Slooshy

Oh – and now I become one of those horrendously dull ‘diet’ people, measuring my life in inches and pounds..or really cm and kilos..me being of the metric persuasion. Don’t usually do diets. Don’t care that my BMI puts me in the overweight range. I’m slothful and find that black hides a multitude of sins. But maybe it’s the call of spring. Decided I was tired of a middle which I can almost rest my arms upon when upright; tired of giant peasant bosoms; tired of not being able to wear empire waist tops and dresses because I look five months pregnant. Tired of not finding pants which fit both leg and waist. But I loathe diets. Oh but I like reading about them and sometimes I even buy the books. I get enthused just looking at the cover. I always read the first few chapters which have all the science behind the diet, and then I read the heat-warming testimonials..and then I look at the menu plan…and then most times, I give up before I have started. Earlier this year, I actually started The “NEW” Atkins diet..but found it was too stressful..way too much cooking in the morning. And really too American. I mean – who eats turkey sausages? Anyway obviously the concept of eating less seems to be beyond me. I don’t think I even eat excessively because beyond a couple of kilos which fluctuate I haven’t actually put on weight for years. I’m just stuck at a point which is a good 10 kilos over what the charts say I should be. So I decided to try one of those meal replacement diets. A couple of years ago, my mum went on Celebrity Slim and dropped some weight which she has kept off, so I thought I’d give it a go…..

The concept is basically that you replace two meals with a shake made up of all sorts of goodness knows what, and have one low carb main meal and a couple of snacks throughout the day. You are not supposed to go hungry. The carb thing will be the hardest for me. I’ve always scoffed at people who go down that route. Because I ruv them…yummy scrummy bread and pasta…who could deny you?? I think I’ve been eating even more of that since I became vegetarian, so maybe that is why my stomach seems to be getting bigger even as my weight doesn’t rise.

So I started yesterday, the first day back from the long weekend. Chocolate shake in the morning. Tick. No problem. At work – a couple of cuppas and a yogurt. Not sure if yogurt is on the allowable snack list. Oh well and bleh. Feeling decidedly slooshy on the insides. Thought of another bit of liquid at lunchtime becoming less appealing. And well!! A few of them ‘would’ have to have a hankering for chinese food today wouldn’t they? Ask me if I want them to bring me back something. Oh and of course Gigi would bring back Macadamia nut shortbread from her trip to Port Douglas. Oh and she would bring in hardboiled eggs for her lunch..which made me salivate. But I didn’t yield to anyone’s chinese or macadamia nut biscuits, or salted crackers with Philadelphia cream cheese, or a sup of hardboiled eggs. I just sat in the lunchroom clutching my Vanilla shake..shaken according to instructions, pretending that I didn’t want to kill them all...them with their carbohydrates. A pox on them. Not feeling good after the shake. Dont’ feel hungry..just sick. Eat half an avocado in the afternoon and start to pick up. Have a lovely vege casserole I made over the weekend for tea…wished I had some bread to sop up the juice.

Today much better! I think the first part of yesterday consisted of too many liquidy things, so took in a hardboiled egg for the first snack, and that helped. Still felt like a goose sitting at lunch with everyone with just a shake. But today I put it in a coffee cup, so it just looked like I was having soup.

Well fingers crossed I won't be a dull diet person. I just want to find my waist this summer. But hey - no promises.   The thing I dont' like about diets is that it makes me obsess about food in a way that I usually wouldn't.  I don't usually place a value judgement on it at all..unless it's for my husband..and I'm just looking out for his ol' ticker.

Gastro of the mind

So it’s a Thursday and I’m at home. I don’t have an annual leave day. I don’t have vomiting and nausea. I don’t have a headache, or migraine. I don’t have conjunctivitis. I don’t have a twisted ankle. I don’t have toothache or gout. I don’t have influenza. I don’t have a nasty cough. I don’t even have a sniffle. I am, in the Australian vernacular “chucking a sickie”. But even as I say it, I disagree. I would never chuck a sickie. I have way too many guilty genes to even contemplate that. To me, a sickie is when you call into work sick, and then go shopping or to the beach. Australians are inordinately proud of the slacker reputation they believe is theirs. But I think it’s born of nostalgia. Once upon a time we might have lived in the world of the Aussie larrikin sticking it to the bosses, but by and large I think it is something that doesn’t exist anymore. In fact, the most recent OECD statistics put Australian working hours amongst the highest in the developed world.

