlightened it is a kind of knife used to peel with consumate ease the thing (fruit) called a Kumquat) . I felt an extreme urge to buy it because it was drop dead gorgeous, luckily on that particular day (now known as the Kumquat Peeler Incident (KPI) in our house (and yes we do have a large number of incident days in our house, all written in, The Great Book of Incidents (subtitled: Davey has lost his trolley....again) ) ......

[ At this point the Editorial Control Board have stepped in and ended this particular witter as the number of open and closing braces is causing a Brace Apocalypse Event. Square braces have been introduced to protect you, the reader, from any further harm. Issued under the guidance of EU Regulation DGXII 2016 483 Section 2. Protection of miners (sic) from overuse of thoughtless braces.]

On a slight aside (SLIGHT aside - the trolley of life is rapidly is moving towards the cliff on inanity - ed),  KPI, is now a well known business acronym suggesting many businesses have had similar problems with Kumquats.

Back on the narrative track

I decided against the tastiest knife, Sheffield Steel, brewed in the UK by Danes (are you really sure you have the correct advert - ed) as using a knife  seemed liked potential overkill... an eviscerated cat and copious amount of blood would be very hard to explain let alone clean up. 

Where the cats are concerned, I am not sure that I could expect Bridget to be reasonable and calm. I could try and convince her about a life and death struggle but that would mean me probably having to lie.. and that is something I have failed to master in my many (many, many - ed) years on this planet.

Lurking, and ducking behind the immaculate stainless steel, 30 litre bin (yes, it had been in the shop, large, shiney, metallic how could I have resisted it - I hadn't - spend spend spend ed), trying hide from my sight at the far end of the kitchen (When I say far end of the kitchen I mean about 3 steps away. It is L-shaped and not very big. Not even big enough to swing a cat by tail - hmm, now there's a thought - ed), was the Broom of Salvation. 

The cat sensing my hesitancy over the next step, swiped me with an extended paw, claws glittering with sharpness... I leapt with a scream, tossed the bin to one side and grasped the broom tightly to me.

"You're not getting away from me this time", I chided (yes I was talking to the broom, I had had Trouble with it before - ed)

The broom shivered in my hands, pulling this way and that as it tried to fight being placed between me and the black hell beast (if you haven't been following... pay attention.... talking about the cat - ed)

I turned to face the cat. The broom, though twisting in my hands, was wrestled into submission and the soft brush end (made from the finest baby dolphin hair, or was it the hair of baby badgers? - not a clue ed) was pointed towards the cat.

The cat stopped, immediately on the lino floor, claws digging in, as it held its position just outside of broom waving range. The marks in the kitchen floor would take some explaining, but that could be dealt with later, my life was at stake.

Beau eyed me warily as we both took a breath to evaluate the situation.

I was not sure how to proceed. Should I invoke The Breath to lower the ferocity of the moment and bring calm, quiet and understanding back into play. Unluckily for me,  Bridget was out and all the household sanity with her.

With a cry of, "En garde M'sieur Pussy Cat", battle was enjoined.

The broom was waved, the cat lunged beneath it, swatting at my exposed ankles (for a Day of Summer had been declared on the morning weather forecast and so the Shorts of Embarrassment were clad about my waist; bare, pasty white legs, on their annual summer exposure; left unprotected by the usual denim armour). First blood to the cat.

He had a set of of four razor claws and an enormous mouth of pin sharp needles (yes yes, sharp teeth, we really get it - ed), whilst I had a non pointy stick with an end covered with fur from a badgers arse.

I could see where things were going, and they weren't going  in my favour.

Retreat

"Time for a strategic withdrawal", was my second thought of the day (my first thought had gotten me into this situation, so yah boo sucks to that one - ed)

Brushing the cat to one side (ha ha - comic ed) I ran for the stairs and rushed for the safety of a room that had a door that would close (few and far between in our old house - accommodation ed).

The cat paused momentarily, before following me, chuckling quietly to himself as he prepared for the final killing blows.

