[m i a o w] the cat

Jeez - I haven’t written since the weekend and just had Banjo Paterson in there propping me up. It’s Thursday already - almost a week from my birthday and life is whizzing by in a big fat blur! What to tell? I’m almost afraid to report on the lack of house dramas so far this week (though they do now want proof that I actually own Telstra shares). My fingers and toes are crossed. Hard. Oh! I survived a visit to the dentist! The new dentist (as opposed to the old and savage one) comes courtesy of Claire (who doesn’t blog anymore, so I can’t link to her). This dentist is a wonder! I have progressively become the most pathetic dental patient it is possible to imagine - the sound of the drill makes me cling to the ceiling. But Maria (the wonder-dentist) is very soothing and she even fixed up what the old savage dentist did without hurting me once! This is not to say I was not poised for hurt every minute that I was on the chair, but after successfully convincing her that I needed enough anaesthetic to fell a horse, all was well. (Though I couldn’t feel my left ear for a good four hours afterwards…but, no matter.)

I am finding it increasingly difficult to get out of bed in the morning. Actually leaving the house seems to be even harder! It seems that particularly when I’m going to ride my bike to work I become more and more hopeless. Yesterday morning I dithered around, washed my hair, ate some toast, took a call from Victoria (my home loan lady, who is very annoyed at me because whenever she calls I turn into a quaking heap of fear), kissed M goodbye, went to walk out through the back door and encountered a freshly (and silently) deposited mound of catsick.

“There’s catsick on the carpet in the loungeroom!”
“Huh?”
M is in bed and still half asleep. I trade on his vulnerable state.
“Catsick. Must go. Very late. Terribly sorry.”

I slink quickly out of the house, grab my bike, try to ignore the obviously dead mouse that is lying in the gutter directly outside the back gate with it’s legs in the air, and ride away from the caravan of horror. The wind ruffles my hair. I’ve forgotten my helmet. I frown, remember that I’m thirty now and frowning is banned forevermore, and pedal back to the Caravan of catsick, dead mice and scary carpet. Find the helmet. Swear to be more organised.
I’m still working on it.