So enough with this preamble. If I am not ailing in body, why am I sitting here in the lounge room with the heater on, wearing comfy clothes which are the closest things to pyjamas you’ll ever see but not as stylish? I will tell you. Although not physically unwell, my mental health is such that I firmly believe it is better for me and my colleagues that I not be with them today. I’m a bit of a natural loner and need people-free time, but more than that I suffer a bit from anxiety. I am always anxious and sometimes this can tip over into a depression, paralyzing me, and even close to tears at the mere though at having to talk to people; of having to respond to harmless teasing, muster up the energy to engage in collegial banter, sit in a meeting knowing I will have to speak at some point, even general chitchat, in fact any kind of interaction with a human being whatsoever. All these possible scenarios of conversations I may be forced to endure at work fly through my head in the early hours of the morning, and by the time the alarm goes, I am mentally exhausted and bodily weary and strangely defiant. I won’t go. I know one sideways glance, one misplaced joke will have me teary (in the bathroom), or worse make me stroppy. I hate being stroppy. I recognize it as being one of my worst personal characteristics and try so so hard not to go down that path. I get stroppy because I can’t confront which is much healthier and blows over quickly. Believe me - if you have a strop attack with someone at work, it takes a good while to build up a good relationship again, if at all. So to avoid this happening, I usually flee. The last time I was at work when I shouldn’t have been, and therefore couldn’t take a joke I managed to remove myself in time and hide. I remember feeling incredulous at my near hyperventilation, and shaking hands. My big fear is that this might happen in front of everyone. And so I say again – it’s better for me to recognize the symptoms and stay away for everyone’s sake.

As I read back, it sounds really slack, but that’s the way we’re programmed to think. I don’t abuse this. I don’t take anywhere near the maximum number of sick leave days available, but I feel my condition can be just debilitating as a sore throat. But of course no one can know that. Tomorrow I will go to work and I won’t be able to say I had a mental health day as a genuine excuse. I will give some bellyache reason. No-one can argue with bellyache.

about dancin' - kind of

Dance like no-one is watching. Sing like no-one is listening. Love like you’ve never been hurt and live like it’s heaven on earth [?]

I was going to attribute this Mark Twain but there is no consensus on the world wide interweb, so I won’t take the risk. I often get sent these sentiments in one form or another, either on someone’s email signature, or in one of those email forwards which include funny pictures and will say wootwoo somewhere in it, exhorting me to send it to five fabulous women I love.

And this is a clumsy segue into what I really wanted to talk about and actually has little do with the above quote. Digressing much? Oh wells. I had to start with something. It was the first sentence in the quote which attracted me. “Dance like no-one is watching”. I do that you know – except I dance when no-one is actually watching, not counting the wide-eyed cat who I swear appreciates my moves, even joining in to wind herself around my seriously clumsy legs. Her trust is touching.

I am a lazy person. Exercise and I are merely nodding acquaintances from different neighbourhoods - not great mates at all. I have little desire to move my bulk beyond the necessary functions, and if I could get away with it, I would probably forgo even that. I can’t imagine exercising for fun, although I sometimes wonder what endorphins feel like. I admit to a faint fascination with running because there seems to be something so liberating about slipping on a pair of shoes and running away. Surprisingly I’ve even read books about running, and started a running program a few times, although I generally become unstuck around day 2 or 3 when I realize that there is actual discomfort and ugly gasping involved with moving 70 odd kilos of usually sedentary flesh. The one or two minutes of running (per 5 or 10 minutes of walking) is the stuff of nightmares and nothing like the beautiful effortless strides I see in the early morning runners on the street, who always seem strangely blank. Anyways I give up and sit on the couch and do things I’m good at like watching tv, reading, looking at facebook and listening to music.

And then comes along that piece of music. I can’t predict when or what it will be. It might be classical, or from the top 40. It doesn’t announce itself. It’s just there. I know it because all I know is the music and nothing else. And here’s the surprising bit. My muscles start twitching. My limbs are restless. I cannot sit. I must dance and dance I do. I stretch, I pirouette, I leap and jump, I shimmy, bump and grind; a grotesque combination of ballet, hiphop and moves I learnt at the grade 10 social circa 1985. I’m not a coordinated person and my flexibility is appalling, but it doesn’t matter. As long as it is only the music I feel with all my senses, I am Margot Fonteyn and Billy Elliott. I am somewhere else. My heart rate rises, I sweat, my muscles feel it. I am, in short, exercising. But if even for a second, I catch a glimpse of myself, or imagine what I must look like through someone else’s eyes, then it’s over. It’s just too laughable and a little bit tragic. The music fades, and I sit on the couch again. But it will come back. It always does.

