It's been quite a night in the Gardner household, and as someone who needs his beauty sleep, I must be pig-ugly this morning.
At 6pm yesterday evening, Amelie, who was sitting on the sofa with the laptop, surfing the internet for free games to download, suddenly complained of a sore throat. I asked her if it was down to her constant talking, to which she replied "Yes, I think it is", and we left it at that. Sadly, however, that wasn't the full story. By the time she went to bed, she was sniffing like a drug addict, and clearly going down with a cold.
Half an hour after Lisa and I went to sleep, we were woken up by Amelie crying, coughing, spluttering and generally dying at a high volume, so we both got up to attend to her. While Lisa was fetching her some Calpol, I gave her a cuddle and asked where she'd caught such a nasty cold. She said "I think it was when I was looking for other fun games", so I told her it was probably a computer virus. Humour which was entirely wasted on a three-year-old at 11:30pm. On the plus side, I need to encourage that negative association. If I can convince her that computer games make her ill, I might actually get my laptop back.
Being both ill and distraught, Amelie outbid me for a place in the double bed, so while she and Lisa snuggled down together, I made my way into the living room, where I not only made my bed, but lay in it. I went back to sleep pretty quickly, but within half an hour was awake again with bad stomach pains. I wasn't sure if I'd picked up Amelie's germs, or if it was food poisoning from the out-of-date carrot & swede mash I'd had with my dinner. To be honest, I'd also eaten an entire punnet of grapes whilst watching Britain's Got Talent on Virgin Catch-up, so there were a number of possible explanations. But whatever the cause, I slept only fitfully for the next two or three hours, waking up frequently with terrible stomach ache, and sucking Bisodol tablets in a state of semi-wakefulness.
I probably dropped off fully at about half-three or four, which would have given me a few precious hours of sleep before the alarm went off. If I hadn't been woken up at 4:30am by a cat on my head. I came-to in the early hours of the morning with an awareness that a cat was walking across my pillow and down the side of my inflatable bed, before stomping on my feet and jumping off. I ignored it the first time, but when it happened again five minutes later, I was fully awake and annoyed. I refused to open my eyes, however, until the third trip across my pillow, when I was jolted awake by a loud squeak in my ear.
I opened my eyes to see Shimmy climbing across my bed with a kitten in her mouth. I turned on the floor lamp by my head, and looked across at the nursery under the table. It was empty. Apart from a toy mouse. Shimmy then emerged from Amelie's princess tent behind the TV with a satisfied look on her face.
So I think my kitten photography days are over. I don't know if it's the result of too many photos, too many visitors, or just a reluctance to share her bed with toy vermin, but Shimmy has moved all three kittens to the most inaccessible corner of the flat: inside a pink canvas tent behind the TV unit. I had a long chat with her when she emerged, and she seems quite pleased with herself, but she's less than forthcoming with an explanation.
Judging by her behaviour though, I think she just wants to go out and have a good time without the kids slowing her down. Ever since she rehomed her kittens, she's been bouncing around the flat and chasing Chloe like the Shimmy of old. She's essentially a teenage Mum who wants to go out partying.
Needless to say, after the shock of having three kittens hauled across my face in the early hours, I never did go back to sleep. Things have quietened down now though, and Shimmy's settled peacefully behind the TV with her babies. For the time being at least. She's got ninety minutes until Am puts it on at full volume and starts dancing to Boogie Beebies.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Day nine at the cat shelter has been an eye-opening experience...
No, really, it has...
Not all the time, obviously...
But for the most part, the kittens are taking a long hard look at themselves...
Apart from the fat one with the lighter stripes, who's generally too stuffed to wake up. I think he takes after his mother.
No, really, it has...
Not all the time, obviously...
But for the most part, the kittens are taking a long hard look at themselves...
Apart from the fat one with the lighter stripes, who's generally too stuffed to wake up. I think he takes after his mother.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Eight days old, and one of the kittens has its eyes open...
It also has pink ears and a yellow tail. To be honest, I'm wondering if it might be adopted. But surely no one would choose a child that ginger?
As it happens, the cuckoo in the nest is actually a toy mouse, which was placed there this morning by Amelie, who thought that Shimmy might want to play with it. I did explain to her that once you have kids, leisure time is effectively a thing of the past, and even if you do get a spare five minutes to yourself, you're far too knackered to play, but she insisted on leaving it there, just in case. I've taken it out twice, and she keeps putting it back. She'll be attaching it to a nipple if we're not careful.
Much like Shimmy, Lisa and I have always been advocates of equal parenting, so we decided to split the childcare straight down the middle yesterday evening: I took Amelie to Asda for the weekly shop, and Lisa took the baby on a hen night. So while my wife and son were savouring the sea bass at a fancy restaurant in Hove, I was dragging Amelie towards the Smart Price fish fingers. It's an arrangement which works for us. Although why Lisa chose the fish when she was on a hen night, I have no idea. She really should have gone with the chicken.
Anyhoo, having arrived home ten minutes before Am's bedtime, with enough shopping to feed a small African village, it was another hour before I sat down to write yesterday's blog post. But when I did, I had no idea how insightful it would be. Unbeknownst to me, as I was writing that line about Lisa bouncing down the hall like a beach ball, she was actually falling over on a bus.
Admittedly, Lisa's never been too steady on her pins, and an average week for her features more pratfalls than a Laurel & Hardy film, so it wasn't just a wild stab in the dark, but even so, my words were strangely prophetic. Apparently when she got on the bus to Hove last night, the floor was wet, and as she walked past the driver, she slipped straight over and landed on her back. So at least the baby didn't feel it.
Shockingly, however, despite it happening in plain sight on an almost empty bus, the bus driver just carried on regardless, leaving a heavily pregnant lady rolling around on the floor of a moving vehicle. He then highlighted the inherent sweetness of his nature by honking his horn at a passing car and shouting "F**k it!"
But in this case, the victim of his actions wasn't just a heavily pregnant lady. It was a heavily pregnant lady with a pen. Lisa wrote down the registration number when she got off the bus, so if you're reading this, Brighton & Hove Bus Company, there's a letter on its way.
It also has pink ears and a yellow tail. To be honest, I'm wondering if it might be adopted. But surely no one would choose a child that ginger?
