The Ginger Yo-yo

The saga of Thug, aka Drang, aka The Purring Death, was drawing to a close. His owners kept him in for a few weeks to get him settle back in and our other cats relaxed again, even to the point of Ginge returning to a favourite night-time spot between the pillows, purring in my ear. It’s not perfect - Ginge and Piper have indicated their displeasure that their preferred point of access to the house through the fan-light window is now blocked, but it seemed like a sensible precaution,

As it turns out, an essential precaution. Thug is back, and he still doesn’t understand cat-flaps.

I had just got back from a day working in Plymouth, returning via Cornwall Farmers, and there was young Thug, eager and perky, just wanting to be loved. The fact that I had a van-load of sheep and poultry feed to shift was irrelevant.

In the end, we compromised – a certain amount of Thug-loving and then he got to follow me around as I carried 25kg feed sacks from van to store. That had to include heavy hints that I should open the back door, offer snacks, make sure the duvets were set right for wiping his paws – the usual. The hints got heavier when nothing was delivered. (This all suggested that an incident of scrabbling at windows at four in the morning a few days previously was probably Thug.)

In due course, the van was empty and, whilst Thug is a practising psychopath, he is also very loving and trusting (unless you happen to be another cat), so getting him boxed up and in the back of the van was easy. Then it was just a drive down the hill to drop him off.

The very next day... there was Thug, in search of love, food and a comfy bed. He was more wary about the van this time, but my partner joined the game. A bit of stroking and Thug was lured back into captivity and down the hill in the new Cat Taxi service, straight in to home, into the large bag of dog food for a snack. And I do mean in. For some reason, Thug is partial to dog food, and all the better eaten straight from the bag, leaving paw-prints on the inside just to show he was there.

After a few days respite... Taxi!

The incidence of Thug visits has dropped off. From time to time, I email his owners to give the Drang Report, which really ought to start with something like early heavy down-paws will lead to light outbreaks of violence later in the day. He still comes to visit, but for the last week my partner has been away with the van. No taxi service means that Thug has to walk home which has clearly taken the shine off things. OK, strictly speaking, Thug is not impressed with being driven down the hill. However, when he is hanging around, trying to get in, we can walk round the house and use the front door because he has worked out that the front of the house is the Cat Taxi pick-up zone. The reduction in visits is probably down to the lack of snacks and warm duvets to relax on.

Today, he was back again, wailing outside the window, wailing on the back door step, a terribly sad and mistreated moggy desperately in need of love. And other cats to bite. It’s nice to see him, I do miss him, but we have to keep discouraging him for the sake of the others. Ginge is still spooky, and insecure about her purring-gooseberry routine between the pillows, whilst Piper’s fur is just starting to grow back properly from the last time Thug bit him.

For now, we are all coping.

I can see Summer being a problem – doors and windows open, easy access for our visiting Ginger yo-yo.

That Drang Cat – We Know Where You Live...

The saga of Thug (The Purring Death) is drawing to a close. His real name is the arch-villain Drang, who usually works with his sister, Storm... Really, you couldn’t make this stuff up. Or if you did, no-one would believe it. So the arch-villain is a bit of hyperbole... but Thug is definitely Drang, and the sweet little tabby called Storm was very upset when her brother disappeared.

Drang lives about a third of a mile down the hill – how did we miss that? We thought we had canvassed the neighbourhood to find out if anyone was missing a cat, but that hit two practical problems.

Firstly, how do you describe a cat? It sounds easy, but you have to know your audience. If you are speaking to someone who doesn’t have cats, anything other than the word cat is lost, so asking have you seen a big ginger tom cat near your place translates as have you seen a cat... And the answer is no. Usually. With the cat-owned, you would think it would be simple, but that becomes a matter of perception and a surplus of contradictory detail.

Take Thug (or Thuggles to the support and service staff) as an example. We described him as a big, aggressive ginger tom, a lean-mean-violence machine who hates other cats. Even when talking to our neighbours, describing Thug made no mental connection with their affectionate, slightly chubby ginger tom who adores his sister.

