Au revoir, Fat Bob

He's gone. To a good home, we think. It was all rather fortuitous: We'd had a lovely day out at Old Winchester Hill (pictures to come), come home, and I'd started washing the car. About halfway through, a very pleasant middle-aged couple from down the road stopped to chat about my Fat Bob poster -- they'd noticed the one I put up by the entrance to the woods and seen the one on my gate post. I did my usual sales pitch, and they both said "Bert would love him!" Bert is their elderly neighbour, whose own cats had died earlier this year. He was feeling rather down in the dumps, and these kindly people figured that Fat Bob would cheer him up. They took our phone number, went off to talk to Bert, and called about 30 minutes later -- Bert was delighted at the prospect of lavishing care and affection on a new cat. Ten minutes after that, they were round with a neighbour's cat carrier and bingo: Fat Bob had a new home. He must have known, as he sauntered into the carrier as if he were expecting it.

Reader: I am overjoyed for Fat Bob, but I must confess there was a tear in my eye as we sat in the garden and had a final cuddle. He's been a real character on the lane, and I've met lots of new people as we've chatted about him. "Oh, you're the lady with Fat Bob!" one woman down the road said as I chatted to her about car washing on Friday. I have gained a local reputation -- and a nice one, at that. Hurrah for Fat Bob; may he live long and prosper with Bert.

In which we find a local fishmonger

Chandler's Ford has a fishmonger! It's only open Wednesday to Saturday and for limited hours only -- I presume they're out fishing the rest of the time -- but it's a proper fishmonger. The sort where they're happy to do all the gutting and scaling and filleting for you and have the types of fish you can't buy in shrink-wrapped plastic trays: red gurnard, sea bass, and huss. We tried out Fishy co for the first time yesterday, purchasing a beautiful silver bream. I had vague recollections of an interesting Indian treatment for bass or bream in the Cinnamon Club cookbook, and was delighted to discover when we got home, fish in hand, that I had all the ingredients for it. Well, except tomato puree (ketchup worked well). And lemon juice (but lime juice worked). And coriander (but PJ hates that anyone, so I usually sub in parsley).

This was the first time that I'd cooked a whole fish that wasn't trout, and it was damn fine. You marinade the fish in a chilli/salt/oil paste, then sear it on both sides till the skin is crispy. Then, smear it with the Parsee-style sweet/sour paste: spices, dried apricot puree, tomato ketchup cooked until jammy. Into the oven for 14 minutes and bingo. Perfectly cooked fish that slid off the bone, with subtly sweet flavorings and sticky bits. I served it with some masala sauteed potatoes, a firm favorite from the same cookbook, and we had orange sorbet to finish. Wonderful. The more I use the Cinnamon Club book, the more I like it. The recipes look enormously complex, largely because of the lengthy ingredient lists, but they're actually not that difficult and work well. If you like Indian food and fancy a bit of a culinary challenge, I'd highly recommend it.



The picture isn't great, but we were too hungry to faff around more.

Hurrah for autumn!

Yes! The summer is over! I can tell, because it's stopped raining. Goodbye grey skies, limp salads, and an overwhelming sense of disappointment. Hello
cold, crisp mornings, fantastic root vegetables, and happiness. I love autumn! I've been picking blackberries from the brambles that dominate the hedgerows round here, and our generous neighbours have been putting out boxes of cooking apples from their trees. Chutney making is on the agenda for today, along with washing the car, a trip to the gym, and yet another ring round of all the animal shelters.

However, I don't like what autumn has brought to my lawn; namely, mushrooms. Hundreds of the things, popping up all over and sneering at my best efforts to destroy them. I am too cowardly to try eating them, so have to content myself with kicking them over and shouting "Get off my lawn!" to the distress of the local birds. Little blighters!

Nice cat, nobody wants him

Fat Bob is still with us. The trip to the vet last week confirmed that he is indeed a Bob, he doesn't have a chip, but he does have slightly dodgy teeth. I've been calling all the local rescue centres and they are either all full or simply ignoring my pleas for help. We're on the waiting lists of St Francis, the RSPCA, and the Blue Cross -- it's worse than getting your kids into Eton! I've even started approaching strangers in the street and asking whether they want him; yes, I am now Fat Bob's pimp. Meanwhile, he continues to sleep in our garage and haunt our doorstep -- but he's not on the list, so he's not getting in.