"We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance" Japanese Proverb

musin'

One of my New Year resolutions was to start a new blog and keep it up. It’s now May and I have made an impressive three entries. The moral of the story: Don’t make New Year Resolutions. They suck. This is not to say I haven’t started any entries. I have - many times. I’ve had ideas. I’ve even researched a couple of ‘themes’ but I get bogged down in the detail and then it starts to feel trite, mundane and I give up. I think a good personal blog is a fine combination of opinion, random thought and domestic details. Some people have an extraordinary ability to make their everyday existence, even if not markedly different from my own, a joy to read, and I would like to be one of these people.

The inability to continue the blog is just an extension of a lifelong problem. The belief that whatever I have to say is not as interesting or valid as someone's elses words. The fear that what I have to say is stupid, and people will judge me. This belief has kept me silent in primary, highschool, university and in the workplace. I never offer an opinion, an original idea and agree with pretty much everyone, including all opposing arguments. “For God’s sake Huff..don’t rock the boat” it whispers. "ok..good idea" “Oh and don’t blaspheme”. “Sorry God…sorry Dad” . See what I mean. I once analysed myself using Google as an evaluative tool, and the term “people pleaser” came up. Urgh. I usually Google personality disorders on people I don’t like. So I don’t know what that’s saying.

But there’s been a rumble within me. It’s been with me for a couple of years, but ever since I turned 40 last June it’s been getting louder and louder. One day I might just snap. Hopefully it won’t come to that. Hopefully I’ll just turn into a proper grown up. But it’s like the scales have been lifted from my eyes and ears have been unblocked. (I think I might have lifted that from the Bible). It has taken me this long, but I’ve suddenly discovered something – other people are not necessarily more interesting. They may be more articulate, but what comes out of their mouths is just as likely to be a load of bollocks, no matter how beautifully phrased.

How funny. I didn’t mean to write the above to paragraphs at all. I was just going to say that I am going to take Gretchen Rubin’s advice from The Happiness Project Blog and try and write more frequently, because the longer you leave something the harder it gets to do. And I’m not going to worry if what I say is interesting or not. Thank you to Sarah Wilson from Sunday Life for referring me to Gretchen Rubin. I’m addicted to Sarah Wilson’s column..even though at times she comes across as a little bit smug.

To Tweet or not to Tweet

The Sydney Morning Herald online allows people to comment on its news stories via Twitter. Bugger it. I might have to join. Why can’t it be like their Opinion Pages where people can comment directly onsite? And why do I have to read random comments anyway? Because I do..I just do. I feel deprived when I can't read other people's opinions - in 140 characters or less.

I’ve been resisting the call of Twitter for a few years now. Facebook has been more than enough in the social network department for me. I have been embarrassingly obsessed by Facebook - but now it’s freaking me out, even though I still compulsively check it every single day. I’ve only managed to acquire 60 friends in four years, and I’m related to most of them, and one person is deceased, and one friend is the Cat Protection Society and one is my husband who I added myself. I have also managed to acquire a significant number of school…ummm…friends (for want of a better word). And now they are getting too close for comfort. One is seeking out people to attend a school reunion. She wants my snail mail address. Another has just found out I live in Sydney…as does she, and wants to know where I live. If I was another type of person I’d jump at the chance to meet up, but personally I prefer meeting over the cyber wall for a bit of reminiscing. I wasn’t close to her at school – so we don’t have any shared stories. But how do I decline – she asked in the open comment area for all to see. I don’t post up statuses as much either because I have to consider what they sound like; are they appropriate for family members; what kind of person am I revealing myself to be (at the moment – a person who really really likes Fridays); are my comments funny to other people or only to myself, and if someone comments, what is the etiquette. Do I have to comment back? What if they comment again? When do I stop replying? It’s very stressful people!!

The other day, my brother who now lives in Canada, wrote the following status:

In Canada there is a pluming comapny called "Mr. Rooter Plumbing" . I wonder whos pluming they take care off [his typing and spelling by the way – not mine]

And I wanted to comment with “tee hee hee”.

