The hyperactive child is asleep. The wife is wrapping presents. Monty is in his basket. Treacle is sitting next to me.

Me? I’ve just signed my Corporation Tax return and written a fat cheque to the Revenue.

Ho ho and, indeed, ho. Merry Christmas.

Last night saw a high powered meeting of the village elders here in Ruralville. The Ruralville village hall was converted at short notice and with remarkable speed into a centre for politicking and debate to rival anything that goes on in that other village, Westminster. Speakers passionately debated the matters of the day with argument meeting counter argument on the contentious issue of parking and yellow lines. Amusingly, there were attempts to press-gang attendees into becoming parish councillors, a dangerous path if ever I saw one. Thankfully, I seemed to escape by promising only to give the matter some consideration (a fine cop out, if ever I saw one).

Thereafter, everyone retired to the pub, where we were joined by Monty and our near-neighbour’s cat, Oscar. Oscar is only six months old and is similarly coloured to Monty. Monty seems to regard him as a mini-me. I suspect that he might receive some training and end up as Monty’s henchcat, sent out to deal with the marauding, food-stealing tabby and white that thinks he rules the neighbourhood. In any case, both seemed happy to wander into the pub to see where the hands that feed them had gone, but thought better of it once confronted with two dozing dogs under the table.

Simon’s Cat (1 and 2 - YouTube). Utter genius. I particularly like the long pause between the door opening and the cat coming in. via Gordon.

Meanwhile, Matt the Bakiwop is walking for President.

• 2.15pm – Monty walks into the house, limping
• 2.16pm – I get scratched as I try to see what the problem is
• 2.20pm – arrange 2.50pm appointment with the vet
• 2.23pm – phone Hels
• 2.25pm – dig cat carrier out of the shed
• 2.30pm – phone childminder to arrange collecting Tom early
• 2.32pm – leave home
• 2.40pm – collect Tom
• 2.50pm – arrive at vet
• 3.00pm – go into examination room, juggling cat, son and Miffy toy
• 3.02pm – vet extracts thorn from Monty’s paw, advising that if it had been left there would have been an abcess and general nastiness, and administers antibiotic
• 3.05pm – nurse agrees that Miffy is suffering from Dirty Ear Disease and needs a bath
• 3.06pm – nurse relieves yours truly of £32.41
• 3.15pm – arrive home. Release disgruntled cat. Monty licks his wounds on his paw. I lick the wound on my wallet.

In case you thought I’d disappeared completely, we’ve been away in the Netherlands with no internet connection – which is a good thing, sometimes.

On our return, we appear to have been reduced to a single cat – Monty is nowhere to be seen, which is worrying. We asked a neighbour to pop round and feed them each day, which he has done superbly. Treacle is here and content, but there is no trace of Monty. He’s gone AWOL before when we’ve been away, but has usually turned up within 12 hours of our return – we’ve now been home for 14 hours and he has still to show himself. You can mark me down as “concerned”.

UPDATE: Ten hours after posting the above, Monty ambled in and demanded food with a "where the hell have you been?!" miaow. Much relief all-round, particularly as I’d already walked around Ruralville checking hedges, ditches and verges.

This is going to be a not-quite-normal Christmas. Firstly, it’s our first Christmas as a threesome, although Tom doesn’t really have an inkling as to what it is all about. I’m sure that he will be more excited by the wrapping paper, ribbon and boxes than by the gifts themselves, although I suspect that the maracas, tambourine and glockenspiel will all be hits as they all make a good noise. Shopping for Tom is remarkably easy (the problem is knowing when to stop) and we’ve worked particularly hard to buy only a moderate number of presents and to aim for quality over cheap tat.

However, this Christmas will also be not-quite-normal as we all fight illness. Tom has a stomach bug which has resulted in vomiting and diarrhoea, although he has remained remarkably cheerful in spite of it all. I took him to the out-of-hours clinic last night for a little medical reassurance (“plenty fluids, a little Calpol, lay off rich food – call back if anything changes”) and he sat on my knee smiling broadly at the doctor (but then he is a bit of a flirt, so I shouldn’t be surprised). Hels has sinusitis, which is causing her to be nauseous and dizzy as well as taking all the flavour and fun out of food. She spent much of today in bed and seems a little better this evening. As for me, I’m pretty tired out by caring for them both and tonight I feel a little flaky – I’m hoping that is a symptom of fatigue and not a harbinger of Tom’s tummy bug (having been around unpleasant nappies for the last two days, nothing would surprise me).