Fat Bob
Is not my kitty
He's just a cat
Who thinks that I am his mum
But Fat Bob is not my son ...

Poor Shin

Following a successful post-op checkup at the vet's, Shin managed to pull out one of her stitches. As a result, she's back in her plastic collar -- and most unhappy about it. She staggers around, bashing into chair legs and windows, and is having some difficulty accessing food; she is not comforted by me telling her that it's all for the best in the best of all possible worlds. But that remaining stitch must stay in, so the collar must stay on for another day or two at least.

"Where there is discord, may we bring harmony."

What a day. Awake at 7, up at 8, in Waitrose by 8.45, banana oatmeal muffins made by 10, wandering Winchester by 11.30. Arrived home at 1.30 and decided to do a spot of gardening before settling down to read The Guardian. Which we did, but only after 4 hours of backbreaking work. "A spot of gardening" turned into two trips to the garden centre, as we realized that first three and then 13 bags of plum slate chippings weren't going to adequately cover our front garden. In fact, the second trip to the garden centre turned into two trips in and of itself, as I had forgotten my purse and had to drive home to get it, while PJ sat on the final six sacks of chippings. We pinned down a ground cover sheet; I hefted bags of slates from car to garden; PJ sawed borders while I scattered slates; and finally we filled and moved plant pots — tomorrow, we will actually plant the pots with the autumn-planting bulbs that I bought today (after watching Gardener's World last night).

We are both shattered, but it's been well worth it. The formerly unkempt, overgrown front garden is as tidy and low maintenance as I could wish for. The slate chippings will look lovely when it rains (as it often does), as that's when their vdeep purpliness becomes apparent. And we did it ourselves -- and have the aching backs and arms to prove it.

From this:

To this:

My poor babies!

Today was a big day: After depriving them of food for 12 hours, we dropped the kitties off at the vet this morning to be spayed and micro-chipped (no GPS tracking, unfortunately). We picked them up at 4, and they are a sorry sight. Groggy, grumpy, and shaved! Shin keeps giving me the stink-eye, while Nin seems a little more forgiving, but I'm sure that will wear off along with the pain meds. But it does mean that we'll be able to let them go outside in about 10 days time, should the weather improve.

I just hope their fur grows back quickly. They look so ... mangy!

Meet Fat Bob

Fat Bob* is a stray who's taken up residence on our street. We're a soft-hearted bunch of neighbours. He sleeps in a porch two doors up, and the owners have now put out a cosy cat blanket for him; I've fed him a couple of times, and I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one. He's the loveliest cat -- extremely friendly, as well as being extremely greedy. But what to do with him? I've put up a notice in the local pub and called a couple of cat rescue places, and nobody's reported him missing. There are no signs up for him in the area. And, of course, he doesn't have a collar. I'll take him to the vet tomorrow to see if he's been chipped. Keep your fingers crossed that we can reunite him with his family.

* I don't know if Fat Bob is male or female, but the name suits "him".

Exposure is the best form of contraception

We spent the weekend surrounded by children: an 18-month-old on Saturday evening/Sunday morning and then a 36-month-old and a six-year-old on Sunday evening. This was more by accident than design; we are categorically NOT gluttons for such punishment, but events conspired. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, but once I'd dealt with PJ (ho ho!), the real fun began. I had no idea that there could be so many small child/floor interfaces in such a short space of time. The presence of the cats in the house has meant that we no longer have valuable possessions or furniture that we worry about, but I was slightly nervous as the 18-month-old explored the wonderful banging potential of the telephone against the glass-topped unit. And I know that my ginger biscuits were slightly dry, but I can't believe a Michelin inspector would have rubbed them into the conservatory chairs. Children are harsh critics.

By the end of the weekend, PJ was shell-shocked and retreated to watch some fun zombie action (the remake of Dawn of the Dead). I made like the Victorian maiden that I so closely represent and took to my bed (read: sofa) with my laudanum (a strong cup of tea) and a good book (of sudoku puzzles). As for the cats? I think they are traumatised. They spent most of the weekend either cowering on top of the china cabinet, hiding in the cupboard under the sink, or skulking under the bath. It's good to see that they share our fear of the wee ones.