That’s not witty I know but a simple recognition of a rude word we used to giggle at together, and say out loud for shock value. And the Canadians wouldn’t have a clue. But I didn’t because my Pa is also on Facebook. And he might be…ummmmm…disappointed. Silly isn’t it. Notice how it didn’t worry my brother..but nothing ever does.

Twitter might let me reclaim my anonymity I could say anything without anyone I know commenting on it. Oh the thought is making me dizzy with freedom.
So if I were to join Twitter – here is a sample of random thoughts over the last couple of days which might make up my statuses. You will notice I'm not a deep thinker.

• Given up reading The Cinderella Complex – again. Suffice to say – I have it
• I can hear Ruff doing a wee. Sounds odd
• I said I felt like a burger, and Ruff said I looked like one too. He must be punished. That one is strictly 4 the dads.
• How come all comments on youtube are written by illiterates or bad typists?
• There’s a woman at work who is always joyful and very sincere. She scares me.
• I told my assistant a really boring work story involving a photocopier. She laughed til’ she cried. Too easy :-)
• Why do I turn into a simpering idiot whenever I’m around the boss from my old work.
• My husband doesn’t understand me – AT ALL.
• I apologized to my girlfriend for being a bad neglectful friend. She agreed that I was
• I like and tremendously admire this woman at work. But I think she’s gone off me. So sad. C'est la vie
• Worry about mum and dad driving home late in this driving rain. Tables have turned.
• I am very good at debating and being assertive to people – whilst I’m alone in the shower

And that is the end of my multi-tweet.

Grand Gestures

The Blake Prize: Exploring the religious and spiritual in art.
“The aim of the Blake Society is to encourage contemporary artists to explore the spiritual in art. The Blake Society was formed at the instigation of a Jesuit priest, Michael Scott, a Jewish businessman, Richard Morley and a Catholic lawyer, Mary Tennison Woods. They hoped that the establishment of a prize would encourage artists of disparate styles and religious allegiances to create significant works of art with religious content. Today its members hope to stimulate the interaction of ideas and spiritual thought in contemporary Australian art” [www.blakeprize.com.au]


There is a prize given for art and a prize given for poetry.

I contemplate entering the poetry prize. Why? It makes no sense.

Because the truth is – I don’t really like poetry. I guess I’m not talking about Spike Milligan’s Silly Verse for Kids, or the bush poems of one of Australia’s favourite sons, Mr Banjo Paterson. Those I can understand, even if listening under duress, which was often the case when on every holiday at my grandparents, with a couple of whiskeys under his belt, and even later when suffering a bad case of dementia, Grandpa would recite the "Complete Works" of Paterson. He couldn’t remember where his room was, but by golly he could remember ‘The Man from Ironbark'.

I mean ‘real poetry’. And I’m not going to even try and define what I mean by ‘real poetry’. A quick search of the internet shows that the definition of poetry has been making literary boffins all hot and bothered for centuries or at least a real long time. So who am I to….. Suffice to say “. I knows what I mean and I knows what I like, so there…”

So should I give it a go anyway?

I read…well skimmed entries by last year’s prize winner, highly commended and shortlisted. It did not bode well when I had to look up the definition of a word in the title of the prize winning poem, and then after reading the first part, I had to Google the person referenced in it and a couple of keywords later, I discover that the poem is actually referring to a particular painting. The poem then made more sense, but I would have remained mystified without Mr Google. And even though I’m alone, I blush at my ignorance, and wonder then if this is something I “should” have known by now, and if not knowing was further evidence of my arrested mental development and less than rounded life experience.

Poetry is like abstract art. It can leave you bewildered and confused, or it can leave you enchanted and confused, but you are not really sure why, just as you are not sure why an art critic can call one piece of art - a triumph, and another similar piece ‘ordinary. I don’t know the difference. I don’t dislike all abstract art. I like patterns, if the lines seem like someone put them there with purpose, or simply if the colours and shapes please me. But I can’t tell you if it’s good or bad. Poetry does the same thing to me. Someone can show me a poem and laugh derisively and call it ‘bad’ poetry. Haw Haw..I laugh along with them, and then they’ll show me a poem which is simply incomprehensible to my feeble brain and solemnly tell me it’s brilliant. And I nod solemnly as well. But I don’t really know why one is good and one is bad.