Now, problem number two – geography. The first house I ever bought had a post-code that covered half the length of the street and probably contained fifty houses. I could walk from one end to the other in a minute and a half, maybe less. Out here in rural Cornwall, our post-code covers about twenty houses, spread along more than a mile of road. The house furthest from us might even be less than a mile away, as the crow flies, but you wouldn’t walk the direct route without stout boots, waders, perhaps a coil of rope, and a keen eye for a bull before crossing the fields. By road, it’s nearer a mile and a half.

Catching up with the neighbours for a quick chat does not happen every day.

During a recent visit down the road, we heard of the missing Drang... well, it could be Thug, maybe, can’t really tell. Even looking at photos took some serious staring... well, it might be Thug.

So, a few emailed photos went back and forth, different views, different angles... isn’t Storm cute. Thug certainly looked like Drang, and the neighbours were certain that Drang looked like Thug. We got him in a basket – not easy with such a large and energetic cat – and drove the suspect down the hill for a quick identity parade.

The neighbours took one look and positively identified Thug, who clearly saw that the game was up and confessed that yes, he was in fact the arch-villain Drang, and could he get another scratch behind the ears because those new people of his haven’t quite got the technique...

Drang, the monster recently known as Thug, is now re-united with his sister, and looked very contented on the sofa when we left. Our other cats have noticed, even if they don’t quite believe it yet. Ginge, who hasn’t dared come near the house for the last few weeks and had to be fed in the barn, appeared in the kitchen this morning. We all miss him... no, that’s not true... I miss him, even though I do appreciate getting a decent night’s sleep with him gone.

Thug has been returned home. Now we have to hope he stays there. And we can drop by for a cup of tea and say hi.

The Full Facial

Thug was not supposed to be a permanent resident here, but for all practical purposes the Purring Death has moved in. There are little hints that give it away, like being here pretty much every night, and every morning, and sleeping the day away on the bed. He would be on the sofa, I am sure, but the lounge door is shut, with a cat-flap for the others to get in and out – Thug hasn’t learned cat-flaps. Yet.

The real clincher, is greeting him with hello Thuggles...

Oatmeal is not happy, Piper is afraid but has worked out that Thug doesn’t understand cat-flaps, and Ginge is just plain pissed about the whole thing. I’m retaining the title of Purring Death for the moment, but Thug has calmed down and only chases Piper because Piper runs away. Of course Piper runs because Thug is a monster that put him at the vet over and over again. It makes for a mutually reinforcing conditioned response.

Thug turns up, comes in through the window (which is open because Piper and Ginge like it that way), has a munch from every bowl he can find, and then just waits for one of his newly-adopted people to do what every cat expects: unquestioning and endless worship.

There is a theory that cats rub against hands because they see that as an approximation to another cat’s face. Thug actively intercepts hands, jumps up to reach, and generally makes it clear that his love and attention requirements are not impossible to meet, just very, very challenging. Hours of dedication are required.

Thug also knows that people have faces too, just out of reach, so the hand business will have to do... most of the time. Of course, after working-hours, when the people are enjoying their down-time, faces are accessible. Just sit on the chest and look down. If only we could teach him to look but not touch.

The night-time routine is variable – Thug drops by as and when it suits – but there are certain constant features. Sit on my chest – check; stick cold, wet nose on mine and shove like I need a touch of rhinoplasty – check; snuffle around in my beard and claim it for all Thug-kind – check. When faces are accessible, Thug is having none of this pretending that a human hand might be another cat.

Then there is the night-time special. It works better during heavy rain, because nothing says here I am like sitting on your people, cold and dripping wet. The way it goes is like this...

First, stretch out in that cosy valley in the duvet between my people. Roll around a bit (especially when wet) and then reach, hook claws in that beard thing, and then pull – either the beard gets closer, or I slide up the bed. Whatever. Now, roll around some more, really get those claws tangled in and nibble. There’s a nice bit of cheek just there, or how about sinking teeth into the chin... nothing too serious, no drawing blood... I just ate... I think it was cat... again.

As Thug gets into the swing, so to speak, I get my hands in there to stop him. Thug has shown himself quite capable of getting carried away. And once he’s at the beard, there’s the wonderful trick of working his front paws under my chin, finding my throat and easing the claws out...

Thug is no longer truly the Purring Death. He is a monster, an adorable and adoring monster. And when he wants something, Thug is more than a little bit in your face.