Cats + downward dog = trouble

A quiet hour of yoga in the conservatory sounded good. I fired up the iPod with a little Supper Club, rolled out the mat, and decided not to kick out the cats, who were dozing peacefully (and shedding many hairs) on the chairs out there. Big mistake. Two minutes into my "warm up" -- lying down with knees bent and eyes shut -- I felt a gentle nibbling at my fingertips.* From then on in, chaos. Cats to the left of me, cats to the right of me, cats under me, and finally, cats mocking my ungainly attempts at bending my spine like a cat. Boo! They spoiled my "me" time! Next time, they'll get the boot.

* Now, I've heard that cats will start eating their owner's dead body after 24 hours if they get trapped in a house with no other source of food -- dogs apparently wait a more dignified 48 hours -- but 2 minutes!? That's just greedy!

They are SO adorable when they're sleeping

When they're awake? Not so much. Whether it's trying to get them out of PJ's office when we're rushing for a train (can't leave them in there as Shin has learnt to switch off the DVR at the socket, thus requiring a 10-minute reset process) or stopping them from jumping all over my keyboard when I'm editing or even asking them not to nibble the toes of the nice man who came round to design our fitted wardrobes, they seem to aim to cause maximum annoyance. I oscillate wildly between repeatedly uttering "NO!" and putting them out of the room or bribery, in the form of cat treats. Bribery is much easier and much more effective, but I'm a little worried that I'm creating a dependency culture (both in them and me). They're still figuring out how to open the sliding door of the cupboard that contains their treats, but I reckon it's only a matter of days. And at that point, our downfall will be complete and we will welcome our new feline overlords.

Some (Proustian) flashbacks

1. Cycling to Chandler's Ford on Saturday morning. The light drizzle turns into a torrential downpour. My hands are frozen, my jeans are soaked, and my glasses are covered in water, blinding me. It is reminiscent of the ride to work in autumn (or winter, or spring, or, heck, even summer) in Amsterdam. Delightful.

2. Drinking Lirona lemonade, purchased at one of Alresford's delightful delis. This tastes like my childhood holidays in France (just like its Web site promises), although I don't have any recollection of drinking this particular brand. Slightly disconcerting.

3. Wolfing down butterscotch Angel Delight. Another taste of my childhood, although I think we tended to have strawberry or banana more than butterscotch. Just add milk and whip (not that kind)! It is artificial and fluffy and utterly wonderful.

To have one garden gnome ...

... might be seen as ironically kitsch:



To have two looks like the start of an embarrassing obsession!

Inconceivable!

A pleasant evening spent in the depths of Wiltshire, admiring the large and lovely new home of some friends -- fellow escapees from the clutches of urban life. Meeting a dog named Finn, newly adopted from the Dog's Trust, so somewhat shy and nervous. Driving along the very dark, very winding A303 at just before midnight when BAM! Out of nowhere -- okay, the bushes on the other side of the road -- two Rodents of Unusual Size* shot out and across the 303 just in front of my car. Not actually Rodents of Unusual Size but badgers -- HUGE badgers! I thought badgers were cat-sized, but these were more like small bears and -- luckily for them, my car, and my sanity -- extremely nippy. The vast amount of roadkill along the sides of our local country roads demonstrates that some of their peers aren't quite so fast.

*It's a reference to The Princess Bride; if you haven't seen it, go watch it. Now.

Unhappysville: Population -- these two

I put collars on them today. They were NOT happy about it -- as the gash in PJ's hand attests (he was my unwilling assistant/co-conspirator). But if they want to go outside, they have to wear a collar and ID tag.

At least we removed the bells, which were driving them (and us) even madder. Shin is now pointedly ignoring me, and will no doubt continue to do so until she requires feeding again.

What lies beneath

Geraniums. They look quite pretty. The leaves are supposed to be good for scenting blackberry crumbles. They appear harmless ... on the surface. But underneath lurks a fearsome root structure, a series of tenacious tentacles that are resistant to even my death touch. But not, after some considerable effort, to PJ's fork and spade:



Doesn't it look like something that should be guarding Davy Jones' Locker?