For a brief moment I thought the cat wouldn't follow me up the stairs, but he was smart and smart cats know how to use stairs (and stares - I shudder at the very thought of being stared at by a cat, what are they thinking? Probably, "Feed me human or I will feed on you" -  ed),

Now, if he'd (the cat) been a dalek I would have had a chance. Dalek or black hell beast of a cat? I'd go for the dalek every time and more importantly it is alleged that daleks can't do stairs (though they can do scary stares - ed)

My pulse raced, as well as the rest of my body.

It pays to have all of your body parts racing in the same direction at the same time. When they aren't, it is called, dancing - but that was not on the agenda at this moment. What was on the agenda was safety and maybe bandages to staunch the blood flow.

I went for the back bedroom (there was a choice of two, the front bedroom to the left at the top of the stairs or the back bedroom to the right) because if there was door closure failure, at least the back bedroom had a cupboard that could come to my rescue (sadly International Rescue were not available due to it being International Puppetry Day - alternative history ed).

I turned neatly on my heels (I thought you were running for your life, not dancing - strictly ed), and pushed the door into the face of the onrushing cat.

The mellow tones of the voice in the door, struck fear into my pounding heart,

"Door closure failure, door closure failure, this is a door closure failure situation", 

came the disastrous tones out of the door in-built speaker, in its infuriatingly calm voice. (Our doors, supplied by Sirius Cybernetics (HHGTTG reference), were prone to emitting this at the most inconvenient times.).

This was definitely the most inconvenient of times.

I had no choice, the cupboard was to be my refuge (it used to contain the boiler but thankfully that was moved to the attic prior to my arrival  - ed), or blood, pain and death.

The choice was Simples (thanks for that - insurance ed).

The cupboard was empty but not for long. I bundled and folded myself into it with consummate grace and finesse (are you sure? - truth ed). Well OK, I forced my way in and grabbed the handle and pulled the door shut behind me.

Thankfully it closed without a hitch (doing a knot under pressure is generally beyond me - scout ed) and the bright light of a Summer's day went out and I was plunged into darkness, as black as the fur 

on the hell beast and entered the dark deep the heart of The Cupboard.

The Denoument

For one long terrible, terrible moment I thought that the cat had climbed in with me, but it was just Oscar (aka Scaredy cat), who had been sleeping curled up at the back of the cupboard, dreaming of his hard life of food, rest, food, sleep and some more food with a large side order of snooze  - his weight had maxed out at 17lbs, he was a Weighty Cat as well as a Scaredy Cat.

During that long terrible moment there was a small sphincter failure. "Damn", I thought, "It's brown trousers time". The wait until Bridget came home was going to be not only hot, in the dark but with a particularly unpleasant odour in a very enclosed space. 

Luckily for me Oscar was a friendly (I use that word advisedly, as a friendly cat is simply one who hasn't turned on you yet - ed), cat to spend time with and as I wasn't going to open the cupboard door until Bridget was back and there was nothing else to do but play with him and wait.

We waited. 

We waited some more. 

Oscar took to this like a duck to water. Sleeping curled up in the dark and warmth suited him down to the ground.

Luckily for me, it was only 2 1/2 hours before Bridget came home and tempted the black hell beast away from the cupboard  door, probably having to sacrifice a small bird or two to entice him away.

After an immediate change of trousers (straight into a bag and then into the outside bin) and a lengthy hot shower, my mood improved no end; and opening a few windows improved the smell in the house enormously.

I was just glad that Bridget wasn't away overnight!

Bridget, bless her, never asked for a full explanation of what had happened.

Admittedly, there were a few tricky moments when she uttered the magic words,

"It is safe to come out now",

rather than the expected and more questioning words,

"What are you doing in the cupboard?"

My luck held and I was simply offered a kaleidoscope of looks, including but not only:

• The Pursed Lips (tm), 
• The Raised Eyebrow (tm) and 
• The Look (tm),

which I fended off with my usual, "Look Over There (tm)" technique. She acquiesced gracefully to my shifting of the delicate subject as she is enormously understanding, and the matter was thankfully  dropped.

-----

So the story had less Olive and more Cat, but that is the way that things go.

The Annual Event

Picture the “Killing Matters” den, deep in the heart of the City.

Say it was a very warm May in day.

