We went to Venice.
We did a lot of gazing over the lagoon and at each other. We slept a lot. And my SO finished off his Straight8 Project. I got increasingly pregnant. I mean I was pregnant already, I just got more so, swelling like a great big happy blimp. I did say I got married in cream, not white…
Plan C was the one we went with. We’d have a buffet, beer, and Ceilidh. And plenty, PLENTY of friends.
I got married in cream: be-trousered with lacy wrap. He got married in a tartan skirt, as the Scots are wont to do.
I smiled and laughed so much that my face ached for days afterwards. Ow.
All my brothers and sisters were there – by blood, half-blood and love – and many many kids.
I am marrie
d now.
Married to a most fabulous man with a hairy face and a delightful sense of humour.
I believe I loved him from the first moment we met.
It took him a while to get used to me, however.
We would have probably continued to live together for years if it wasn’t for a lovely couple that we just met in a pub at New Year asking “so, when are you going to get married?”.
“So is there ever a good time to ask?” whispered my Significant Other.
“Now?” I said.
And that is henceforth how it shall be remembered.
Massive sucking sound
OK so I’ve decided…I cannot possibly squish the entire ton of news I have for the past few years into one blog post. That might create a super-dense object. Perhaps it would collapse in on itself, like a neutron star, and pull everything with it. And that would be bad.
I will try to avoid this.
Mysteriously pointy-headed
…is it gets harder and harder to update your blog.
And then there’s the difficulty of how much to write, how much to give away. I am a grown-up (or convention would dictate that by my age I really really should be), and a bunch of people may be reading this that will judge me professionally or personally. I mean, who are YOU, anyway? And why are you reading this? Â If we are friends, would you not already know all my news from Facebook?
Facebook Friends have been inundated over the last few months with status updates of a recent addition to the Claratee Household, a fuzzy kitten-shaped ball of mischief called Penny. Before I annunciate about her charms on this blog I should probably put the memory of another cat companion to rest – it seems most respectful – that of Mr Baxter.
Mr Baxter was a large black long-hair who I adopted in Seattle – my friend Ms Scarlett delighted in labelling him ‘Clara’s huge black pussy’ who she would inquire after on email lists or loudly in public places. Mr B gave hugs that you would not believe. Yes, a cat who hugged back. Front paws either side of your head, face snuggled up to your ear, purring madly.
Mr B had some *ahem* issues though, which made me consider the benefit to burden ratio of pet ownership. I and my dear friend Cherry Divine shared a house, while our cats shared animosity. In an attempt to enforce their territory and dominance, they would pee liberally around the house. It was unceasing tit-for-tat terrorist urinary warfare. There was definitely a certain aroma, and a need to suspiciously pat or sniff all surfaces before one sat or lay down. Our washing machine was tasked to clean duvets regularly, in a mixture of vinegar and/or anti cat pee solution. Futons were considered a disposable commodity in our house. Rather like dish cloths, nappies, bin bags. The futon frame in the living room was often empty, its slats exposed like a sad whale carcass, until we could get a replacement off of freecycle.
We tried a number of different methods to impose order and domestic decorum: expensive pheromone diffusers to calm the nerves, spray bottles full of various liquids, angry punishment, treats with catnip. To no avail; our boys continued to sneak into each of our rooms during the day, and leave little damp surprises on our beds. I counted five unique spots on my duvet after a weekend away. I started laying plastic sheeting on my bed. Eventually we just locked our cats in our rooms when we weren’t in the house. It got really desperate.
I was planning to move back to the UK earlier this year, and was rather troubled by the need to rehouse my pissy territorial cat. Black fluffy loving cat who hugs back. Can you detect some ambivalence there? I heard that the number one reason for cats to end up in a shelter is inappropriate indoor peeing. I knew that I would have to be honest with the people that took him in, warn them – “caution: urinary leakage”. “Does not mix well with the feline competition”.
A friend of a friend was eager to provide a home. I had described all the good points of Mr B, but not the bad. I mulled it over for weeks, I don’t know what I was expecting. Perhaps Mr B would learn the error of his ways, miraculously. I knew it would not work out, I could not pass on the burden, I’d have to tell.
What happened was ghastly, but a strange mixed blessing. A few weeks before I was due to leave, Mr B did some late night unplanned gymnastics off of a cat tree, and suffered some serious internal damage, resulting in an enormous and painful blood clot in his bladder. He spent the next week spinning wheels high on morphine, nesting in his cat tray.
Please, will someone take my pissy, broken, elderly cat? He hugs back, if he wasn’t in so much pain.
I got him put down, after deliberation, he died in my arms. My housemate drove me to the emergency surgery in Lake City Way, and hugged me while I cried and cried and cried.
I’ve got some strange mementos from Mr B. I’ve an ultrasound, and some x-rays that might make an interesting but macabre stained glass piece.
I still miss Mr B, sometimes. I miss the sensation of his weight in my lap, his fuzzy belly pressed against me, his paws wrapped around my neck, his face nuzzled in my ear, purring loudly, a delicious comfort after a long horrid day. Penny is too squirrelly and too tiny to do the full-on Baxter hug. Every cat has a ‘thing’ when interacting with their people, hers seems to be shoulder sitting and leg climbing, but who knows what it will be when she is fully grown.