We have also uncovered a paving slab and a log, six inches below the surface of the bed. The former occupants really didn't believe in getting rid of anything!

"It's funny because it's TRUE!"

Basking in the sun

If you don't like the kitty photos, Simon, you can always find somewhere else to stay next month. My blog, my cats, my photos! Happy birthday, btw!

"So, how long will it take you to kill these herbs?"

This gardening thing is addictive. I've spent three evenings this week and all of last Sunday in the garden, hacking away at plant life and bagging up rubbish. We've made two trips to the dump, and have more planned. I've even managed to plant some more herbs -- and five days later, they're still alive, which is about three days longer than the last lot lasted. I'm attributing this to the primo organic compost that went into the top of our eco safe -- no more chalky, stone-strewn rubbish for me. A colleague recently told me that he'd been getting keener on gardening as he got older, and wondered whether it was some kind of primal urge to farm taking hold. I think for me it's more about being able to indulge my primal urge to destroy. It's all about the secateurs and the shears and the ripping up of the stranglers -- the ivy, the bindweed, and the inch-thick brambles -- that have taken hold of our garden. It's the satisfaction you get from housework but the results are far more visible and you're pretty sure you won't have to do it all again next week and the week after and so on. Well, I won't if I'm able to get some "hard landscaping" down in certain areas.



Like the Cylons, I think that I've evolved (as a gardener) and I even have a plan. Well, a small one, for the bit of land at the front. We're going to dig it over, take the weeds out, put down a mulching sheet, cover that with plum slate chippings, and then put out big pots of plants. It should look much neater than the geranium-infested, log-covered mess that it was ... and it should be easier to maintain. When my plants (inevitably) die off, I can just put out some new ones. I keep looking through my gardening books, trying to figure out what I want in the pots ... fascinating stuff.

Longer term, I want to move the useless rolltop bath in our bathroom down to that spot, fill it with soil and plants, and then put the head and arms of a shop dummy in it, making it look as if there's a person taking a bath in a sea of plants. Very Dali-esque (if you've ever been to the Dali museum in Figueres, you'll know what I mean). But that will have to wait until we've redone the bathroom, which in turn will (probably) have to wait until we've built an extension out back with a wet room in it. So, most likely, at least a year. But it's a plan.

Got wood?

We haven't! Well, not any more. First thing this morning, we had piles of the stuff. The former owners of our house had clearly had various trees chopped down and decided to hold onto the bits of trunk, just in case they came in useful. Of course, they didn't, and instead were clogging up various bits of garden. For example:



In addition, we had trees. Big trees. Notably, a bay, a Scots pine, a greeny-grey tree (don't know the name), and a long hedge. All of these were in need of some serious TLC. So, we got in a tree surgeon and he turned up today with three strapping young men, and they chopped and hacked and sawed, and fed stuff through a wood chipper -- and confirmed that it takes about 15 seconds to put a human body through -- and ate lots of my chocolate triple-chocolate-chip cookies, and our garden now looks considerably bigger and neater and generally better. Unfortunately, it has also exposed our rampant geranium problem, so it's time for me to start chopping and hacking and (probably not) sawing away. Oh well, beats going to the gym, I guess.

From this ...


to this ...


and from this ...


to this ...


A really nice job by Foster's Tree Surgeons of Southampton. Highly recommended.

Got milk?

We have! Two pints of organic semi-skimmed, delivered to our doorstep in lovely glass bottles every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Hurrah -- it feels like a return to the 1950s (except for, y'know, the Internet, gay rights, and needing two incomes to support a two-person/two-cat household)!

Sick kitty

After a month of smooth sailing, we hit our first hiccup with the kittens today. I came downstairs in the afternoon to discover that someone had been sick. It looks as if someone had gobbled down their food too quickly* ... which pointed to our resident greedy-guts, Shinobi. (When we took her to the vet last week, we discovered she weighed almost 20% more than Nin!) Anyhow, she's spent the rest of the afternoon curled up in a corner, on my lap, or on a chair, feeling very sorry for herself. Poor petal.