But the presents are wrapped (I’m just tying ribbon on the last few), the cards are delivered (save for three to be dropped through neighbours’ doors in a moment) and the fire is burning (although we can’t get near it for cats). I’m just about to break open the Bristol Cream and Hels is browsing the TV guide. Tomorrow we begin the round of parental visits with my parents, followed by my in-laws on Boxing Day.

All we need now is a holiday. Merry Christmas.

UPDATE: I was struck down on the evening of Christmas Day by Norwalk virus – look it up if you want to know the symptoms, but I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say that I’m a few pounds lighter now. Tom is better but Hels is still not well.
And, as if anticipating my holiday sentiment, my brother and his fiancée gave us a bunch of hotel vouchers so that we can take a break.

This week has included:

• learning that a friend and client is very unwell
• literally dozens of phone conversations with two different sets of lawyers and two different sets of surveyors
• realising that I’ve cocked up my plan to go to a trade show in Poland (note to self: VIII means August, not September – d’oh!)
• dropping a client because he is really not on my wavelength and I can’t be bothered to struggle for what would be a potentially small reward
• getting a very long document from the Borough Council
• not getting a whole bunch of things sorted out that I planned to do this week
• cleaning up purple projectile vomit after Tom had blackberries for tea (he’s fine now, but I’ve got to redecorate a wall)
• having to clean the cat litter tray every day after one or other of them decided that the garden was too cold and wet to use now that the weather has turned.

And that is just what I’ve had to do – Hels has had just as much. 

But there are positive things too:

• Sussex beat Durham in the cricket
• it rained (very good news in this part of the world)
• we caught up with some people in the pub
• it’s Friday
• we’re going on holiday soon
• Tom “pulled” a waitress in the place we went to today for lunch (very funny – you had to be there)

So it’s not all bad. It just feels that way.

This morning, I think I became truly middle class. I achieved this by putting Tom in his seat in the back of my car and driving the mile-and-a-half to his childminder’s house (I have considered pushing Tom in his buggy, but it’s a very dangerous lane). There were two other parents there dropping off their children and, on the way home, I had to fight my way through the congestion around Ruralville school where dozens of parents were delivering offspring.

Tom, like the rest of us, is struggling with the current heatwave. We reached 36 Celsius yesterday here and the poor lad was wilting a bit. He sleeps in the afternoon more than usual and then is awake in the evening when he would normally be in bed. So life is all a bit upside down.

Today the temperature is a little lower, but the humidity is up so it is no less comfortable. I’ve struggling to keep going, my PC fan is going mad and the cats can barely drag themselves around. Typical English – never satisfied by the weather.

Monty on the roof of the Global Headquarters.

What a fruitless day. A large chunk of it was spent trying to track down the correct brake parts for Hels’s car – ultimately I gave up searching the interwebnet and went to my local garage where they, helpfully, assured me that they were as confused as I am and suggested that the best thing to do was to take the old ones off and take them as patterns to a motor factor. Hmm.

After that, I went seeking some transparency film. Call me old-fashioned, call me a luddite, but don’t call me late for tea (very old family joke – sorry). "Why do I want transparency film?" I hear you ask. Well, the answer is that you don’t want it, I do. The reason is that I need to update my slide collection that I use when I’m giving presentations, particularly with new pictures of some of the plants that I look after in my work. But does anyone sell transparency film any more? Nope. Finally, I tracked down a particularly obscure old-fashioned photographic shop in a particularly obscure corner of NearbyTown (which is obscure in itself) and purchased two rolls of Konico-Minolta 100ASA film – not my preferred brand (always been a FujiFilm kind of guy), but given a choice of that or nothing, that will do.

I’ve also purchased a new (25 year old) lens for my (equally old) Olympus OM2N – my current one is not in the best of health and, for the sake of ten quid, the new one might just be better. Of course, the camera is not technically mine, as it really belongs to my brother, but as it has been in my possession for a considerable number of years now and he hasn’t asked for it back, I’m claiming squatter’s rights.

