Still. Only a week. No too bad...
At one-thirty on the morning of departure, Thug dropped by for a bite to eat, and I spent half an hour ensuring that all he ate was cat food. He had Piper cornered in the kitchen – no way to reach the relative safety of the lounge (there is a cat-flap in the lounge door), and a torrential south-westerly storm the other side of the cat-flap out of the house.
Before I could settle into mediating between Thug and Piper, Oatmeal came out of the lounge to see what was happening. Thug does not do cat-flaps (yet), so this was not the brightest move. Having come face-to-face with the Purring Death, Oatmeal ran for the bedroom, which distracted Thug long enough for me to pick up Piper and put him in the lounge. See, things are picking up already...
Oatmeal took ‘refuge’ on the bed, right where my feet are supposed to go. Ginge was already in ‘her’ spot between the pillows (is that snoring in my ear my partner or the ginger gooseberry?). Thug did his best meerkat routine, rearing up to assess the lie of the duvet. Ginge growled; Oatmeal growled. Not an end-of the-world growl, just the initial invite and RSVP-if-you-dare. Thug went round the other side and jumped up on to my partner who woke to the Cat Growl duet.
Thug decided that two against one was too easy, so he jumped down and explored under the bed, presumably looking for a third cat to join Ginge and Oatmeal to give them a chance. Whatever he was looking for, the junk under the bed was thoroughly investigated. Finally, after half hour or so, Thug decided to go back out – at least the storm was worthy of his attention.
I’m sure I’ve heard somewhere that sleep is over-rated. I wouldn’t know.
It felt like it was all over, but really, that was the tipping point where a downward drifting week became a full-blown seven-day fall.
Breakfast was deceptively peaceful, and then I drove into town to pick up a fruit and veg order for my partner before I and the van went away for the week. I was early – no delivery yet, so I returned home and met that classic morning question – are you still wearing your grubby clothes?
This generally means the side of the barn has fallen off, or one of the rams is knee-deep in mud and needs rescuing. That sort of thing... but today it was a wounded sea gull. We tramped out across the field, caught the injured bird (amazingly easy) and took it to the vet – they know a man who tends to sick sea birds. Sadly, the gull had a badly broken wing and there was nothing to be done.
On the way home, we dropped in to pick up the fruit and veg... still not in. That south-westerly over night caused a bit of flooding, interrupting deliveries. In the end, I drove away no more than two hours late, leaving my partner to try to arrange alternative transport.
I can make up two hours. No problem. Just take a look at the job. Cold light of day and all that. OK... that looks a bit more than we thought... and this bit here might need an extra hour... or two...
So here I am, writing this at half ten at night, knowing it will have to wait for the weekend to actually go on my blog, grumbling about the day that went down hill. Or as Monty Python might put it, the one that didn’t so much fall as plummet.