* Well, she either ate too quickly or has taken our comments about her being a bit porky to heart, and has become bulimic. Eek!

This is not the cake I was hoping for

When you decide to make a chocolate beetroot cake because you have guests coming round, it's always a good idea to check that your frozen, pureed beetroot doesn't contain any spices. If not, you could end up making a chocolate and cumin cake. Like I did. It's not bad -- the texture of the cake is beautifully fluffy and it slices perfectly, but it's got an unusual aftertaste. Again, not unpleasant -- in fact, I could probably claim that it's a Heston Blumenthal recipe, a la snail porridge, and it would win great acclaim. It's just ... different. Must go and try another piece.

Of course it's closed down!

At the weekend, I waxed lyrical about IBM's open day and the fond memories it evoked of my time at Norwich Union's Pinebanks. It's since been drawn to my attention that Pinebanks has now closed. I could rant about the no-doubt inevitable "re-development" of this beautiful piece of land into a dreadful "executive home" housing estate. Or I could damn the Thatcherite legacy of a relentless focus on the bottom line and the "individual" at the expense of the community, but I won't because it just makes me depressed.

"It's beer o' clock!"

The cats discover the hours of fun to be had from an (empty) box of beer. It's almost as much fun as PJ had with it when it was a full box of beer. Kittens, boyfriends: it's good that they're so easily entertained.

This post is not about kittens

Yesterday was "open day" day. First up was a trip out to Upper Norton Farm, just north of the A303, for a Riverford open day. This is where many of the veggies in our veggie box are grown, organically. It's not as pretty as the original Riverford farm down in Devon that we visited last year, but it was still interesting to see where our food comes from. We met our scheme organizers, finally putting a face to the email address; we bought free-range eggs and organic apple and ginger juice; and we snacked on baby cucumbers from the polytunnels. It was all very ... middle class. The place was packed with Guardian-reading, Birkenstock-wearing, baby-buggy-pushing 30-somethings, which points to the inherent limitations of this kind of scheme, admirable though it is. It's preaching to the converted, not to the vast swathes of society who could really benefit from it. Plus, it's dreadful realizing (yet again) just how much of an archetype one really is. Makes you want to take up fox-hunting, just to be contrary.

A field of raw porridge:



However, we pressed on with our middle-class pursuits and gatecrashed an open day at Hursley Park, IBM's R&D lab just outside Winchester. It wasn't wholly intentional gatecrashing; we knew something was going on and swung by on the offchance that it was open to the public. Nobody was stopping people at the gates or taking names, so we parked up, went for a stroll around the gorgeous house, and admired the grounds -- and the thousands of current and former IBMers and their families that were there. There was a minature farm and kite-flying and a fly-past by a Spitfire, which was developed at Hursley Park before IBM took it over. It was a salutory reminder of how good some of these established, gigantic global companies can be in terms of looking after their staff; the sports grounds were beautifully maintained and the clubhouse rather impressive. It rather reminded me of Norwich Union's facilities at Pinebanks and the sporting events and children's Christmas parties that I attended back in the 1970s. Given our individualist, telecommuting, distributed work environment, I felt rather nostalgic for the corporate collectivism that these firms promote(d). Getting a subsidized gym membership just isn't the same as having company-organized interdepartmental netball and football tournaments, is it?

Neither is this

Instead, it's a recipe for the best salad in the world. Seriously. It's the sort of salad where you just want to keep eating it, on its own, forever. It's that good. And it contains fennel. I know, I know. You don't like fennel. You never finished that bottle of ouzo you bought back from Greece. And aniseed is best served in the form of balls or rock, not as a vegetable. But trust me. This is fantastic.

Take 1 head of fennel. Clean it, take off the grody outer leaves, and then slice it as thinly as possible. Use a mandolin. In fact, buy a mandolin just for this salad (I did). Place your fennel shavings into a bowl, slosh on some decent extra virgin olive oil, the juice of half a lemon, and a sprinkling of sea salt (Maldon, for preference). Toss together gently. Then take a block of parmesan and use the mandolin to shave cheesy slivers over the fennel. Grab a fork and start eating. Prepare to repel invaders who also want some.

