Thursday, 28 October 2010

Yacky-Moggy Alley

This has all been said before but given the subject matter I think a little regurgitation is permissible.

What is the best way to start your first day back at work after a week off? By switching on the kitchen light, turning around to see you have, by some quirk of fate, completely avoided every single puddle of vomit in the hallway, and then realising the next 5 minutes of your life are mapped out for you. I couldn't tell if the little obstacle course of semi-digested cat biscuits was a catty interpretation of the map of the world or if she'd seen some TV footage of soldiers training and thought to herself “I can make something more challenging than that!”

The big question, as always, is: how on earth does such a small animal produce so much spew? Have they had their stomachs replaced with an organic version of the tardis? Or do they throw up every night but save it for special occasions and when the mood is right just get a couple of bags-full out of sick storage? It wouldn't surprise me if the whole reason the horrible little moggies desperately need to go out into the garden for 15 seconds about 9 times a night is to check that no-one's raided their secret yack stash.

That would explain the awful noises cats make before they start fighting each other: first they create their nightly portion of precious warm chunks and then have to fend off rivals who wish to swipe the spew for themselves. Perhaps cat culture is based on the stomach much like ours is based on the brain: the Top Cats are those that can hurl the greatest volume of vomit over the largest area. That sounds so much like the way most reality TV stars make their money I'm beginning to suspect that the producers of x-factor are actually feline.

Now, I know cats deliberately eat grass to make themselves sick but I had to do a little research to find out why. It turns out they're unable to properly digest everything they eat and it causes them problems to allow the undigested matter out through the usual exit so the self-inflicted regurgitation is actually good for their health. So although the effluvia itself is unpleasant at least a pile of cattus yackus is a sign your cat is healthy, the filthy little furbags.

Monday, 18 October 2010


Twenty Ten Twenty Ten... Auspicious? Portentous? Pretentious? Pointless?
I can't remember when I first realised I was going to have one of these birthdays but I was quite young and 38 years old seemed a long way off. I suspect that in my usual whimsical and daydreaming manner I hoped the apparent pattern of the date would hold some sort of significance. I have since learnt that the only way it'll really be significant is if I write it in the American format (10.20.2010) as that'll almost make it a palindrome. Beyond that - pfft.

But then I am writing this 2 days before the event so perhaps something momentous will happen on the day. Maybe I'll win the lottery that night (I have bought myself a ticket just in case), maybe I'll get knocked off my bike while cycling along the Parkway towards the Tamar Bridge, maybe I'll decide that when I've unpacked all my stuff at J&T's field in Cornwall I'll climb a tree - and then I'll fall out of it, maybe my two nights of solitary camping will furnish me with a moment of revelation. I think it's more likely I'll enjoy the solitude, the fresh air and surroundings, the very basic pleasure of collecting wood and preparing the fire each evening, and reading books under the red LED in my headlamp.

When I started this entry I thought I had nothing to say - looks like I was right ;)