Cat gourmet

I've come back here after having a lovely shower, minus the hair of course. My cats are not very pleased with me though. I think they're hungry, no, let me rephrase that, they cannot be hungry since they have a supply of the best brand of cat food in town always available. But they are spoilt little creatures, especially the tiniest cat of the lot which will never grow up to an adult-sized cat seeing she is a mutant, the product of two incestuous cats, brother and sister. She might be small in size, but not in the vocal stakes. She also does not how to wait. And whenever it pleases her, she just comes up to me wailing. And that means, I have to stop whatever I'm doing and give her them the most expensive-on-the-market food which comes in pouches. These cats always have three course meals. They fare better then the patients at Mater Dei. But it's my fault. Because it was a strange theory I had and still adopt. These feline beauties didn't ask to come to me. They could have gone anywhere, probably on the streets. But since they came to me, then I have to give them the best. The best in everything. So off I go to obey the cats, mostly the tiniest cat in the house which falls just below 2 kg in weight. Sometimes truth is stranger then fiction.

The twin- win

I've been away for quite a while today; away from my blog. But at least I had good reason to; shopping, eating (at my mum's) and sleeping, and then letting my Nigel do the hairy magic trick. Ok that sounds gory, I am not hirsute, not one bit. But yes I am proud of my glorious mane which now hangs to below my waist. And yes it's a fiery red, which is not my natural colour, not one bit, but it's still up to Nigel to do the hairy bit. Oh dear, that bloke is an angel sent from heaven. The way he can tease locks into perfect magazine-like styles is a mystery. And there I used to think that beautiful hair came naturally. But now I'm thinking perhaps there is a Nigel-man behind the magazine. There has to be, I don't think any woman wakes up with perfect hair like mine is now. This hair subject has always been so close to home, close to heart too. I find no plausible reason why the hair thing is something so dear both to me and my twin. My other half, he's not bothered, he doesn't have hair in the first place and is really happy not to have to bother with bad hair days. But us twins, well, my hair is showing no signs of going anywhere, my twin is not so lucky. Of course with the Nigel magic, he makes it look as if his hair is not going anywhere either, but it's such a gimmick. He probably has 80% less hair than I do. Hurray, for once I win the twin competition. I also seem to win the never-a-blackhead competition, I never have any so that's two competitions. Phase three of the competition is the wrinkle one, my twin has so many more 'laughter lines' than I do, so again hurray I win that too. I win another one, the nose one, but let's stop at there. That's 4 already. And I guess the big win of all; if the world had to go to war I would survive him. He wouldn't last long. I would, I'd last quite a long time, probably one hundred times longer than him. So, put the Atkins away, I'd live to see the imaginary war being over. Not that it would please me. I always secretly wonder who will be the first to go. Sometimes I make myself sad over it. I have not yet grown out of the twice-a-month nightmare which has been happening for a good 25 years now. The nightmare where my twin is gone and I am left there, twin no more. And it's not a nice feeling. Sometimes there's blood in it, sometimes there isn't, but it always gives me the feeling that whatever happens in the dream could have been prevented. Or perhaps the smoking will see to it that I go first. Much better that way. Stopping here, I don't like where this is going. So off to face book for a bit.

Awake

Good morning. I have just realised that being the doting mum that I was yesterday night brings with it responsibilities. Yes it's just half past nine and I'm up and fully awake. Brigitte's here and that's a responsibility because my other half decided to lock the house with the keys inside the lock. Henceforth (I so love this word) Brigitte could not get into the house unobtrusively with myself still wrapped up in my cosy world. So I had a responsibility, that is to kick myself out of bed, travel in descending mode and open the door. So now after two coffees I'm more than awake. But I'm putting off going into the outside world because everybody is saying how cold it is; face book is full of people saying so. As for myself, I cannot comment because I don't yet know.

I am thinking to myself. These holidays are somehow strange. Perhaps it's the cold or something else, but I'm reluctant to venture outside if it's not for shopping. I'm not very good at parties, I have to work on this come New Year. I suck at socialising, all the more so if it's socialising with new people. Thank heavens for my long hair, I can hide behind it. And then when I'm comfortable enough I can make an appearance by putting my hair back. It's like a hide and seek thing. As if hair or no hair would hide me anyway, but that's how it feels. I guess I'm regressing into toddler mode, the one when a toddler thinks that hiding his face is also hiding himself. My oh my I seem to be getting younger then. Next will be baby words, but I'll never cry for milk, I hate it anyhow. I hated it always. It's not fair on us, the ones who hate milk, to be force-fed that white liquid since day one. Of course I'd throw it up again and again, because it was the only sign I could give my mum not to do it anymore. She never picked up on it though, and so the throwing up never ceased, and there she was being so anxious that I wouldn't grow up like other kids. Mum, hello? I've grown up all right, without the milk. If only I could have somehow told her that there is just one place where I like milk, and that is in dairy milk chocolate. Nowhere else. It's been this way for 35+ years and my guess is it won't change anytime soon, because old habits are too hard to die. And somehow I am sifting through the habits and thinking there isn't one habit which could be deemed as good. Because all habits owned by me are in overdrive. It's best that I stay away, at least from the chocolate.

Anyway time for the good housewife in me to start running errands. I wonder why they say running. It's not as if errands wear a Nike pair of shoes, a tracksuit and start competing for the marathon. Well, so long.