An Eye For Trouble

Oatmeal, he of the peeing response to medical intervention, has eye trouble again. It seems like no time at all since he was urinating on every piece of clothing to avoid the eye-drops, and now he wants another round.

As always with cats, trouble comes when you are busy, or after office hours when the call-out charges on the vet are so much higher. This time was Friday evening – I had just got in from two days away, clutching a bag of high-calorie, low-health snacking options to wind down after a busy week. Our poorly cockerel, Wobbly, was very much on the mend, all cats present and correct... except Oatmeal. He was behaving strangely, but as always with cats, they suddenly do that just to confuse people.

I went and said hello anyway, because Oatmeal likes that. Normally, he doesn’t wait for his retarded people to initiate a greeting. He is there, in the way, around your ankles, just exuding hello. A black-hole is a gravitational well that even sucks light in; Oatmeal is a beige-hole, an attention-deficit well that sucks in every scrap of loving and fussing in the immediate vicinity.

Instead, he was huddled, with both eyes shut. In fact, tightly shut, and when we carried him into the lounge, he wailed in response to the brighter light. Cue a call to the vet. A brief debate over the after-hours costs...

So, we had a half-hour drive to the main branch of the vet, which I completed in twenty-five minutes. Not actually unsafe, but my partner who has been known to experience motion sickness, did indicate loudly, several times, that Oatmeal would be much happier if I took the corners more slowly.

Oatmeal hadn’t met this vet before, but he knew the drill. When the door of the carry-cage opens, do not, under any circumstances, step out. If someone unkindly removes the lid, brace for trouble... maybe this one is OK... hasn’t done anything bad... hey leave my tail alone... put my tail down... yikes... not that again... it can’t be sanitary... I have to lick that clean later.

Now that the full veterinary credentials were established, and Oatmeal’s temperature confirmed as normal, it was time to inspect troubled eyes, so Oatmeal tried a new tactic: reverse. Just keep going backwards and never mind the edge of the examination table. And when the ground suddenly angles up, just keep reversing.

In fact, he reversed most of the way up my front, a bit of a tail-to-beard moment. My thoughts were evenly divided: catch him if he goes sideways and that can’t be sanitary, he hasn’t licked it clean yet.

Eventually we found a combination of steadying hands that defeated the reversing strategy, stopped the slo-mo somersaults and let the vet get a good look at Oatmeal’s eyes. Fortunately, this time, there was no obvious infection but clearly something wrong. We were facing the dreaded eye-drops again. After a discussion with the vet, with perhaps excessive emphasis on my issue with wet ankles and an increased usage of the washing machine, we had a treatment strategy – a shot of long-lasting antibiotic that would be excreted through Oatmeal’s tear-ducts to bathe his eyeball in antibiotic as a precaution, and an anti-inflammatory for the pain.

We drove home more sedately, but really, it didn’t seem to make Oatmeal any happier. Although within a few hours the drugs clearly did.

Oatmeal has recovered, but he still has an eye for trouble: carry-cages, towels brandished in a menacing way, or the sort of wet-weather gear that primarily protects ankles from cat pee.

A Blessing From The Poop

It turns out that a sick chicken employs the same sort of tactics against medical intervention as a sick cat. We have two Light Sussex cockerels who had a bad start in life when their broodyhen died just after they hatched. In spite of that, Wibbly and Wobbly have done well and fathered a few chicks of their own, but Wobbly does have an ongoing issue with balance and walking in a straight line.

Wibbly, Wobbly and a reluctant date

In the last month or so he has spent some time living in the greenhouse because he just didn’t look well. Each time, he perked up after getting out of the Autumn chill for a few days, and then went back down again once we let him out. So, at the weekend, we took him to see our neighbour, the sick chicken guru. She couldn’t spot any specific single cause, but gave us some recommendations on things to try to make him feel better.

Twenty-four hours later, and Wobbly was worse and our neighbour took another look. It was now obvious that Wobbly had a blocked crop – for the non-chicken-savvy, the crop is where the bird stores food before it goes into the gizzard to be ground down. So, Epsom Salts drenches and massaging the crop every few hours – this already has echoes of antibiotic drops in the cat’s eye four times a day.