Subsequently, I’ve discovered that the camera had a part-exposed roll of film inside. So I’ve squandered the remaining frames on pictures of plants, of Tom and of the cats (Monty is so much better at posing than Treacle) and dropped it into Boots. I’ll be able to collect it on Saturday and, as I’ve asked for a CD of scans, you might get to see some pictures from it too. Of course, since it must be at least three years old, there is no telling what is on the first 23 frames of film. I suspect that it may well feature ex-girlfriends, which could make it, um, interesting. Hels has already said that she will delight in destroying any such photos as soon as possible. I’ll keep you posted.

Humphrey, RIP.

My cat’s got knees. Musical madness from Joel Veitch.

Blob on fluff. 
Originally uploaded by graybo.

Treacle doing her best black-blob-with-eyes thing whilst sat on a fluffy cushion.
This photo should satisfy Bob.

Cyclops kitten – thanks Bob.

Hmm. A baby due any day now and people send me links to deformed kittens.

Today – two cats to Nearbyville for a prod, poke, two jabs each and a pill each – the feline equivalent of a 10,000 mile service. Outcome? £77, please and thank you. Ouch.

Note to Microsoft – the correct spelling of Seamus is Seamus, not Shamus. Please update your spellcheckers.
That is all.

Treacle sleeps in some pretty odd places.
I’ve just spent 20 minutes cleaning up blood on the floor and the sofa. She’s had a fight with another cat and didn’t win – a tear in her left ear was dripping blood everywhere. I’ve cleaned up the blood and the wound, but she might end up with a "bus ticket" ear.

Pete posts a picture of a cat. Resigning from blogging, my foot.

I’m off to the Netherlands this afternoon to visit a trade show in Boskoop tomorrow. I’ve got a few meetings lined up with the great and good of European and American horticulture – a real encouragement to find that, after two and a half years of doing this, the biggest companies now make a point of talking to me at these events to see what I have to offer them. When I started out it was more a case of me banging on their doors and saying "hey! talk to me!"
My mum is coming over to keep H company. H is worried about being on her own whilst 18 weeks pregnant. I’m not sure that there is really anything to worry about, as the pregnancy has been running smoothly of late (just the usual tiredness to contend with and the fact that none of Hels’s clothes fit anymore), but if it reassures H then it’s fine by me.
Maybe H needs practical help looking after the cats. We’re cat-sitting for the in-laws at the moment, and it isn’t something that I plan to repeat as she (Kitty, the in-laws’ cat) persistently picks fights with Monty and Treacle who are so soft and mild-mannered that they don’t know what to do (other than be frightened).
I really should mow the lawn before I head to the airport. Nah, it can wait.

More exciting blog entries soon, kids! Blimey, this is getting boring, isn’t it? perhaps it’s time for another one of those long airport rambles?

Bob’s Guide To Cat Owning. (Possibly LSFW).

Treacle is turning into quite a good hunter, although her diet is not limited to the typical fare of small birds and rodents. She frequently catches butterflies and other insects (we don’t have any problems with flies in the house – once she sees them, she catches them, sometimes knocking over something in the process). Our repeated disposal of all her prizes has had a benefit too – in general, she now leaves them in the garden instead of bringing them into the conservatory.
Yesterday, however, she caught something that was completely new to her – a slow worm. The poor thing was most definitely dead by the time I spotted her with it, but that didn’t stop her from playing with it for some time – in fact, she is in the garden again this morning and has been prodding its lifeless corpse to see if any more fun can be had with it.
What next? A fox? The neighbour’s dog? A small child?

Our Monty may weigh only a little more than 3.2kg, but he is a strong cat. We’ve just been fighting to get a worming tablet down his throat, and both of us now have the scars to show for it. In the end, we had to crush it and add it to his food, which has worked.
Treacle wasn’t much easier, but being only two-thirds of Monty’s size, she was easier to hold and medicate.

I always used to get told off for doing this:

Cats have no manners.

Yesterday, Treacle brought a mouse to us. In bits. Niiice.

It’s a bit of a one-sided battle, to be fair. As far as we can work out, spoils are divided equally between Monty and Treacle, so far. When we got in this evening, a small shrew-shaped gift was waiting for us in the middle of the kitchen floor.