As it happens, the cuckoo in the nest is actually a toy mouse, which was placed there this morning by Amelie, who thought that Shimmy might want to play with it. I did explain to her that once you have kids, leisure time is effectively a thing of the past, and even if you do get a spare five minutes to yourself, you're far too knackered to play, but she insisted on leaving it there, just in case. I've taken it out twice, and she keeps putting it back. She'll be attaching it to a nipple if we're not careful.
Much like Shimmy, Lisa and I have always been advocates of equal parenting, so we decided to split the childcare straight down the middle yesterday evening: I took Amelie to Asda for the weekly shop, and Lisa took the baby on a hen night. So while my wife and son were savouring the sea bass at a fancy restaurant in Hove, I was dragging Amelie towards the Smart Price fish fingers. It's an arrangement which works for us. Although why Lisa chose the fish when she was on a hen night, I have no idea. She really should have gone with the chicken.
Anyhoo, having arrived home ten minutes before Am's bedtime, with enough shopping to feed a small African village, it was another hour before I sat down to write yesterday's blog post. But when I did, I had no idea how insightful it would be. Unbeknownst to me, as I was writing that line about Lisa bouncing down the hall like a beach ball, she was actually falling over on a bus.
Admittedly, Lisa's never been too steady on her pins, and an average week for her features more pratfalls than a Laurel & Hardy film, so it wasn't just a wild stab in the dark, but even so, my words were strangely prophetic. Apparently when she got on the bus to Hove last night, the floor was wet, and as she walked past the driver, she slipped straight over and landed on her back. So at least the baby didn't feel it.
Shockingly, however, despite it happening in plain sight on an almost empty bus, the bus driver just carried on regardless, leaving a heavily pregnant lady rolling around on the floor of a moving vehicle. He then highlighted the inherent sweetness of his nature by honking his horn at a passing car and shouting "F**k it!"
But in this case, the victim of his actions wasn't just a heavily pregnant lady. It was a heavily pregnant lady with a pen. Lisa wrote down the registration number when she got off the bus, so if you're reading this, Brighton & Hove Bus Company, there's a letter on its way.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
If there's one thing Lisa and I have always believed, it's that there's nothing that can't be achieved through ten minutes of lying to your children. To be honest, we're never more productive than when we're pulling the wool over Amelie's eyes. And today was the perfect example of that.
Since inventing the Thumb Fairy nine days ago, our plans for major deception have been on hold due to the unexpected arrival of kittens, but when I got up this morning, I decided it was about time we took the lying to the next level. I wanted to get out to the nearest toy shop to buy Amelie a cuddly cat, but unfortunately there were two things stopping me. The first is that I try to let my pregnant wife stay in bed at the weekend and avoid full-time childcare, so that she gets some rest, recovers her strength, and avoids tripping over the furniture and bouncing down the hallway like a beach ball. And the second is that Amelie has x-ray vision, eyes in the back of her head, and the sonar hearing of a bat, and nobody leaves this flat without her say so.
So I was reluctant to go shopping on my own, but equally reluctant to take Amelie with me, and thereby ruin the magic of the Thumb Fairy. Which is where our God-given talent as grifters came into play. At 10:30 this morning, I called Lisa into the bedroom for a secret discussion, and two minutes later we'd not only formulated a plan, but put it straight into action. Lisa ran Amelie a bath, and the moment she was in there, I was straight on the internet, downloading a bit of clip-art, and forging the following note...
I folded it up and slipped this inside...
... before sealing the whole lot in an envelope, writing Amelie's name on it, and adding it to the pile of post on the doormat. The whole operation took ten minutes. If I could muster that kind of enthusiasm for anything work-related, I'd be a millionaire by now.
When Amelie came out of the bath, Lisa casually asked her to fetch us the post from the front door, so she went trotting down the hallway to get it. Thirty seconds later, we heard her cry "There's something for ME!", which is gratifying as it proves she can read her own name (and my handwriting), after which she came running in, brandishing the envelope and spelling out the letters on the front.
Within half an hour, she was fully dressed and standing at the front door with her golden ticket in her hand. I told her that they wouldn't let her in the shop without it. Her parting words as the two of us left the flat were "Bye-bye Chloe, bye-bye Shimmy, bye-bye kittens". I had to prompt her to say goodbye to Lisa.
So Amelie and I headed into town to The Animal House in Bond Street. Or 'The Thumb Fairy's Special Shop', as Amelie referred to it. She waved her golden ticket at the entrance (attracting some puzzled looks from the staff), and she and I browsed the vast array of cuddly toys, from lions and tigers and bears (oh my), to a kiwi, a lynx and a platypus. She eventually settled on a grey tabby cat called Kayla for £7.95.
It was mission accomplished and a job well done. The two of us walked home, Amelie telling me how much she liked the Thumb Fairy's Special Shop, how much she loved Kayla, and how she would never need to suck her thumb again; and me feeling proud of our ingenious plotting, slick execution, and simple solving of a difficult problem.
When I got back, I high-fived Lisa in the bedroom, before toasting the end of Amelie's thumb-sucking days, and heading into the living room for a well-earned sit-down...
That was eight quid and a morning well spent.
Since inventing the Thumb Fairy nine days ago, our plans for major deception have been on hold due to the unexpected arrival of kittens, but when I got up this morning, I decided it was about time we took the lying to the next level. I wanted to get out to the nearest toy shop to buy Amelie a cuddly cat, but unfortunately there were two things stopping me. The first is that I try to let my pregnant wife stay in bed at the weekend and avoid full-time childcare, so that she gets some rest, recovers her strength, and avoids tripping over the furniture and bouncing down the hallway like a beach ball. And the second is that Amelie has x-ray vision, eyes in the back of her head, and the sonar hearing of a bat, and nobody leaves this flat without her say so.
So I was reluctant to go shopping on my own, but equally reluctant to take Amelie with me, and thereby ruin the magic of the Thumb Fairy. Which is where our God-given talent as grifters came into play. At 10:30 this morning, I called Lisa into the bedroom for a secret discussion, and two minutes later we'd not only formulated a plan, but put it straight into action. Lisa ran Amelie a bath, and the moment she was in there, I was straight on the internet, downloading a bit of clip-art, and forging the following note...
I folded it up and slipped this inside...
... before sealing the whole lot in an envelope, writing Amelie's name on it, and adding it to the pile of post on the doormat. The whole operation took ten minutes. If I could muster that kind of enthusiasm for anything work-related, I'd be a millionaire by now.