Warm enough to cause a glistening of the skin of the many attendees to be found in the bowels of the building with bowls and bottles in their hands.

Great imbibing was being and had to be done.

And lo, the conversation did flow, smoothed by the quaffing of copious amounts of alcohol of many hues, but mostly embottled in darkened glass.

Cold beers, from warm climes were offered and taken in abundance.

Food was offered and troughed.

The attendees did attend,

They were many, and womany (though fewer womany than the many, as is ever the way with the IT crowd even in the enlightened times of the 21st Century) in attendance.

They all did appear, after the email of provocation offering free provisions had proven overwhelmingly attractive. Greeks with their herds (Geeks and nerds?), for it was they in attendance, would drop everything for the chance to have their fill at someone else’s expense, some even came from countries far and wide (or long and narrow in the case of Portugal)

Tasty was the food that flowed, some onto the floor and some down many a fine fine beard (on the many faces rather than the womany faces, for the bearded lady was not in attendance)

Beards were in short supply on the womany. Though an enterprising soul  did set up a stall at the entrance selling self adhesive beards, tattoos and clip on nose rings to help the womany fit in with the many many.

At last there was a call to arms, or was it a hiss to quiet the crowds. The masses moved from the bowels of the building  to the sunlit uplands (or more simply upstairs to the conference room).

It was time to hear the orations of the high and mighty (there was a small stage, so they weren’t too high or even too mighty)

Silence fell, with a whump and a bang, and thus did the mighty appear at the rear of a stately procession.

Youths throwing petals and rice walked ahead of the glorious trio as they wended their merry way to the Stage of Speech and Fright.

The anticipation was palpable, or that may just have been the heat and the moisture of the baited beery breaths.

Breaths were then held and then exhaled and inhaled once again (the wise crowd knew about The Breathe (™))

Anticipation was anticipated.

The instrument of sound capture was tapped.

The processional youths scattered and one of the mighty threw off his dark robes to expose himself (later deemed to be a garde-de-robe failure)

The spotlights shone,

His majesty, Phil of the Parka (for that was his dark robe), glowed (or was it glowered) under the bright lights.

Blinking in the blinding, multi-coloured beams, he moved forward to the front of the stage (only tripping once or twice to the mild amusement of the assembled crowds).

He wowed the audience with his clever banter, though some were distracted by the strange music and dancing on a large screen behind him.

HIs failure to show his own dance moves was a bitter disappointment to his ardent fan base and small cries of, “shame”, could be heard, strange as Ms Leonardo was nowhere to be seen.

Then the dance video stopped. Phil moved to one side and introduced the main men of The Event.

Thomas the Chosen and Ryan the Pure hove into view, likely stately battleships coming into port after being at sea for a year.

There was a cheer (or was it a chair), there was a standing ovation (or so we have been told, the facts are lost in the mists of time, or was it the mists from the perspiration of the penned in throng?)

Words were spoken,

“The world is good”, spake Thomas.

More words were uttered, some even muttered, even more misheard.

There were cheers and whoops, laughter and tears (the tear gas really was a dubious prop to use in a confined area)

Maps and many wonders of the world were displayed.

Distant dark Wales was indicated to all with a resounding but momentary cheer.

There were, “Oohs”, when Thomas the Chosen, found Singapore on the map, and pointed it out to the assembled masses.

There were, “Ahs”, when Ryan the Pure put on his moose costume and cavorted for our entertainment (but maybe I simply dreamt that) .

Many (perhaps womany) words were spoken.

More light was shone,

Knowledge was shared, nay even transferred.

The quiet of the audience was pulpable (or was that the loose oranges being crushed underfoot)

Thomas spoke some more and was listened too with silence.

He said that Equal Experts associates were, “Grown Ups”, to which the assembled herds of Greeks (are you sure about that?) and associated populace gasped with horror,

“We are but children in front of you, our Lord and Master”, mumbled the assembled audience.

“We, like Peter Pan, never wish to grow up and lose our curiosity about the world of software”

Thomas was firm, “You are all Grown Ups and that is a good thing”, he said again.

The company was doing well. The company, like the assembled masses, had increased its girth (of was that sales?), the HMRC cupboard of of earthly delights had done its twisted job.