Wobbly took it like a chicken. Or a sewer. My partner held him so that I could dribble drench into his beak from a syringe. Wobbly did a small, viscous trail of poop over my partner’s sleeve, so I reached for the toilet roll before it could drip on the bathroom floor. (The bathroom is our venue of choice for sick chickens – warm, dry, washable surfaces...)

The thing is, that was just a warning shot. Then Wobbly let rip with the real thing – hot and smelly, over my partners sleeve, down her trousers, over her socks – Oatmeal and the power of cat pee fade into insignificance.

On the positive side, it takes time for a chicken to reload, but medical treatment had to be suspended for general clean-up, and donning a rain coat. Then, back to the drench... wait, you stand there... and twist a bit... and hold the back end over the bath... is that just Epsom Salt solution running up my arm?

Wobbly resolutely refused to get better. We drenched and massaged for a couple of days, then my partner had to be away for a few days. So... one hand there to hold Wobbly... and another to steady him like so... then stand there to avoid any further poop shots... now, if I hold the syringe with my third hand...

Eventually I got some drench in his beak long enough for him to swallow, but after another day I still saw no improvement. So, back to the neighbour, a bit of reassurance that in fact his crop was emptying slowly. Now maybe it was just coincidence, but within hours of our chicken guru examining Wobbly, he was visibly improving, standing up properly for the first time in days, and hinting that it was time for food... and then more food...

Now, Wobbly is eating well, and during a momentary balance failure he apparently kept himself upright with a stream of explosive diarrhoea. Through the bars of the cage, up the wall, down into the bath... Just to recap, this is why we put sick chickens in the bathroom – washable surfaces. And an extract fan. The important point is that high-pressure power-pooping is a perfectly normal aspect of a healthy chicken’s digestive system, so we take it as a blessing in disguise. Very heavy disguise.

The Autumn Plumage of the Greater Plummet

A mere week ago, I wrote about one of the cats (Oatmeal) picking his moment of maximum inconvenience to be ill. After a brief rally, life and complicating events have headed on a downward course – I had barely pressed the Kindle Direct button (yes, I really do want to publish this book) when I found I would have to work away from home for a week. No internet, limited phone, and certainly no way to track the progress of my book, or do any of those little promotional nudges it might need.

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.

A Policy Of A Pee's Meant

Bad things happen when you’re busy. I have just self-published a novel and the last few months have been dominated by editing, proofing, and yet more proofing... which is why Oatmeal (6.5kg of feline lap-hog) chose his moment to be sick. Cats are never ill when you have time to deal with it. So, in the final week of mind-numbing work, when I really needed to concentrate...

My partner noticed one of Oatmeal’s eyes was not opening properly, so we took him to the vet who diagnosed an ulcer on his eyeball. We have no idea of the underlying cause – a bit of grit, a scratch from playing with one of the other cats, or something else entirely. The cure was simple – a course of antibiotics. Not tablets, or a handy, one-off injection, but eye-drops.

Cats appreciate us and what we do for them – the food in the bowl, the comfy sofa, the warm fire in winter, the lovely absorbent pillows on the bed for drying paws in the middle of the night... Really, the only thing they actively and aggressively don’t appreciate is the health-care plan.

Amazingly, the vet got a couple of drops in Oatmeal’s eye with no trouble. OK, not so amazing really – we have seen this with most of our cats over the years. It’s scary at the vet, so the cat tones down normal responses. The trouble starts at home – one drop every two hours for the first day, then four times a day for a further four days. Welcome to cat-owner’s hell.

Oatmeal is a remarkably placid and amiable cat, until you need to give him a pill, or apply flea-treatment. The solution for the eye-drops was a towel – wrap the cat so that all paws, and their claws, are contained and controlled. So I held Oatmeal whilst my partner attempted to get the drops in his eye, and Oatmeal wriggled. Then he ducked and wriggled some more, backed up and disappeared inside the towel, shuffled around, I lost my grip, caught him again, got him re-wrapped... this may take some time... ow, shit... wait... ow... just a moment... ow... and finally the drops were in. Then all I had to do was drop my clothes in the wash, because the smell of cat pee gets everywhere.

On the second round, he only managed to pee on my trousers. On the third, he scored a hit on everything. Again. Oatmeal has a very solid policy of peeing on anyone who tries to put drops in his eyes.