When Amelie came out of the bath, Lisa casually asked her to fetch us the post from the front door, so she went trotting down the hallway to get it. Thirty seconds later, we heard her cry "There's something for ME!", which is gratifying as it proves she can read her own name (and my handwriting), after which she came running in, brandishing the envelope and spelling out the letters on the front.
Within half an hour, she was fully dressed and standing at the front door with her golden ticket in her hand. I told her that they wouldn't let her in the shop without it. Her parting words as the two of us left the flat were "Bye-bye Chloe, bye-bye Shimmy, bye-bye kittens". I had to prompt her to say goodbye to Lisa.
So Amelie and I headed into town to The Animal House in Bond Street. Or 'The Thumb Fairy's Special Shop', as Amelie referred to it. She waved her golden ticket at the entrance (attracting some puzzled looks from the staff), and she and I browsed the vast array of cuddly toys, from lions and tigers and bears (oh my), to a kiwi, a lynx and a platypus. She eventually settled on a grey tabby cat called Kayla for £7.95.
It was mission accomplished and a job well done. The two of us walked home, Amelie telling me how much she liked the Thumb Fairy's Special Shop, how much she loved Kayla, and how she would never need to suck her thumb again; and me feeling proud of our ingenious plotting, slick execution, and simple solving of a difficult problem.
When I got back, I high-fived Lisa in the bedroom, before toasting the end of Amelie's thumb-sucking days, and heading into the living room for a well-earned sit-down...
That was eight quid and a morning well spent.
Friday, April 27, 2012
It's almost three months now since I did a drug deal with one of my colleagues on a street corner in Brighton, and successfully plundered the personal effects of a dead animal in a last-ditch attempt to feed Chloe's crack habit. There's a sentence I never thought I'd write. To be honest, it was deal which saved my cat's life. She's perked up no end ever since, and is threatening to outlive us all. Which is bad news for Am's nose.
Sadly, despite cutting down the dose of Chloe's tablets, she's beginning to run low, so I'll be returning to the vet in the next fortnight to pay through the nose for more drugs. But whilst Chloe's freeloading days are coming to an end, Shimmy's are only just beginning. Having already experienced the benevolence of one cat-owning colleague, I've now had an offer of help from another.
It transpires that Shimmy's not the only slut in the neighbourhood. My colleague owns one too. And having been presented with two litters of kittens in a short space of time, she decided to invest in a puppy cage, which she used in place of a nursery. For anyone not familiar with puppy cages, they're like shark cages, but less waterproof. It's why they used the phrase 'Top Dog' in Prisoner: Cell Block H.
Anyhoo, my colleague has kindly lent me said cage to enable me to provide a safe and secure environment for Shimmy to raise her kittens, without fear of interference from Amelie. As I see it, there are two methods by which I can achieve that aim.
This is Option A...
And this is Option B...
I'm leaning towards B. It would give me more of a lie-in in the morning.
Sadly, despite cutting down the dose of Chloe's tablets, she's beginning to run low, so I'll be returning to the vet in the next fortnight to pay through the nose for more drugs. But whilst Chloe's freeloading days are coming to an end, Shimmy's are only just beginning. Having already experienced the benevolence of one cat-owning colleague, I've now had an offer of help from another.
It transpires that Shimmy's not the only slut in the neighbourhood. My colleague owns one too. And having been presented with two litters of kittens in a short space of time, she decided to invest in a puppy cage, which she used in place of a nursery. For anyone not familiar with puppy cages, they're like shark cages, but less waterproof. It's why they used the phrase 'Top Dog' in Prisoner: Cell Block H.
Anyhoo, my colleague has kindly lent me said cage to enable me to provide a safe and secure environment for Shimmy to raise her kittens, without fear of interference from Amelie. As I see it, there are two methods by which I can achieve that aim.
This is Option A...
And this is Option B...
I'm leaning towards B. It would give me more of a lie-in in the morning.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Five days old, and they're not getting any less cute...
But personally I'm more concerned about day three of Nosegate...
Amelie came home from nursery today with her first ever Accident Form. Apparently she hit her scabby old nose on a chair. Which will teach her to sniff other people's backsides. To be honest, I think it's just the nursery's way of letting us know that they're monitoring her facial injuries, and keeping social services on speed dial.
I questioned Amelie on the intricacies of her medical treatment, and apparently the cold compress was a wet paper towel. I've no idea what the cuddes were.
As it happens, she's not the only one who's received advanced medical care today. I've had a telephone call from my doctor. Not at the time I was expecting it, obviously, but this is the NHS, not Bupa. Lisa kindly phoned the surgery for me this morning while I was cleaning my teeth, and booked me a telephone consultation for 11:30am, which was the perfect slot. It meant I could have the whole thing done and dusted by lunchtime, when I was due to take Amelie to nursery for a bit of chair-butting.
Unfortunately by 12:30pm, the phone still hadn't rung. At least, my phone hadn't rung. Their phone, however, was ringing off the hook, with people like me calling to ask what was going on. Having got through to a receptionist, I was told that all timings are approximate, and I'll get a call when it suits my doctor. Apparently if you book a call for 11:30am, they expect you to be available indefinitely.
As it transpired, the time that suited my doctor was 12:47pm, when I was walking out of the door with Amelie. It meant that I had to go back inside, chat to my GP for five minutes, and end up being late for nursery. But it was worth the wait. I had a very pleasant chat, during which my doctor asked me if I'd like to try coming off my tablets. I asked her if she thought I should, so she checked the report from my urologist, who advised me to stay on them indefinitely, before saying no - but if I want to, I can.
So I asked her if it'll do me any harm to be on them for life. She said no, none at all - but if I want to come off them, I can. I think she was trying to save the NHS money. So having thought about it for a nanosecond, I opted to stay on the tablets which stop the excruciating pain and do me no harm at all, rather than opting for a life of drug-free agony and exhaustion. At which point she printed out the prescription.
I did ask if I'm entitled to any kind of discount on my prescription charges, but apparently that only applies to certain chronic conditions, and prostatitis isn't one of them. I should have asked her for some cuddes instead.
But personally I'm more concerned about day three of Nosegate...
Amelie came home from nursery today with her first ever Accident Form. Apparently she hit her scabby old nose on a chair. Which will teach her to sniff other people's backsides. To be honest, I think it's just the nursery's way of letting us know that they're monitoring her facial injuries, and keeping social services on speed dial.