Poetry can be intensely structured, a story evident within the words, but with a tendency to use words, images and references which assume a prior knowledge of say art, literature, history or mythology. Or poetry can be free form and have no comforting patterns or lines, again using words and images that I cannot connect to my own experience of the world. I don’t have the sensitivity or patience to work it out.

And here I have the audacity to think I can submit a poem. Me! Who has just confessed neither understanding nor even liking poetry. Unfortunately I told someone I might submit a poem – for the experience only you understand. And they seized on that idea with enthusiasm and encouragement - as if I’m actually going to go through with it. Ha! They know me better that that!! I always make pronouncements which I will never carry through.

I don’t know what has got into me this year because I have also proclaimed that I am going to enter the Dobell Drawing Prize. Huh?! Me! - who’s only art work consists of drawing shapes and colouring them in as a self prescribed treatment for my self diagnosed mental illness.
I said this to one of my companions as we viewed this year’s shortlisted entries at the NSW Art Gallery. The winner was Tsunami’ by Pam Hallandal.

An art critic from the Sydney Morning Herald commented…..

What I don't like - what I would politely drop through a crack in the gallery floor - is the sweet, the safe, the inoffensive, the trite, the obvious, the club bore, however academically acceptable and box-ticked. Pam Hallandal's Dobell winner Tsunami, for one. Sad but true. Good causes don't make good art. [E. Farrally SMH 6 January 2010]

Well personally I would probably tick all the boxes - inoffensive, trite, obvious and a bore so of course I liked it. Not from any intellectual viewpoint, probably more from the “Wow – it’s really big, and I like its circle shape and it looks very accomplished” school of thought. Some of the other finalists left me furrow browed and uncomprehending as to why they would be selected as finalists at all. And that is when I blithely stated that “I could do much better and I make no claim to even being an artist but ‘scoff’ it didn’t stop THAT person…hohohoho”.

Where is this crap coming from?!!

So to sum it up I’ve told people that I’m going to enter the prestigious Blake Prize for Poetry and the most respected award for drawing in Australia. So I suppose I better go to the library right now and borrow some book on how to write a poem and how to draw.

January mini-break and why I can't visit Glendale cinema for a while

Sunday, January 17 2010

Decided on Wednesday that I would definitely take Friday off to see my parents and deliver my father’s overdue Christmas present. It’s the final day of Ruff’s vacation so it dovetails nicely. Hastily submit my leave form Wednesday afternoon even though there’s no one to authorize it. Boss’s PA cross because she asked me 3 times on the Friday prior if I had anything to add to the weekly staff bulletin about my movements (titter) for the coming week. Briefly wonder why she’d asked me three times. Did my usual stammery blushy apology which seemed to placate her inner control freakiness, although suspect it makes her mad that she can’t deny me.

By 9am on Friday, it appears the meteorologists are correct in their gleeful assessment of the heat over the next two days. We are sweating already in our crappy little house. Load enough clothing for six months and poor sick Tiki in the car. Take my car because it has air-conditioning and is kinder for sick-cat. I drive because it’s my car and because I can drive there in little over an hour without breaking the speed limit. When Ruff drives, something happens to the very fabric of time itself. The universe expands and contracts. We grow old and wrinkly in this version of Narnia, and it’s permanent. The air conditioning performs badly in this heat. We listen to Vivaldi and Breabach the Scottish folk band.

I always love the first glimpse of my parent’s house. It makes you smile. The dogs bark a welcome but no-one comes to the front door as they usually do. We have to knock. It’s shutup tight against the heat. Take Tiki out of the cage. She’s not well enough to be angry about the car-trip, or interested enough to explore, or anxious enough to avoid the resident cat. She heads for the nearest couch and lies down. It worries me. But it’s nicer here for her than at our house as they have reverse cycle airconditioning in two rooms. Bliss. Father turns one off admonishing us surprised innocents about the cost. When mother comes back into the room she turns it back on. She tells us that he always does that. Disappointed to find that we aren’t sleeping in the Boat Room downstairs – so called because sailing ship pictures sit upon blue walls. Mum’s sister and husband have been given that privilege. We have been allocated to the top all purpose room with the twin beds pushed together. It’s as hot as Hades. No matter as it’s only for one night. Nice to see Aunty and Uncle again. They’re always the same no matter how long between visits. It comforts me. But of course I wonder what they ‘really’ think of me and my lovely but awkward in company husband. Because that’s what I do. I need to torture myself.