No pictures. We finished it too quickly.

It's not so much "Stuff on my cats" . . .

. . . as "Cats on my stuff". Particularly books. When I'm trying to read. Bless.

Flowers from the garden

Pretty, aren't they? And so cheap! Gardens are great!

Cats, baking, gardening: All I need is The Archers omnibus and I've got the typical British suburban Sunday afternoon

I'm exhausted. I've spent 2 hours in the garden, chopping away at the brambles that are growing lightning fast, dead-heading geraniums, and cutting back the tree out front that is creating something of a hazard along the road. It's an overcast, sultry day and I'm beginning to ache. I haven't even started mowing the lawn yet -- I'll wait till my bread's finished baking and I've recovered a little. As a special treat, I let the cats into the conservatory for only the second time. They're delighted: New areas to explore, new furniture to destroy, new clothing to play with. They're particularly enamoured of the clothes rack; I hope their obvious pleasure at sitting amongst our damp underwear isn't evidence of some kind of kinky fetish.

Come out, come out, wherever you are!



That's better:



You too, Nin.




Most of the time, however, they sit at the window, watching me slave away. It's rather sweet, really. They're also displaying certain territorial tendencies. When Shin spots a bird out of the window, her tail starts moving and she makes this weird "ack-ack" noise in her throat. While I was in the garden, the blackbird started his warning signal; I looked round, and the rather large neighbourhood cat jumped over the wall into the bottom of our garden. In the conservatory behind me, Nin and Shin came over to the window, staring menacingly at this intruder. Despite the fact that they were no real threat to him, our big-boned buddy decided to push off. I foresee some battles when we let the girls out in a month or so. Till then, they'll just have to focus on hunting down our socks and pants.

Why wasn't I invited?

It's party time at a house across the allotments. They've got a marquee, party lights, and a mobile disco. It's playing all the classics: Macarena, YMCA, and -- best of all -- Yes sir, I can boogie by Baccara. God, I love this song! All together now!

Shinobi's IT help desk

"Yeah, so I've run an error search on your hard disk, and it's full of bad clusters. Yeah, lots of 'em, mainly in photo files. So, I think your hard disk is on its way out. Yeah, you'll need a new one. Hey, no problem. Just doin' my job. Have a nice day."

I can take a hint

I received not one, not two, but THREE books on gardening for my birthday. Personally, I don't think the garden looks that bad, and brambles have their appeal (for some), but I get the message. Loud and clear. So I called a gardener today. And with the 70 quid we won at last night's pub quiz (Go team Norfolk Dumpling!), we'll be able to pay him. Problem solved!

CSI: Otterbourne

First, we found the mutilated limb.



Then came the dismembered torso.



What twisted soul could have committed such a barbaric act? Could it be Kitty No. 1?



or perhaps Kitty No. 2?



They're not saying, and there were no pawprints in the arterial spray. I guess we may never crack this case!

Cats notwithstanding, we get on our bikes

At the weekend, we decided to haul out our bikes (and our Dutch courage) and set off to explore. First up was a new route to Waitrose in Chandler's Ford, one that didn't involve a loooooooong uphill slog on the way back. We still have an uphill slog, but it's considerably shorter and more manageable. The route took us along the back of some very pleasant 70s estates and up into the centre of town, and will probably be good for burning up a few calories before reaching Dave's fish n' chip shop. On Sunday, we cycled into Eastleigh; while we discovered another set of local shops -- including a Co-op that's open till 10! -- we also found that the cycle path into the centre of town fetches up at a railway bridge. In my youth, BR provided gates across railway lines so that you didn't have to hoist your bike up and down steep flights of steps, but presumably that would violate all sorts of health and safety issues today -- and result in lawsuits.* So, up and over the bridge we climbed, cursing as we went, and determined to find an easier route back (which we did, via Leigh Road and Woodside Avenue, if you're interested). It's about a 15-minute ride from the arts centre in Eastleigh back home, more than doable of an evening. Result!

* I'm with Mencken on this one: "By protecting people from the consequences of their own stupidity, we populate the world with fools." But, it didn't get me out of doing bus duty at school when on my PGCE course and I doubt it will get Railtrack to install a convenient gate across the tracks.