I questioned Amelie on the intricacies of her medical treatment, and apparently the cold compress was a wet paper towel. I've no idea what the cuddes were.
As it happens, she's not the only one who's received advanced medical care today. I've had a telephone call from my doctor. Not at the time I was expecting it, obviously, but this is the NHS, not Bupa. Lisa kindly phoned the surgery for me this morning while I was cleaning my teeth, and booked me a telephone consultation for 11:30am, which was the perfect slot. It meant I could have the whole thing done and dusted by lunchtime, when I was due to take Amelie to nursery for a bit of chair-butting.
Unfortunately by 12:30pm, the phone still hadn't rung. At least, my phone hadn't rung. Their phone, however, was ringing off the hook, with people like me calling to ask what was going on. Having got through to a receptionist, I was told that all timings are approximate, and I'll get a call when it suits my doctor. Apparently if you book a call for 11:30am, they expect you to be available indefinitely.
As it transpired, the time that suited my doctor was 12:47pm, when I was walking out of the door with Amelie. It meant that I had to go back inside, chat to my GP for five minutes, and end up being late for nursery. But it was worth the wait. I had a very pleasant chat, during which my doctor asked me if I'd like to try coming off my tablets. I asked her if she thought I should, so she checked the report from my urologist, who advised me to stay on them indefinitely, before saying no - but if I want to, I can.
So I asked her if it'll do me any harm to be on them for life. She said no, none at all - but if I want to come off them, I can. I think she was trying to save the NHS money. So having thought about it for a nanosecond, I opted to stay on the tablets which stop the excruciating pain and do me no harm at all, rather than opting for a life of drug-free agony and exhaustion. At which point she printed out the prescription.
I did ask if I'm entitled to any kind of discount on my prescription charges, but apparently that only applies to certain chronic conditions, and prostatitis isn't one of them. I should have asked her for some cuddes instead.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
The Peppa Pig nose plaster's looking good...
... but I hope the Thumb Fairy's not watching. To be fair though, Amelie still hasn't got her hands on a tiger. Since the weekend, the elves in the Thumb Fairy's purchasing department have been a bit preoccupied with real cats. But then, so has Amelie. In fact she's now saying she wants a cat instead of a tiger. I might forget the trip to Toys R Us, and just give her one of the kittens.
In other news, I need to get a repeat prescription from my GP this week for another batch of Wee-Wee Time, or whatever they're calling it now. I've been single-handedly keeping the NHS afloat for the past two and a half years by forking out every couple of months for another dose, just to keep my men's problems under control, and apparently I'll be doing so for the rest of my life. But despite being a permanent arrangement, my GP insists on doing a 'medication review' once a year, partly to check that the drugs are still working, but mainly to annoy me and ruin my day.
When I got my last prescription in February, it contained a note saying that I needed another such review before my next fix, and that I could do it via a telephone consultation. Without one, they won't give me any more gear, so it's sadly necessary. When I had my medication review via teleconference last year, however, it consisted of my GP asking "Are you happy with the tablets?" and "Do you want to carry on taking them?", then waiting for me to say "Yes", before putting the phone down. So it seems a bit of a pointless inconvenience. If I didn't want to take the tablets, I wouldn't be asking for a repeat prescription.
Anyhoo, I've been working in the hospitals of Lewes, Uckfield and Horsham this week, so I've avoided the doctor in an effort to spare my own patients the experience of me answering the phone during a clinic, and chatting about my prostate while I give them the eye drops. But I'm back in the office tomorrow, so before doing my Noah impression this morning, and sailing up to Horsham in my motorised ark, I asked Lisa if she could phone the surgery when they open, and book me a telephone consultation for tomorrow or Friday.
Having made it through the torrential rain and floods, I received an e-mail from Lisa at 9:45 this morning which said this:
"Hellooo. You have to phone up tomorrow morning to make a telephone booking."
I replied with this:
"That's ridiculous. Why can't they book me a day in advance???"
To which Lisa responded:
"I think it's because they don't like you."
There's clearly no other explanation.
... but I hope the Thumb Fairy's not watching. To be fair though, Amelie still hasn't got her hands on a tiger. Since the weekend, the elves in the Thumb Fairy's purchasing department have been a bit preoccupied with real cats. But then, so has Amelie. In fact she's now saying she wants a cat instead of a tiger. I might forget the trip to Toys R Us, and just give her one of the kittens.
In other news, I need to get a repeat prescription from my GP this week for another batch of Wee-Wee Time, or whatever they're calling it now. I've been single-handedly keeping the NHS afloat for the past two and a half years by forking out every couple of months for another dose, just to keep my men's problems under control, and apparently I'll be doing so for the rest of my life. But despite being a permanent arrangement, my GP insists on doing a 'medication review' once a year, partly to check that the drugs are still working, but mainly to annoy me and ruin my day.
When I got my last prescription in February, it contained a note saying that I needed another such review before my next fix, and that I could do it via a telephone consultation. Without one, they won't give me any more gear, so it's sadly necessary. When I had my medication review via teleconference last year, however, it consisted of my GP asking "Are you happy with the tablets?" and "Do you want to carry on taking them?", then waiting for me to say "Yes", before putting the phone down. So it seems a bit of a pointless inconvenience. If I didn't want to take the tablets, I wouldn't be asking for a repeat prescription.
Anyhoo, I've been working in the hospitals of Lewes, Uckfield and Horsham this week, so I've avoided the doctor in an effort to spare my own patients the experience of me answering the phone during a clinic, and chatting about my prostate while I give them the eye drops. But I'm back in the office tomorrow, so before doing my Noah impression this morning, and sailing up to Horsham in my motorised ark, I asked Lisa if she could phone the surgery when they open, and book me a telephone consultation for tomorrow or Friday.
Having made it through the torrential rain and floods, I received an e-mail from Lisa at 9:45 this morning which said this:
"Hellooo. You have to phone up tomorrow morning to make a telephone booking."
I replied with this:
"That's ridiculous. Why can't they book me a day in advance???"
To which Lisa responded:
"I think it's because they don't like you."
There's clearly no other explanation.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Here's today's obligatory kitten photo...
It's where we get the phrase 'bundle of trouble'. They have a lot in common with Lisa - she can't keep her eyes open for a photo either.