Hats were thrown, luckily none of them edged with anything sharp, so no eyes were lost in the tumult (However, ensuring everyone one got the correct hat back was time consuming - you really should sew your name into the inside of the hat, but that is old knowledge from a dim and distant technology free time. There should be an app for that, but sadly there is not)

At one point, more cheers were heard (but that was from the pub across the road).

“Stand you newcomers, those of you who know not the mighty 386” (possibly it was misheard, and he meant 486 or even Pentium?)

The latest acolytes stood up warily in the spotlight fame.

The wizened old hands, or was it just Richard son of John, as he is known, (interviewer and code reviewer extraordinaire), looked on as in amazement as huge numbers of the attendees stood.

It is whispered, quietly in the shadows, that if you can pass his interview questions you are a maid for life (surely you mean made for life?).

Thomas waved his hands and magically the acolytes took their seats again (one even tried to take it out the front door and down the road, but a tight security operation was in effect and they soon put a stop to that)

It was finally time for the main attraction.

Ben of the Silver Hectare (we are in the EU after all and Imperial Measurements are banned) came forth and was seen by the assembled multitude.

There were gasps of wonder, as the magic words RCT were recanted, decanted, and then poured forth at great speed and with immense feeling and heat.

Strangely, plugs of butter were mentioned, but quickly intermingled with the showing of interesting graphs which are used for nefarious purposes by tricksy newspapers and editors.

The Daily Mail and Daily Express were excoriated, to the general acclaim and satisfaction of the audience.

The enthralled watchers and listeners gasped, “Ooh”, and exhaled ”Ahh”,  as fact after fact came forth like a Biblical plague of words from the great orator.

Randomized Control Trials (RCT), it appears, are the truth, the way and the light.

Ben chanted, “If only, they were used with Big Data!”, (apparently Data has put on a lot of weight since the end of Star Trek TNG in the late 80’s)

The Ben of the Pewter Perch, bestrode the stage like a colossus but sadly could not keep the pose for long.

This way and that, he leapt, from one side of the the stage to the other.

Magic slides were shown (the one at Alton Towers was particularly lovely).

Statistics were thrown (some into interestingly shapes bowls) and tossed about like small boats on an angry sea of numbers.

Facts frothed and boiled, until and with great gusto, “Statins” were mentioned.

Silence fell like a deflated balloon.

There was a blinding flash and a small nuclear bomb went off as Ben of the Copper Rood told his captivated (or was it just captive) audience that he could talk about them until 9pm, 10pm, 1am, 3am, even 4am if the watching crowd could stick with him to the bitter end.

There was a look (possibly even, The Look (™)) from Kathleen, daughter of Coal, and her voice echoed clear and bright around the cavernous room, “Ten minutes and no more, there is no over time for you, my lad”

Ben, took this on the chin like a Super Trouper and broke into a short song and dance about statins and the medical trials of Fernando.

He enthused over how statins needed to be compared with each other, on a like for like basis, to ensure that the Laws of the RCT were met, otherwise there were going to be deaths of a Biblical proportion in the general population (well, to all those taking statins at least).

The “oohs” and “ahhs”, sadly abated after the “Ooh and Ahh Sound Machine (™)” at the back of the room, failed after its software melted like butter due to the intense temperatures generated by the huddled beery and bearded masses.

Time was called, a few questions were asked (or even allowed to be asked, as Kathleen, Glorious Queen to Time, was seen to be tapping her watch) and the final round of applause shook the building as if a mighty hand had struck the ground nearby (It turned out later to be a 1.3 tremor on the RIchter scale).

There was momentary pause before the attendees realised that it was over.

Feet crashed to the the floor, chairs were scattered and rucksacks loaded with Big Mac’s were wielded to carve a path to the exit, empty bottles clattered and bowls fell to the floor as the crowd, freed from the restriction of having to listen, rushed down the stairs, back to the depths of the building on a promise of yet more free beer and food, well at least until it all ran out.

There was mention of further talks, bounteous prizes and “Afterwards the Pub”, but sadly the author of this short journal had to go and meet his Waterloo at a Waterloo full of cancelled and delayed trains.