We modified the approach and used the towel to pin him down on a piece of lino in the kitchen. Even with virtually zero traction, he managed to reverse up, hide inside the towel again and pee on my ankles. And the door-mat.

That’s just day one. Four more to go. Time to start the count-down – undamaged fingers... ten... nine... eight...

By the end, we had a system – change into the least offensive-smelling trousers, catch the cat, work entirely on a bigger piece of lino, wipe afterwards, wipe shoes afterwards, change socks, clean trousers back on... And under no circumstances say ‘it looks fine now, we could just stop...’ because if the antibiotics haven’t quite cured the infection we might have to start all over again from the beginning, every two hours on the first day...

Oatmeal didn’t win, as such, and his eye is now fine, but whichever way you look at it, he had a policy to deal with unwanted medical attention. A policy with a capital P.

Schrödinger's Other Cat

The saga of Thug continues – the trip to the vet for attitude adjustment went well, but in the aftermath he started visiting even more frequently. Our main concern was to convince him that when he stopped for a bite to eat the only thing on the menu was cat-food, not cat. Thug very much lives by the old motto – a cat is not just for Christmas. The bits caught between his teeth will be a snack for later.

Attitude adjustment seems to taken well – he comes face to face with Oatmeal, who growls, and Thug stops. Turns away. Backs off. That is a huge improvement. Piper on the other hand takes one look and goes into hiding.

I am no expert on cat eye-sight, but Piper can definitely spot a ginger cat. I have seen Piper duck and cover when Ginge turns up, and then check carefully to confirm that it isn’t the other ginger cat. He has just been hurt by Thug too many times.

Still, all going well. Until now.

Thug worked out how to get into the house. He hasn’t got the hang of cat-flaps (yet) but has obviously seen Ginge or Piper using their favourite route in through the fanlight window. It turns out that my eye-sight is on a par with Piper – I see a ginger cat in the house and it takes me a while to work out that this is Thug, the big ginger.

This is Schrödinger's Other Cat – none of that nonsense about not knowing whether the cat in the box is dead until you open the lid, instead just not knowing which cat it is. Or whether there is any cat at all.

Thug has not only found the way in, but uses it like it’s old news. Up until now, Thug has been hanging around at the back door for food. Now, he has discovered the self-service window and he likes it.

This is not good news, but so far, Thug and Piper are keeping very different schedules, and Piper hasn’t really noticed. If that changes we might have to find Thug a new home. Piper gets priority – he has been here longer, and is currently lazying on the sofa beside me, claws against my leg to make sure I emphasise his side of the story.

At least Thug hasn’t worked out how to get into the lounge yet... The trouble is, with Schrödinger's Other Cat, you never know exactly when and where he will be next.

Another Round On the Furrway

Autumn is setting in, the days are getting cooler and so the time has come to switch to winter sports. Whilst old favourites are still well supported, this year we have both new games and new players. The current state of the contest is as follows:

Oatmeal at his secret training camp

Oatmeal is still the unchallenged lap-sleeping champion, a fine figure of a sumo-feline who has trimmed his weight back to a mere 6.5kg after a year or more of serious dieting. Even so, he still has the stretch and spread to fully occupy a lap and can keep the effort down for hours if left undisturbed by his people making pots of tea or urgently needing to restore blood circulation below the knee. Winter lap-sleeping is very similar to summer lap-sitting, except the heating is more likely to be on and has the benefit of permanent facilities which means that nobody has to put the garden chairs away in the shed at the end of the day.

For now, the great Teddy-Tubby sleeps supreme.

Piper working on advanced skills

Piper has taken up golf. Another 6.5kg of furry contender, his leaner looks and longer legs mean that he can chase the golf ball further and faster than anyone else, whilst his natural agility means that he can spin on the spot, dive behind the curtains and be ready to tackle Oatmeal for the ball. This is a new sport for the season and the golf ball itself has largely appeared out of nowhere. New toys simply arriving is not an uncommon occurrence, and the golf ball has a significant advantage over freshly killed rodents – it doesn't start to smell bad after three days lost under a bookshelf.