At least he killed it properly this time. Now they are hunting around the conservatory, trying to find where it is hidden (I opened the door, and sent its corpse into low orbit over the pub garden).

I told you that they aren’t much company…

At least they’re both here today.

When I’m working at the table in the conservatory, I often have some company on the sofa behind me.

As you can see, today I’ve been joined by Monty – Treacle has retreated to the other sofa, in the living room. Neither of them are much company, to be honest, spending their time asleep. The only interaction occurs when they get up for lunch.

Incidentally, Hels and I have noticed that Monty has developed curly tips to his whiskers.

Split ends?

A short animation all about mannirs (work safe). Lovely.

More planting last night – sage (Salvia officinalis Berggarten), Penstemon barbatus Peter Catt, catmint (Nepeta faassenii), some Ranunculus, some Gaillardia and a Salvia nemorosa variety. Monty seems to have spotted the catmint already, but I’m not sure that he knows what to make of it. Perhaps he will let it grow a little before he sits on it/eats it/shreds it.

Has your pet recently popped its clogs? Before you dig a hole at the bottom of the garden and leave it for the worms, why not consider having it made into a Pet Pillow? For just US$65, you can have your favourite moggy, erm, stuffed and throw him/her onto the sofa.
I mean, would you sit on a dead cat?
And who would want a "domestic cow pillow"?
(link via the LNR Cat Blog).

Monty has been bringing magpie feathers to me all morning. So far, he’s amassed a nice little pile.

I’ve just seen Treacle running through the garden with what looked like the rest of the magpie carcass in her mouth. Clearly she’s the pro here.

Today’s theme seems to be to toughen me up. I’ve just been moaned at telephonically by my wife for not leaving enough petrol in the car (I know that there was slightly less than a quarter tank when I drove down the lane towards home last night – I checked!). Before she left she gave me a list of household chores to do (harrumph!). I’m now sitting in the conservatory with the door wide open in an attempt to brave out the chill breeze and pretend that it is really spring (it’ll be better once the sun moves round – or, rather, the earth rotates – sufficiently that the sun reaches my seat). And I am having to deal with two manic cats who seem determined to make up for my absence yesterday by shedding as much fur as possible over my keyboard and clothing. All this and I haven’t had a coffee yet.

Nothing to do with red and white striped drinking straws, but more to do with the revelation that the Daily Telegraph has used the Freedom of Information Act to gain access to government files on Humphrey the Number 10 cat. The dossier, apparently an inch and a half thick, reveals that, whilst on the Whitehall payroll, he cost the British taxpayer around £100 per year and was

To the bright spark that drove into Hels’s car in one of the lanes in Ruralville, smashing off the wing mirror, and didn’t stop – thanks. That’ll cost us quite a bit to have fixed.
To whichever of our cats it was that knocked over the full vase on the dining table overnight, spilling water all over my brand new Wallpaper* magazine and leaving a huge water stain in the table and an even bigger puddle on the floor – thanks. Next time, I’ll use the pair of you to mop it up.

I’m cute. You are powerless to resist.

Monty 1 – Local Mouse Population 0. Following on from the delivery of a succession of individual feathers over recent days, I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised that Monty has finally succeeded in catching something, even though I have always felt that Treacle was going to be the better hunter.
I just wish he’d finish it off rather than beating the creature into submission by hurling it around the conservatory. I’m not sure that he actually knows how to kill them – maybe his mother never had the chance to show him.

Monty is currently trying to set a land speed record for cats whilst simultaneously running through the cat flap. I think he may be sponsored by CatMate to carry out destructive testing.
And I’m sure that there is cat snot smeared all over it where he pushes his face against it.

Before:

After:

Note new border, created by first removing the turf, then deeply digging it, followed by incorporation of considerable quantities of well rotted farmyard manure and spent potting compost. Finally the willow tree was heavily pruned and the Euonymus and three lupins were planted.
The soil is rather heavy, a slightly greyish clay. Not the most exciting stuff and probably the sort that would put off a new gardener (or lead to fairly dismal results if they didn’t have some guidance as to how to treat it), but with the addition of plenty of humus and some grit (I’m going to nab some from the parents) I know that it can make an excellent garden soil that will permit a fairly wide range of plants to grow. I’ve not done a pH test, but judging by the presence of Rhododendrons in the neighbourhood, it must be fairly acidic. Not good news for bearded Irises, but an opportunity to play with some Japanese types and one or two of the more esoteric species.