On the subject of trouble, yesterday was a day of extreme violence in the Gardner household. Amelie had her face sliced open, and I was kicked in the head. More shocking still is that Lisa was responsible for neither.
To be honest, we don't really know the full story regarding Amelie, as the other party isn't talking, and the only witnesses were blind kittens. Amelie claims that she was minding her own business and sitting quietly, contemplating her responsibilities in life, when Chloe walked up to her and scratched her on the nose.
In reality, Chloe wouldn't voluntarily go up to Am unless you dipped her in cream. And even then she'd think twice. But unfortunately, since Shimmy joined the Mothers Union and became officially off-limits to small children, Chloe's borne the brunt of Amelie's affections. For the past couple of months, Chloe's been relegated to second place in Amelie's list of preferred playmates, which is a position she's more than happy to occupy. Quite honestly, she's loved the peace and quiet. But now that Shimmy's permanently in a box under the table, Chloe's being hassled once again.
So despite Amelie's protestations of innocence, I think it's less of an unprovoked attack, and more of an act of self-defence. But either way, Amelie's now sporting a big plaster on her nose, and we've got about an hour before the nursery calls social services.
As for me, I was assaulted by my own son. I'm like Darth Vader in The Empire Strikes Back. I was lying with my head on Lisa's bump last night, when the baby kicked me in the side of the face. I think he was telling me off for paying more attention to the kittens than to my unborn child. But as I said to Lisa yesterday, if she pushes one out at the side of the sofa, I'll give her my undivided attention.
It's where we get the phrase 'bundle of trouble'. They have a lot in common with Lisa - she can't keep her eyes open for a photo either.
On the subject of trouble, yesterday was a day of extreme violence in the Gardner household. Amelie had her face sliced open, and I was kicked in the head. More shocking still is that Lisa was responsible for neither.
To be honest, we don't really know the full story regarding Amelie, as the other party isn't talking, and the only witnesses were blind kittens. Amelie claims that she was minding her own business and sitting quietly, contemplating her responsibilities in life, when Chloe walked up to her and scratched her on the nose.
In reality, Chloe wouldn't voluntarily go up to Am unless you dipped her in cream. And even then she'd think twice. But unfortunately, since Shimmy joined the Mothers Union and became officially off-limits to small children, Chloe's borne the brunt of Amelie's affections. For the past couple of months, Chloe's been relegated to second place in Amelie's list of preferred playmates, which is a position she's more than happy to occupy. Quite honestly, she's loved the peace and quiet. But now that Shimmy's permanently in a box under the table, Chloe's being hassled once again.
So despite Amelie's protestations of innocence, I think it's less of an unprovoked attack, and more of an act of self-defence. But either way, Amelie's now sporting a big plaster on her nose, and we've got about an hour before the nursery calls social services.
As for me, I was assaulted by my own son. I'm like Darth Vader in The Empire Strikes Back. I was lying with my head on Lisa's bump last night, when the baby kicked me in the side of the face. I think he was telling me off for paying more attention to the kittens than to my unborn child. But as I said to Lisa yesterday, if she pushes one out at the side of the sofa, I'll give her my undivided attention.
Monday, April 23, 2012
The trouble with kids is that the moment you sit down, they're all over you...
You've got one over your shoulder, and another two getting under your feet. It's a living hell. Although they are very cute...
And to think that Lisa's Mum suggested we drown them in a bucket. Doesn't she know there's a drought on?
Anyhoo, before I go any further, I'd just like to say a big thank you to everyone who's already offered to have one. As things currently stand, we could probably rehome five, so Shimmy might have to get pregnant again just to satisfy demand. Although she'll be homeless again if she does. Suffice it to say, it's a major relief to know they have loving homes to go to, but apologies in advance to anyone left empty-handed in the first-round kitten draft.
Adoption issues aside, my biggest concern about the sudden arrival of kittens is that Amelie's going to think they've come from the Thumb Fairy. She'll be taking them to bed if we're not careful. Up to now though, I have to admit she's been pretty good. We did have one slightly hairy moment yesterday afternoon when Lisa was taking a nap in the bedroom and I was making Chicken & Leek Pasta in the kitchen. Which was Amelie's cue to raid the nursery in the living room. I walked in to find her under the table, pulling the cat bed along the floor with Shimmy and the kittens still inside it.
Bizarrely, however, they weren't the slightest bit bothered. Which is what's been amazing from the start of this saga. Shimmy's such a laid back parent, I could base an entire series of childcare books on her actions.
She's happily raising a family of three under the living room table while Amelie sings along to the TV, jumps about in her pyjamas, and turns the furniture upside down looking for her Megablocks. And nothing's stressing her out. Not even the sight of a camera lens being shoved in her face. She calmly comes and goes, heading off to get food and say hello to the rest of us, before returning promptly to her offspring. The only sound we hear is her constant purring.
Oh, and the three little squeaks of these chaps...
If they stayed like that, we might keep them.
You've got one over your shoulder, and another two getting under your feet. It's a living hell. Although they are very cute...
And to think that Lisa's Mum suggested we drown them in a bucket. Doesn't she know there's a drought on?
Anyhoo, before I go any further, I'd just like to say a big thank you to everyone who's already offered to have one. As things currently stand, we could probably rehome five, so Shimmy might have to get pregnant again just to satisfy demand. Although she'll be homeless again if she does. Suffice it to say, it's a major relief to know they have loving homes to go to, but apologies in advance to anyone left empty-handed in the first-round kitten draft.
Adoption issues aside, my biggest concern about the sudden arrival of kittens is that Amelie's going to think they've come from the Thumb Fairy. She'll be taking them to bed if we're not careful. Up to now though, I have to admit she's been pretty good. We did have one slightly hairy moment yesterday afternoon when Lisa was taking a nap in the bedroom and I was making Chicken & Leek Pasta in the kitchen. Which was Amelie's cue to raid the nursery in the living room. I walked in to find her under the table, pulling the cat bed along the floor with Shimmy and the kittens still inside it.
Bizarrely, however, they weren't the slightest bit bothered. Which is what's been amazing from the start of this saga. Shimmy's such a laid back parent, I could base an entire series of childcare books on her actions.