It’s too hot to be outside with the dogs. It’s too hot to walk by the lake or take a swim. I feel restless. Ask Ruff what he thinks about seeing a movie. He is agreeable as always. The choices come down to Avatar and Bran Nue Dae. I’m rooting for the latter. He’s surprisingly determined about the former. I acquiesce. I always complain about his indecisiveness, secretly squirm at how pliable he can be, so don’t want to squash his moment of assertiveness.

I like this heat if only for the few minutes it takes to walk across the cinema carpark. It feels like a recharge. The girl at box office asks if we have a preference in seating. Ruff replies ‘whatever’, and I just gulp knowing that somewhere in the recess of my brain is an actual preference but as usual my brain fogs over whenever I have to answer rapid fire questions asked by chirpy 16 year olds. We buy munchies – a coke and popcorn for me, and a choc top for Ruff. In the theatre find out that we are dead centre of row P, and most people are already seated. I squeeze my fat arse (hereafter known as FA) past all the knobbly knees and get to the centre. Ruff has not moved. He seems to be hovering at the edge of the aisle. My quick as lightening Gemini spirit curses his slow ponderous Cancer soul. I glare. He indicates that I have squeezed FA into row Q not P. Our seats are directly below me. My quick as lightening Gemini spirit contemplates the options. I can squeeze FA back through row Q and then back again through row P OR I can clamber over the seats in front of me and bingo I’ll be in the right seat. Tell myself sternly that I’m 40 now and 40 year old librarians with matronly bodies don’t clamber over cinema seats. So I hit upon the idea that I will leave my drink and popcorn and bag on the seat in front which will make it much easier for me and my FA to navigate back through the rows. I am pleased with this decision. I place the popcorn, drink and bag on the seat below. Then I reconsider the bag and lift it back up unfortunately upsetting the drink which spills with what looks like a Six Million Dollar Man slow motion run, all over Ruff’s designated seat and sideways in the seat next to it which is occupied by a man wearing white shorts. He has mighty quick reflexes or else ice splashed onto something important. He immediately jumps around frantically wiping the splotches of coke from his seat, steadfastly ignoring my gasping apologies. Another man just behind me is trying not to laugh his bum off . As gracefully and quickly as I can, I squeeze past all the knobbly knees again, leaving the empty cup and medium sized popcorn on the seats, and if I had a tail you know where it would be. Ruff is solicitous and asks if I want to leave the cinema. I’m tempted. But hell, we had just paid a small fortune in tickets, 3D glasses and food, and you know willful waste and all that. Besides, I knew if we left, it would be more than just a waste of money, I would brood and wonder forever and a day, at my never ending clumsiness. Ruff would be supportive and kind and absolve me of all blame if I slipped out quietly and red faced, and I didn’t think I could bear that. I don't want to escape my stupidity, but face up to it, and make it right. So I grab the sleeve of the nearest usher and shrilly tell him what has happened in Row P. I tell him that I spilt my drink and the seat was soaking and my poor lonely popcorn is up there. Yep - I whinge to a 16 year old boy who looks slightly repulsed quite frankly. But to his credit, he mans up and looks me straight in the eye and says he’ll fix everything. He finds Ruff and me a nice little corner in the cinema far far away from everyone else, and a little while later, another nice young laddie comes along with a replacement drink and popcorn. Good on you Glendale cinema!! And even though I'd made a fool of myself, and inconvenienced others, I think because I faced up to it, the nasty little voice which resides within me which enjoys telling me I'm a loser was gratifyingly silent.

Oh and the movie. I quite enjoyed it and the nearly three hours didn’t drag as much as I thought it would. It was very beautiful, and somewhat predictable and preachy, but a good lesson. I did enjoy the feline qualities displayed by the Navi. I'm not really much of a reviewer. I don't think I'd race out and see it again, but Ruff absoultely loved it, and will see it again.

The rest of the weekend went by uneventfully. My parents are easy going and lovely. Ruff sharpened mum’s knives and gardening clippers and we went for a swim. We tried to keep Tiki and mum and dad’s cat Tonkie separated for the duration of our stay, but they finally met just before we left. It had to have been the laziest faceoff between two cats that I’ve ever seen. She was lying under a table when Tonkie approached her, she lifted her head lazily and hissed and he backed off to a more secure vantage point and that was that. She’s old and wasn’t feeling well and just couldn’t be bothered. She might be a bit different when she’s feeling better.

And then we went home.