Before you all reach for your phones and report me it was not a sweet little fur-ball with whiskers, sharp claws and a meow.
My neighbour’s cat comes to visit when the mood takes or she want’s something. No, I’ll get this right – when she wants something.
She prevents me from working until she feels the call of the wild when she wanders off to do her own thing.
She’s a sweetie and I would not microwave her even though I want access to my own computer. In fact, there are times when she’s helped by editing my writing and passed comment. My daughter says she must love it because she’s left so many kisses.
The cat I microwaved is stuffed with wheat and I use it to sit on my shoulder when working to help soothe the pain from arthritis. Today, I burnt it – badly. So badly that I had to dunk it in a bowl of cold water to put out the fire and then throw it away.
How did this happen??? I’ve microwaved it countless times over the years and it’s helped me to do without meds and control my pain. On top of that she was a present so now I’ll have to explain to my mum. Either that or try and find another the same.
You would think that living alone in an old house would cause me a few uneasy moments. My home has been around since Cromwell’s Commonwealth and has the obligatory ghost who prowls the old path to the side of the house and disappears when he reaches the spot where the original door used to be.
It was the Festival of Books at Delapre Abbey and as I was born at the hospital nearby I took the opportunity to join Corona Books on their stall. It also meant I was able to visit with relatives while I was there. All for the price of one journey.
Gardening is brilliant. It provides exercise in the fresh air and sunshine and leaves you with a glow of satisfaction of a job well done. That is until you turn on the hose you haven’t used since last year. For some reason a split has appeared in the nozzle and cold water sprayed all over me rather than the garden. I now look as if I’ve wet myself and I do have to say that a wet t-shirt on someone a tad over, shall we say, 21 really isn’t the sort of picture I need to show anyone.