She's happily raising a family of three under the living room table while Amelie sings along to the TV, jumps about in her pyjamas, and turns the furniture upside down looking for her Megablocks. And nothing's stressing her out. Not even the sight of a camera lens being shoved in her face. She calmly comes and goes, heading off to get food and say hello to the rest of us, before returning promptly to her offspring. The only sound we hear is her constant purring.
Oh, and the three little squeaks of these chaps...
If they stayed like that, we might keep them.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
In the immortal words of Cilla Black, "Surprise surprise! The unexpected hits you between the eyes..."
Or in this case, between the nipples of your overfed stray. I couldn't be more shocked if Lisa had just given birth. At least I knew she was pregnant.
Four weeks ago, I said (in the light-hearted, humorous tone of someone who doesn't believe it) that Shimmy could be stuffed full of kittens. In reality, I thought her bulging stomach was down to copious amounts of chicken and an ability to eat anything within a three metre radius, whether edible or not. She has an appetite like no cat I've ever known. Which makes sense, because she was eating for four.
I was woken up early yesterday morning by Amelie, who fails to grasp the concept of a busy working week, and feels I can afford to be up at 7am on a Saturday. So with Lisa still in bed, I decided to take Am down to Asda for a new casserole dish. On our way back, we popped into Lidl, where they're currently selling chainsaws for sixty quid, and radiator cat beds for seven.
Amelie persuaded me to buy the latter (which was a relief), so we took it home and mounted it on the living room radiator. I happen to have a catnip spray in the bedroom (I like to give Lisa a light misting when she's asleep, so the cats will play with her), so I decided to spray the new bed so that Chloe and Shimmy would fall in love with it. Within a couple of minutes, Shimmy had arrived, and was lovin' it big time...
So with cat and daughter happy, I went into the kitchen to put the rest of the shopping away. Shortly afterwards, Amelie came in to tell me that Shimmy kept miaowing. I followed her to the scene of the disturbance, and sure enough, Shimmy was hiding behind the TV, wailing like a banshee. She emerged a few minutes later, and walked across the living room, still shouting at the top of her voice - behaviour which continued for the next twenty minutes.
All the best cat-care websites tell you that one of the signs of a pregnant cat in labour is "excessive vocalisation", but at this point I hadn't read them. When Lisa popped her head out of the bedroom, I told her that either Shimmy was about to give birth, or she was having a bad trip on the catnip. It was supposed to be a joke.
Amelie was quite concerned, so she went and sat on the floor at the side of the sofa, holding Shimmy and telling her that everything was alright. After five minutes of this, I told her to put Shimmy down, just in case she's not feeling well. Amelie did so (which was a miracle), and thirty seconds later the first kitten popped out...
Just one minute's delay, and the backdrop to that photo would have been Amelie's lap.
To say we were stunned is an understatement. I think I'm still suffering from shock today. I might have to take a year off with post-traumatic stress disorder. I've been making jokes about Shimmy being pregnant for the past month, but at no point did I genuinely believe it.
The gestation period of a cat is nine weeks, and we've had her for just under eight, so she clearly got herself up the duff while she was living on the streets. She's like a pregnant teenage runaway. Her previous owners (if she ever had any) can't have thrown her out for being in the family way, as it would have been too early to tell. Why she hadn't been spayed though, is anyone's guess. Either way, she's been an indoor cat since we adopted her, living with another female, so we thought kittens were something we didn't need to worry about.
Obviously we were wrong. According to a leading cat website, "A very young cat (under one year) may have a hard time with birth, with the possibility of deformed or stillborn kittens, or the death of the queen", which would be a disaster with the jubilee coming up. But despite being a young cat, Shimmy has proved herself a natural mother. With no help whatsoever, she gave birth to three kittens down the side of the sofa, and for much of yesterday afternoon, she was lying there purring at the top of her voice. Motherhood clearly agrees with her.
I went out and bought a hooded cat bed, attached it to a cardboard box, and lined it with old tea towels, before placing it under the living room table. When Shimmy finally ventured out from the dusty birthing corner late last night, she inspected the nursery, and within minutes she went back and carried her kittens across the living room, placing them carefully into the cat bed. I wish I'd got that on film.
So there you go. We're now a five cat family. The next eight weeks could be interesting (especially if our baby comes early), but fortunately we've already taken a reservation on one of the kittens from this lady. That's assuming I can prise any of them away from Lisa. They're not even a day old, and she's already plotting ways to keep them.
Or in this case, between the nipples of your overfed stray. I couldn't be more shocked if Lisa had just given birth. At least I knew she was pregnant.
Four weeks ago, I said (in the light-hearted, humorous tone of someone who doesn't believe it) that Shimmy could be stuffed full of kittens. In reality, I thought her bulging stomach was down to copious amounts of chicken and an ability to eat anything within a three metre radius, whether edible or not. She has an appetite like no cat I've ever known. Which makes sense, because she was eating for four.
I was woken up early yesterday morning by Amelie, who fails to grasp the concept of a busy working week, and feels I can afford to be up at 7am on a Saturday. So with Lisa still in bed, I decided to take Am down to Asda for a new casserole dish. On our way back, we popped into Lidl, where they're currently selling chainsaws for sixty quid, and radiator cat beds for seven.
Amelie persuaded me to buy the latter (which was a relief), so we took it home and mounted it on the living room radiator. I happen to have a catnip spray in the bedroom (I like to give Lisa a light misting when she's asleep, so the cats will play with her), so I decided to spray the new bed so that Chloe and Shimmy would fall in love with it. Within a couple of minutes, Shimmy had arrived, and was lovin' it big time...
So with cat and daughter happy, I went into the kitchen to put the rest of the shopping away. Shortly afterwards, Amelie came in to tell me that Shimmy kept miaowing. I followed her to the scene of the disturbance, and sure enough, Shimmy was hiding behind the TV, wailing like a banshee. She emerged a few minutes later, and walked across the living room, still shouting at the top of her voice - behaviour which continued for the next twenty minutes.
All the best cat-care websites tell you that one of the signs of a pregnant cat in labour is "excessive vocalisation", but at this point I hadn't read them. When Lisa popped her head out of the bedroom, I told her that either Shimmy was about to give birth, or she was having a bad trip on the catnip. It was supposed to be a joke.
Amelie was quite concerned, so she went and sat on the floor at the side of the sofa, holding Shimmy and telling her that everything was alright. After five minutes of this, I told her to put Shimmy down, just in case she's not feeling well. Amelie did so (which was a miracle), and thirty seconds later the first kitten popped out...