Thankfully, I had some help:

Treacle came out too, but spent most of her time looking for mice under the shed.

The kittens are home, shaved in places and running around as if they haven’t had major surgery today. Which is good, I think.

It’s all very quiet in the house. For the first time since the before Christmas, there are no cats here. Both are at the veterinary surgery, undergoing their operations. I particularly did not enjoy signing the consent form – the paragraph about the owner understanding the risks inherent with the use of anaesthetic on animals does little to reassure, even when they are there for such routine surgery.

I’m just about to take the kittens’ food bowls away – they’re not allowed to eat after 8pm on the day before their operations. Monty is sitting on my lap at the moment, dozing. Treacle is asleep upstairs. And I still feel guilty about the whole thing.

At least when I call the vet, I get a real person on the end of the line who can give me direct and accurate answers to my questions – the result of which is that both kittens will be going in for surgery tomorrow and will emerge as slightly less cats than they are now.

In a rather disturbing development, our wonderfully cute little black kitten has suddenly turned into a sex-crazed vamp. H and I nipped out for a quiet (although not very good) meal at a nearby pub (not our local – serves us right for being disloyal) last night (one of the very few times we have been out for dinner on our own since we got married) and when we got home (not too late) we discovered Treacle rolling around on her back, purring and chirruping, generally behaving like a small feline tart.
Monty, meanwhile, clearly believed that Christmas and his birthday had all arrived at once. Somewhat hastily, we prepared a duplicate set of litter tray, food and water bowls and set them in the spare room, rapidly followed by a writhing and rather excitable small black kitten. Teenage pregnancy would be somewhat undesirable, we concluded.
Since then, both cats have been pacing about in the respective confines, meowing and pining for the other. Treacle has assaulted the door on her chamber a couple of times, thus far without success.
I will be on the phone to the vet first thing tomorrow, placing an order for two sets of neutering.

Due to the car breaking down (it’s now at the garage), Monty’s appointment with the vet tomorrow has been postponed. If I find paw marks on the broken clutch cable, I’ll know who to blame.

So far, they’ve been chasing this fly for about twenty minutes. Nothing has been broken. Yet.

The kittens went to the vet this morning for a jab. £41 – hurts me more than them.
Monty is going back on Tuesday morning. I almost feel like a traitor to the gender by taking him there. Poor thing.
Still, when he is "done", he’ll be able to go outside! Yay!

As Hels put it before she left for work this morning, there is only one big news story today – the Invasion of the Tabby Cat.
As I was brushing my teeth before coming downstairs this morning, I could hear meowing coming from somewhere and thought that it was our neighbour’s cat outside (it certainly wasn’t Monty’s meow and Treacle isn’t terribly talkative). When I came down to the kitchen to give them their breakfast, I found two kittens hiding under the dresser and our neighbour’s very large tabby cat on the conservatory windowsill! He or she seemed more concerned with how to get out than anything else, so I opened the door and he scurried off. Monty and Treacle then set about sniffing everything in the conservatory to make sure that he had gone, whilst Hels and I cleared up the few things that had been knocked over.
Which leaves a mystery – how the hell did he get in? No windows or doors were open during the night. We have a catflap but it was and still is locked. I tried to force it but felt that it was more likely to break than yield, and I couldn’t see how such a big cat could get through it without forcing it open. Perhaps there is some secret cat portal that we have yet to discover in this house.
Either way, Monty and Treacle don’t seem too bothered by their ordeal. Monty has resumed birdwatching duties from the windowsill and Treacle is chewing my slippers.

I’ve been trying an old trick in an attempt to persuade the kittens not to wreck the houseplants. Each time they start playing with the leaves and damaging them, I dip my fingers into a jug of cold water that I have next to me and flick it over them. So far, I have a shredded palm and a wet floor – plus two damp kittens who don’t give a stuff. Suggestions?

Monty on the conservatory windowsill.

He’s keen to get outside, but I think that his tendency to meow at everything will prevent him from getting within fifty yards of any bird.

Treacle in the living room. She’s gradually getting more confident, but still very much prefers to do things on her own terms and keeps herself to herself.
Monty, on the other hand, is a riot on four legs.