Rest in Peace, Mr B. May there be no cat competition where you are. May there be ever-full food bowls, laser pointers, and boxes and platforms upon which to sit. May the cat trees be sturdy and hold firm against your considerable weight. May the futons and furnishings be self-cleaning. May there be patient people with open arms and laps and soothing voices. May there be sunbeams cast through windows onto comfortable, deep pile rugs. Rest well, Mr B. Rest well.
I’m listening to a lot of stupid pop these days, seeing as my downstairs is frequented with workmen that need constant nurturing with sugary tea and very loud radio. And by the way, they are all doing a fabulous job, and I don’t begrudge them cuppas and pop.
BUT Oh dear god. I am now intimately familiar with the playlists of Radio Cambridgeshire and Heart FM. I think HeartFM is run by a Winamp playlist of, tops, 30 songs, with occasional advertising and promotional interjections. Every once in a while, someone presses the “shuffle” button.
Oh there are others. Will just have to wait til they annoy me again so I can write them down.
Don’t do it.
So you might be preparing to decorate, and you might cast your eye around your staircase and notice maybe the thickly and sloppily painted staircase posts, maybe the slightly hairy and grubby skirting on either side of the steps and think ‘hang on, that looks like really nice wood’.
STOP.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking wouldn’t it be nice to strip that back, maybe stain it and give it a few coats of varnish.
Really. Stop right there.
You might be embarking on a journey that will last at least three weeks, and make you grubby, sweaty and miserable, probably give you lead poisoning, ruin all your clothes, take you on countless trips to the hardware store, go through acres of sandpaper, seas of paint stripper, and increasingly expensive machines for stripping and sanding.
Yes children, it happened to me. and my hell is not yet over.
The tragedy is that the finished effect (if it does finish) will probably not inspire a great deal of comment, appreciation or admiration of anyone. It won’t look particularly special for all the hard work. The only people that recognize the hard work for what it is and the curse you voluntarily took upon yourself will be those that trod the path before you. They might give you sympathy, a chuckle of shared knowing. But that is it.
So by all means, sand a little to take the decades of painty hair and fluff off. Fill a little, to smooth out the chips in the remaining paint. And then do the only decent thing to preserve your sanity. Paint the f*cker white again.
The second of the Cambridge Geek Nights, organised by Vero (thatcanadiangirl.co.uk) after the successful Oxford geek nights, was last week. Again I was one of the few women at a techie event. It was a popular, lively evening, and I am definitely looking forward to the next one.
There were some interesting talks, including one by Michael Brunton-Spall of the guardian open platform. Of course, as an audience we were particularly warm to him as his employer kindly picked up the bar tab – particularly yummy cocktails at the Maypole! Richard Boulton gave a good introduction to open source search library that he is coding, Xapian. There were some lawyers who talked about IP too.
There was a write-up in the Cambridge Evening News on 4th August, disappointingly I could not find reference online. Vero, thankfully tweeted about it and posted a scan on flickr. Here it is!
Here it is:
No good sitting around on the sofa watching telly and eating chips. The fat’s not moving until you do.
Those ads that you see everywhere, on Hotmail, MSN, Facebook…simple. That’s a scam scam scam.
That acai berry extract and stuff labeled ‘colon cleanse’ really won’t help, sorry. Unless you take them as part of a calorie-controlled diet and increase your physical activity, of course…but then you are really just getting into stone soup territory.
Oh, the free sample is just a hook. How do you think they get money to stick their offensive but highly effective ads all over the internets? Easy! They take your Credit card and whap a bunch o charges on it. Oh and another thing, Judy isn’t real. It’s not a blog. It’s a ploy to give the scammy advertiser the personal touch, to connect with you. Just like Mike Smithson and his money site.
Yep that’s why I’ve clicked on those ads. Maybe 20, 30 times…
It’s just shocking to me that so many mainstream and successful websites are OK with taking their dirty money, and so encourage their unsuspecting and eager users to play into the hands of con-artists. Yay commerce. Yay unregulated markets.
Update: I followed the link to ‘Judy’s blog’, and noticed that the British version (unlike the US version – same text, different images) has trademark information, terms and conditions printed at the bottom:
All trademarks, logos, and service marks are registered and/or unregistered Trademarks of their respective owners.
Judysweightlossblog.com is an affiliated website, marketing the health supplement products “AcaiBerry Exclusive” and “Effective Cleanse”. …You will be charged the super low price of £79.00 at the end of your 15-day trial period…Unless you call to cancel, you’ll continue to get a fresh one-month supply of Life Cleanse every 30 days for the low price of £79.00 (+£3.95 shipping and handling).
That’s good that they give this information, not all of the ads do, albeit couched in some odd salesmany words. £79 for powdered acai doesn’t sound like a super low price to me. In the year 2088 perhaps that would be a bargain. But not today!
Poor saps that don’t scroll to the bottom and read what they are in for are suckered out of an astounding £82.95 every thirty days unless they call a telephone number to cancel. I’d imagine if the company was really shifty they might never answer the phone or put callers into a monstrous call queue. But…they wouldn’t do that, would they?
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