Just one minute's delay, and the backdrop to that photo would have been Amelie's lap.
To say we were stunned is an understatement. I think I'm still suffering from shock today. I might have to take a year off with post-traumatic stress disorder. I've been making jokes about Shimmy being pregnant for the past month, but at no point did I genuinely believe it.
The gestation period of a cat is nine weeks, and we've had her for just under eight, so she clearly got herself up the duff while she was living on the streets. She's like a pregnant teenage runaway. Her previous owners (if she ever had any) can't have thrown her out for being in the family way, as it would have been too early to tell. Why she hadn't been spayed though, is anyone's guess. Either way, she's been an indoor cat since we adopted her, living with another female, so we thought kittens were something we didn't need to worry about.
Obviously we were wrong. According to a leading cat website, "A very young cat (under one year) may have a hard time with birth, with the possibility of deformed or stillborn kittens, or the death of the queen", which would be a disaster with the jubilee coming up. But despite being a young cat, Shimmy has proved herself a natural mother. With no help whatsoever, she gave birth to three kittens down the side of the sofa, and for much of yesterday afternoon, she was lying there purring at the top of her voice. Motherhood clearly agrees with her.
I went out and bought a hooded cat bed, attached it to a cardboard box, and lined it with old tea towels, before placing it under the living room table. When Shimmy finally ventured out from the dusty birthing corner late last night, she inspected the nursery, and within minutes she went back and carried her kittens across the living room, placing them carefully into the cat bed. I wish I'd got that on film.
So there you go. We're now a five cat family. The next eight weeks could be interesting (especially if our baby comes early), but fortunately we've already taken a reservation on one of the kittens from this lady. That's assuming I can prise any of them away from Lisa. They're not even a day old, and she's already plotting ways to keep them.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
I was doing a clinic over in Mile Oak yesterday when Lisa sent me this e-mail:
"Sausage casserole is nice and I've left you some in the oven. Unfortunately I've smashed the lid on the casserole dish as I forgot things are hot when they come out of the oven. I have very burnt fingers."
To be honest, it's not the first time she's got her fingers burnt in the kitchen. She needs to stop meddling, and leave it to the professionals. I did GCSE Home Economics, and I knew by the second year that ovens get hot. Although I'm not sure I knew that casserole dishes had lids.
Anyhoo, the sausages were cold by the time I got home, but that's what microwaves are for. And besides, the delay was partly my fault. I drove back from Mile Oak along the seafront, and spotted a camera crew filming outside the Brighton Centre, so I deliberately slowed down in an effort to get into shot. There were two police vans parked nearby, a few coppers wandering around, and when I got to the traffic lights, another TV crew crossed the road in front of me. I almost missed the green light in my attempts to wind down the window and stroke their furry mic.
When I got home and saw the sausages, the incident went right out of my head, but at 10pm I turned on the BBC News and watched their report on Abu Qatada. For some reason (possibly involving armed police) it reminded me of my drive home, so I asked Lisa if she knew what was going on in Brighton. She didn't. So we both wondered aloud what was happening. At which point the Abu Qatada report crossed straight to Brighton for an opinion from Kenneth Clarke.
It seems that most of Europe's top ministers (and Ken Clarke) are currently staying in one of Brighton's uninspiring, airport-lounge-style hotels. A few years ago we had Maastricht, and now we have Brighton. According to that report, delegates from the Council of Europe "were due to end their day's deliberations with a fish and chip supper on Brighton pier", which is enough to make anyone eurosceptic. I've tried those fish & chips and they're dreadful. Apparently relationships had been rocky all day. I think I'll vote UKIP.
"Sausage casserole is nice and I've left you some in the oven. Unfortunately I've smashed the lid on the casserole dish as I forgot things are hot when they come out of the oven. I have very burnt fingers."
To be honest, it's not the first time she's got her fingers burnt in the kitchen. She needs to stop meddling, and leave it to the professionals. I did GCSE Home Economics, and I knew by the second year that ovens get hot. Although I'm not sure I knew that casserole dishes had lids.
Anyhoo, the sausages were cold by the time I got home, but that's what microwaves are for. And besides, the delay was partly my fault. I drove back from Mile Oak along the seafront, and spotted a camera crew filming outside the Brighton Centre, so I deliberately slowed down in an effort to get into shot. There were two police vans parked nearby, a few coppers wandering around, and when I got to the traffic lights, another TV crew crossed the road in front of me. I almost missed the green light in my attempts to wind down the window and stroke their furry mic.
When I got home and saw the sausages, the incident went right out of my head, but at 10pm I turned on the BBC News and watched their report on Abu Qatada. For some reason (possibly involving armed police) it reminded me of my drive home, so I asked Lisa if she knew what was going on in Brighton. She didn't. So we both wondered aloud what was happening. At which point the Abu Qatada report crossed straight to Brighton for an opinion from Kenneth Clarke.
It seems that most of Europe's top ministers (and Ken Clarke) are currently staying in one of Brighton's uninspiring, airport-lounge-style hotels. A few years ago we had Maastricht, and now we have Brighton. According to that report, delegates from the Council of Europe "were due to end their day's deliberations with a fish and chip supper on Brighton pier", which is enough to make anyone eurosceptic. I've tried those fish & chips and they're dreadful. Apparently relationships had been rocky all day. I think I'll vote UKIP.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Whilst facing our fears on Monday, one scare source which didn't enter the conversation was the dentist. That's because Amelie had been for a check-up that afternoon, and was given a sticker. Frankly if spiders could hand out badges, she wouldn't have a problem.
You might expect the sticker in question to look like this one, but in reality it just featured a picture of Tinkerbell sitting on a toadstool. Or "a fairy on a mushroom" as Amelie put it. I think it had been sourced from the local pound shop, but either way it was enough to persuade Amelie to open her mouth. Not that she normally needs an excuse. Frankly the only time she stops talking is when she's eating. So she doesn’t say much.
As it happens though, this is the first time she's opened wide for a dentist. Lisa took her last June, but Amelie gritted her teeth and burst into tears, so they didn't get very far. Lisa's usual dentist has just gone off on maternity leave, however, so this time they saw a replacement. You might say he's just filling in.