…when you have kittens? I’m currently sitting at the kitchen table. Monty is racing from the conservatory through the kitchen to the living room and back, carrying a length of red ribbon (favourite toy – who needs wind-up mice?) in his mouth, with Treacle about 2 inches behind him. It has to be said that his cornering ability when at speed on the lino needs some improvement.

…and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring…

…especially the kittens, because they were asleep on the clean laundry. Grr (but bless ‘em – they’re the best Christmas presents EVER).

Whatever your faith or belief, Hels, the kittens and I all wish you a peaceful and happy holiday.

…with kittens.
There will be pictures at some point, though not before Treacle has gained enough confidence to come out from under the bed. Actually, as I sit here typing this, I can hear Monty running around upstairs, exploring, playing and wrecking. If only some of his confidence would rub off on her!

Thanks to Jo for tipping me off about the excellent London News Review Cat Blog – compulsory reading that provides the first excuse in ages to update the regular reading list in the sidebar.

Hels and I have been looking for a better guard to surround our wood-burning stove in the living room. At the moment we have a rather attractive guard that, whilst functional, could certainly not be described as kitten-proof. The DIY stores only stock very small ones (we need one about 75cm/30ins high, 60cm/24ins wide and 15cm/6ins deep), and hardly any that have a top as well as sides. I finally found a "nursery guard" in a local fireplace shop, much more functional than decorative, and feel I did a good job of not laughing out loud when the lady told me that it was more than £60!
Anyone got any idea where we could find something? We really only want something inexpensive, as we plan to start using the ornate one again as soon as the kittens are grown-up enough to be stove-aware.

We’ve just been visited by the lady from the RSPCA. She’s given us stern advice on the placing of litter trays, ensuring the toilet lid is left down (can apparently lead to very unamusing consequences with inquisitive kittens) and the importance of having poor Monty’s bits cut off as soon as they are big enough to cut off.
The upshot of it all is that we can now go and fetch our kittens, hopefully before Christmas. Hurrah!

UPDATE: they’ll be ready for collection on Wednesday at lunch time.

Well, the public has spoken and given a clear verdict in the cat naming poll. As it turns out, Rommel’s campaign was ill-fated. Sprout lead a late surge once the wind was up. But, ultimately, Nipples were way out front.
So, the decision is made. She’s (probably) going to be called Treacle. This means that every time we get home we can say

</coat>

I’m going to declare a winner on the cat name poll this evening, so hurry and vote now! Currently Sprout and Nipples are battling it out (ack! bizarre mental picture!) for first place, with Rommel trailing badly.
I fear it’s all irrelevant anyway, as the wifely veto is being called into play. Bah!

Scroll down or click here.

The latest on the cat name poll (scroll down a bit to vote) is that Nipples is in the lead (oh dear), with Sprout and Rommel following in second and third. I’ll keep the poll going until Friday, when I’ll declare a winner. However, at the moment I feel the approaching force of the wifely veto if Nipples wins.

Just one vote per day, kiddies!

Following the recent posting of pictures of the kittens, there has been some discussion of the best name for our little girl cat, since the boy will be named Monty. Rommel appears to be sticking, although Hels doesn’t think we can call a girl-cat Rommel. So, as a compromise, our friend Kathy has suggested Rommelle.

Which I think is great.

So, whilst I may not be at the bloggers’ party tonight, I can live up to one other blogging tradition – yes, at long last, a post about kittens! I just know that this is going to make Vaughan jealous.
This week, we went down to the RSPCA cat rehoming centre at Hastings and put our name down for these two "poor little fellas". They’re going to make it, Rolf.
This one has been named Monty by us.

He’s completely mad, a total livewire. He’s bound to wreck the place.

This one has yet to be given a name.

She’s much more quiet and retiring, in marked contrast to Monty. We reckon that, once we have her here, a name will come to us.

The RSPCA will send out a visitor to check that we’re ok to own cats, but since we’ve already passed the test with another animal rehoming charity within the last week, we’re confident that it will just be a formality. In fact, we’re so confident that we went out and purchased kitten food, a litter tray, litter, a new cat flap (now fitted), a scratching post, a basket, a carrier and assorted toys today.
This is going to be fun.