We cower in the bedroom

In just a short time, the kittens have firmly established themselves as in full control of the household. We feed them when they demand, clean out their (excellent) litter tray, and have taken to hiding away any and all objects that they might decide to chew -- i.e., all the books. We don't leave our room at night, as it's difficult to get them out of it once they come in, and we are constantly aware that a kitten may decide to land on our heads/legs/back, claws unsheathed, at any moment. They've also discovered a catnip toy -- chaos ensues. However, they are still adorable and the source of constant entertainment. And, they've fully cleaned out the space under the oven by dint of sliding under there on the blue rug. Now, if only I could tie dusters to their paws and get them to polish the parquet, we'd see a real return on our (considerable) investment.

Lean, mean, purring machines

If you don't like cats, look away now. And probably for the next few months (or possibly years). Our kitties are home! We picked them up today from the shelter, and after complaining vociferously in the car on the way back, they appear to have settled in. The first two hours were spent tearing round the house, delving into the dustiest corners and finding the highest surfaces to jump off. Then came a blissful hour of them both dozing and purring noisily on my lap. And now? Running around the house again. So, please say hello to:

Ninja (small, dark, will run around quietly [ish] and jump out when you least expect it):



and Shinobi (another name for Japanese warriors, plus Shin and Nin have a pleasing ring to them):



It's going to be all kitties all the time round here!

In which we experience an action-packed 26 hours

Starting yesterday lunchtime, when we went out for a 4 km run -- reasonably impressive, given that neither of us are natural runners, PJ's carrying several injuries, and the last kilometer is uphill. Flushed (quite literally, in my case) with this success, we worked for the rest of the afternoon, then loaded up the car with all the remaining cardboard boxes and rubble in the garage and headed to the Eastleigh dump. We then moseyed through Eastleigh, under the M3, to the gigantic Asda in Chandler's Ford. This was ... impressive. Two floors, cheap food, a well-stocked Polish food section, presumably for all the local tradespeople, and we were the thinnest people in there. Thus heartened, we stopped off for fish n' chips on the way home, and proceeded to slump into a carb-driven coma, watching a couple of Liverpool-related episodes of Rock Family Trees.

At crack of noon today, we set off again. This time, our destination was St Francis Animal Welfare Centre in Fair Oak to see if they had any kittens. We were in luck! Two sisters, who have been reserved for us! We just need to have a home check and buy vast quantities of stuff for them to eat from, sleep in, and poo next to (if Plato and Aristotle -- our former cats -- were anything to go by). Next, on to Up & Running in Chandler's Ford to get some new running shoes, in a sad attempt to convince ourselves that our inability to run fast or far is the result of bad footwear, rather than ineptitude. The shop was fantastic; no Adidas or Nikes in sight, and experienced runners who checked our feet, recorded our gait on a video and played it back, and then prescribed shoes to correct my weak left ankle (for me, obviously; PJ doesn't need to correct that problem, although he has plenty of his own). Finally, we headed down to The Old Forge for a light lunch and a lazy perusal of The Guardian. Back home, PJ swore mightily at the video game console, while I sat in the back garden, finishing off The Guardian and watching the birds. I am clearly morally superior.

Anyway, now it's time for Dr Who. Pip pip!

O I do like to be beside the seaside!

Glorious sunshine yesterday so we headed down to Portsmouth -- a 30-minute drive away and new to both of us. It's a mixed city, to say the least. There's a huge new outlet shopping mall near the harbour -- fine if you're happy to still spend 45 quid on a Paul Smith t-shirt followed by lunch at Nando's, slightly overwhelming if you're not. We did find Aspex, a rather sweet little art gallery with cafe and shop near the waterfront. We then headed over to Old Portsmouth -- the cathedral, a few naval fortifications -- and the real highlight of the day, Southsea. Southsea is the alternative, scruffy, student heart of the city. Albert Road is the main drag, with all manner of vintage shops, ethnic food stores, and fun bars and restaurants. It's a bit like Stoke Newington, only with fewer police helicopters and only a third of the price when it comes to housing (and shopping). We're pottered along, bought lots of spices that I can't get in Sainsbury's, had a good meal in Cape Verde, and then headed home. Fresh air, the sea, good food. We shall definitely go back.