Anyhoo, the man bridging the gap for the next few months is Mr O'Keefe, who featured on this blog last July when he won Lisa's heart by drilling down into the root of her problems, and making her feel a lot better. This time he worked his magic on Amelie, who let him examine her teeth (of which there are twenty), before announcing that his chair made her dizzy, and accepting a sticker as compensation.
On the downside, we were advised to stop Amelie sucking her thumb, as he felt that her front teeth were beginning to protrude a little. It's a real shame. She loves her sucky thumb (as she calls it), and having tasted it myself, I can see why. So we've spent the past couple of days formulating a cunning and dastardly plan to wean her off it. And we've come up with...
The Thumb Fairy. Obviously the Potty Fairy is still legendary in this house, but we weren't sure how to translate that concept to thumbs without the need for amputation. So in the end we've told Amelie that rather than removing her thumb in the dead of night and replacing it with a bubble machine, the Thumb Fairy will bring her a soft toy that she can cuddle every time she wants her sucky thumb. Lisa's helping her write a letter to Fairy HQ, requesting the toy of her dreams.
At the moment she's gone for a tiger. And the Thumb Fairy will be bringing her one, just as soon as Daddy can get to Toys R Us. It's a plan with no drawbacks. Until three years from now, when we have to invent the Cat Fairy just to wean her off the tiger.
You might expect the sticker in question to look like this one, but in reality it just featured a picture of Tinkerbell sitting on a toadstool. Or "a fairy on a mushroom" as Amelie put it. I think it had been sourced from the local pound shop, but either way it was enough to persuade Amelie to open her mouth. Not that she normally needs an excuse. Frankly the only time she stops talking is when she's eating. So she doesn’t say much.
As it happens though, this is the first time she's opened wide for a dentist. Lisa took her last June, but Amelie gritted her teeth and burst into tears, so they didn't get very far. Lisa's usual dentist has just gone off on maternity leave, however, so this time they saw a replacement. You might say he's just filling in.
Anyhoo, the man bridging the gap for the next few months is Mr O'Keefe, who featured on this blog last July when he won Lisa's heart by drilling down into the root of her problems, and making her feel a lot better. This time he worked his magic on Amelie, who let him examine her teeth (of which there are twenty), before announcing that his chair made her dizzy, and accepting a sticker as compensation.
On the downside, we were advised to stop Amelie sucking her thumb, as he felt that her front teeth were beginning to protrude a little. It's a real shame. She loves her sucky thumb (as she calls it), and having tasted it myself, I can see why. So we've spent the past couple of days formulating a cunning and dastardly plan to wean her off it. And we've come up with...
The Thumb Fairy. Obviously the Potty Fairy is still legendary in this house, but we weren't sure how to translate that concept to thumbs without the need for amputation. So in the end we've told Amelie that rather than removing her thumb in the dead of night and replacing it with a bubble machine, the Thumb Fairy will bring her a soft toy that she can cuddle every time she wants her sucky thumb. Lisa's helping her write a letter to Fairy HQ, requesting the toy of her dreams.
At the moment she's gone for a tiger. And the Thumb Fairy will be bringing her one, just as soon as Daddy can get to Toys R Us. It's a plan with no drawbacks. Until three years from now, when we have to invent the Cat Fairy just to wean her off the tiger.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
I'm beginning to wonder who this carrycot is for...
Amelie spent yesterday fighting over it with Shimmy, and the moment they both went to bed, Chloe was in there. The irony is that it cost less than the cat basket I bought from Pets at Home. And no one's slept in that for weeks. I think I might save it for the baby.
Amelie spent yesterday fighting over it with Shimmy, and the moment they both went to bed, Chloe was in there. The irony is that it cost less than the cat basket I bought from Pets at Home. And no one's slept in that for weeks. I think I might save it for the baby.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
If there's one channel you can rely on for universal truths, positive affirmations, reassuring platitudes and blatant lies, it's CBeebies. I remember with great fondness hearing Amelie joining in with the familiar chorus of "It's the end of a lovely day" at 7pm last July, as I was mopping up blood from the sideboard.
But yesterday's statement of fact was far less refutable. As Lisa was attacking Amelie with the nit comb last night (she doesn't have nits – we just like to annoy her), CBeebies announced that "Everyone is scared of something".
It prompted Amelie, who's no stranger to group therapy, to respond with "I'm scared of spiders". So in a moment of father-daughter solidarity, I added "I'm scared of balloons".
It's ironic because she came back from my parents' with a balloon model of a spider. I didn't realise that at the time though. I'm just genuinely scared of balloons.
At that point, the conversation was let down by Lisa, who's no stranger to deceiving small children, and decided to join in the therapy by declaring "I'm not scared of anything". Which is a bit rich for someone holding a nit comb. She found a grain of sand in Amelie's hair last week and almost had a panic attack.
I thought the session was over at that point, but to my surprise, Amelie continued with the following statement:
"I'm scared of eyes".
I think it's because she's worried we'll see what she's up to. And with good reason. I was in Lewes yesterday, and I found a gorgeous powder blue carrycot in a charity shop for the ridiculous price of £4. So I bought it, got the thing home, and left it in the hallway. Five minutes later, I found this:
I wouldn't mind, but the moment I got her out, Shimmy was in there.
But yesterday's statement of fact was far less refutable. As Lisa was attacking Amelie with the nit comb last night (she doesn't have nits – we just like to annoy her), CBeebies announced that "Everyone is scared of something".
It prompted Amelie, who's no stranger to group therapy, to respond with "I'm scared of spiders". So in a moment of father-daughter solidarity, I added "I'm scared of balloons".
It's ironic because she came back from my parents' with a balloon model of a spider. I didn't realise that at the time though. I'm just genuinely scared of balloons.
At that point, the conversation was let down by Lisa, who's no stranger to deceiving small children, and decided to join in the therapy by declaring "I'm not scared of anything". Which is a bit rich for someone holding a nit comb. She found a grain of sand in Amelie's hair last week and almost had a panic attack.
I thought the session was over at that point, but to my surprise, Amelie continued with the following statement:
"I'm scared of eyes".
I think it's because she's worried we'll see what she's up to. And with good reason. I was in Lewes yesterday, and I found a gorgeous powder blue carrycot in a charity shop for the ridiculous price of £4. So I bought it, got the thing home, and left it in the hallway. Five minutes later, I found this:
I wouldn't mind, but the moment I got her out, Shimmy was in there.
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