When not refining his golfing skills, Piper has taken to chasing Ginge who, at a mere 2.5kg, is still mistress of the nose-swipe. For her chosen sport, Ginge has gone back to the below-the-ribs trampoline, testing my reflexes and abdominal muscles in the middle of the night. As in previous years, the scoring system is based on how many expletives I still have the breath for after impact. There are bonus points for the direct-injection purring, her nose right in my ear.

For leisurely evenings, Piper now holds his masterclass in sofa-hogging.

Squeak retains her title as the burrowing champion – why sleep on the furniture when you can be inside? Winter burrowing is naturally quite distinct from summer burrowing in that... OK. I'm sure there is a difference...

Thug waiting for the next contestant

The new player for this season is Thug (weight unknown) who likes to drop by once a week and play with everyone. Thug is a lean and fast young ginger and white tom who has proven himself the absolute champion of relentless violence and is clearly a Sean Connery fan. Unfortunately, the Thug take on the Untouchables is I'll put one of yours in the hospital, and then I'll put one of yours in the morgue. To people, Thug is actually a very loving and adoring cat who likes nothing more than a good stroking behind the head whilst he menaces one of the other players. Of course, for those of the feline persuasion, Thug is a blood-thirsty psychopath utterly focussed on victory. Unlike most sports, there is no actual disqualification for trying to bite your opponent's ear off. In fact, biting, gouging and clawing are integral to the game.

Head Elsewhere

Wherever I am, my head is often elsewhere – a book I'm reading, a film I've just watched, and most often completely else and a story I might try to write. This particular train of thought started when I was digging a hole – not metaphorically, but literally, with a spade, moving dirt from A to B, flat ground transformed to lump and matching dip. The aim of the hole digging was planting a tree, but for most of the time my head was elsewhere – not entirely healthy with a sharp-edged tool so close to my toes, and at some point it occurred to me that not only was my attention elsewhere but that this is almost my default state. Doing the laundry, loading the dishwasher, brushing my teeth, or planting a a few hundred meters of hedgerow – it doesn't matter where I am, it's where my head is that matters.

You are never really alone when your head is elsewhere. Whole worlds open up, wondrous characters drop by for a chat or, on a bad day, the most fantastical bore leans on the door frame to talk you into hell. This does beg the chicken-and-egg question – which came first, a solitary nature leading to a wandering head or a tendency for my head to be elsewhere because I'm on my own and bored? I have no answer, but this elsewhere business has been going on since at least my early teens, so I feel sure there is a cause and effect.

However, I am not alone in being not alone when I'm on my own... Let me rephrase: I am convinced that I have worked with similar people over the years. There is a certain look and feel to them – the lights are on, someone is in, but you don't knock on the door because you just know they are in conference with the aliens, or translating Mum's recipes from the original goblin, or so strung out on differential calculus that anything could happen. This is only speculation, mind you, because I've never dared approach one of these potentially kindred voyagers and pop the question: excuse me, but is that your head, or is it elsewhere?

Why not? The thing about my head being elsewhere is that it's my fake reality. I like it there and I don't take guests. The whole aspiring author thing means I might write about the places my head has been, either carefully sanitised (cleaned for general consumption, or with the really nutty bits removed) or in toe-curling detail, but no-one ever sees the full scope of my journey.

A few years back, on a drive home from Plymouth, in the dark (my wife was driving) I had an idea. It wasn't much, but night driving needs concentration and with no conversation, my head went elsewhere. I kicked the idea around, decided that it was growing on me, and wrote a story, told it to myself while I was elsewhere, edited it in my head, told it again, ran it by a receptive sitka spruce... The trouble with having your head elsewhere is that even the worst drivel can sound good, but the next day I wrote it down as well as I could recall, toned down the crazy and won first place in a writing competition. Yay for me, but don't think for one moment that the published story is really what happened when my head went wandering.

It's a private business being elsewhere, full of technicolour wonder and companionship, so absorbing you can get lost for hours, only summoned back by those unstoppable forces of nature such as the cry in the distance the cat is eating your lunch, or the old-fashioned dial-up line back to reality that sends the occasional alert such as move your foot now.

Elsewhere. You can't beat it, and there is so much to tell...

Sorry. Have to go. Reality calling. It's time to put the chickens away.

My head will probably be in some other elsewhere by the time I get back.