This is what I'm talking about

Of course, he's not the only insect in the garden. Check out this David Lynchian beastie, which I came across when mowing the lawn on Friday evening. Scary.

Slugs. Why did it have to be slugs?

In order to gain gardening tips and maybe some advice on what to do about the hordes of savage slugs and snails (and probably puppy dog tails) that are currently ravaging my radishes, we watched River Cottage Spring -- Hugh Fearnly Posh-Bloke's guide to smallholding and vegetable gardening. Apparently, the best way of growing your own veggies is to give up your job in London, develop a thriving career as a food writer, and employ a farm manager and plenty of staff to do the actual farming. Not desperately helpful, it must be said.

Waitrose's Cooked Sausage and Wholegrain Mustard crisps

These little beauties are currently on a 2-for-2-quid offer and are vegetarian. Perfect! All that meaty flavour with none of the, y'know, dead pigginess. Only problem was that buying them nearly bought the Waitrose payment system to its knees. The first cashier failed to swipe both packs through the machine, but I didn't notice that -- I only noticed that the discount hadn't rung up when I checked the receipt before leaving the store. So we went to complain, and then realized that I actually owed them money -- honesty isn't always the best policy. At this point, we needed the senior cashier to refund the money for the one pack of crisps, swipe the two packs through, and let me pay the difference between the one pack and the two pounds (61 pence, in case you're interested). This was apparently too much for both senior cashier and the machine to cope with. She refunded us money for BOTH packs and gave me 78 pence change. By now, I was determined to pay the right amount of money, rather than doing what any SANE person would have done -- which is pocket the money and walk away. So, after some wrangling, another, more senior cashier came over, fiddled about with keys, the machine, etc, and we finally settled up.

I don't think PJ is going to let me point out mistakes like this in the future. It's too ... time-consuming.

Summer 2007 redux

It's a hard life being a farmer. Why are there slugs on my herbs? When will it rain? Will it stop raining? Will the nonstop rain wash away my seedlings? Will the birds eat my seedlings? How do I know when my seedlings are actual radishes? These are questions that the instructions on the packet just don't answer.

It's also a hard life being a stone mason. PJ finally removed the last pieces of plasterboard in the conservatory, so we've spent several days chipping off the big blobs of plaster that had been holding it on. I now have lots of tiny cuts across my knuckles, chiseling not being part of my vast and varied skill set. Luckily, we discovered that the plasterboard wasn't key to the structural integrity of the conservatory, and it still appears to be standing. And leaking. We had various panes of glass replaced today and much of the moss and dirt cleared, and it turned out that the plant life that had accumulated on the roof had been keeping quite a bit of water out. However, the nice men said they'll come back tomorrow (if it's dry) and seal everything up. Given the weather forecast for the next week, I'm not hopeful.

Sport -- the great uniter

As the pictures from Hull showed, sport brings people together. It unites a long-suffering city and brings joy to faithful followers and casual observers alike.

It can also divide a household.

Next season, Norwich City and Doncaster Rovers will be in the same league. Dumpling Mansions is now a two-Championship-team household. Expect things to get a bit tense around here come August.

All the little birds go cheep cheep cheep

My biggest concern on buying our new home -- other than the imminent collapse of the global economy that it signalled -- was road noise. Specifically, noise from the M3, which is less than a mile away. And on wet days and when the wind is coming from the south-west, you can hear it. However, it is largely a distant drone, drowned out by the sounds of suburbia: lawn mowers mowing, dogs barking, children swearing creatively as they walk to school. Most of all, it is drowned out by the noise of the birds -- hundreds of birds. They hang about in the allotments behind, eating the new plants and the bits of old carpet that provides weed cover. There are blackbirds, thrushes, chaffinches, blue tits, fat pigeons, and huge crows. The crows particularly delight in landing on the dormer roof of our bedroom and then stomping up and down it. The dawn chorus and the related stomping start up at (approximately) 4.45 a.m. -- and delightful though it is, I wish they'd just leave it until 7.45 instead. Noisy little blighters.