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WARNING CATS AND PUPPETS BEHIND CUTS
There is a cat on my dining room table.
I think my table has been clear at some point since Tilda and Marlowe joined me, but it has been used as a dumping ground, and it was only the prospect of a houseguest that led to this clearance.
N and I got into a habit - him not being in C over the summer, and then moving away - of having a joint pub crawl to mark our birthdays, between the two birthdays. This has also got into the habit of being pushed back in the year as we try to sync two calendars and the seeming endless list of family commitments on N's part. His working Saturday mornings every fortnight does not help - if only because it squeezes the visit to 24 hours.
This year was particularly delayed (we tried in August), although I would argue it is still between our birthdays. This nearly fell at the last hurdle as I have been hovering on the edge of freshers' flu for ten days, and we pushed it back a weekend, despite the horror which will be the train network next Sunday (don't try to travel between London and east Kent). This gave me another week toput off tidying up, and freed me to go down to see brisingamen, peake, the Krumpies, an exhibition by a colleague's partner and maybe even hook up with K.
However, it turned out that N's attendance at his godparents' daughter's boyfriend's parents' anniversary bash was de rigeur, despite that being a weekend that wasn't one where he would work on a Saturday. Cheers, mate. But I'd more or less got the living room straight, cleaned kitchen and bathroom, removed the piles of books from the spare bed, and corralled various piles into the other half of the spare room. And cleared half the table. It would be this weekend, not next, after all.
I could not do Brisingamen Towers - there's still tidying to do - but I want to meet the cats and I want to go to the exhibition which ends Wednesday. So Saturday I caught the bus (cursing that the return ticket is a mere 10 pence less than the rover ticket) through to Brisingamen towers, killed about ten minutes admiring the landscape, and went to meet the Krumpies.
These are clearly Not Right. Half cat, half squirrel? Half skunk? These are cats which are a generation away from prehensile tales. They pretended to pose for photos, moving at the last instant, but I got a few I liked.
Then along to the gallery, where there was an installation, by Estelle Rosenfeld, based around an old 1930s family photograph - of a family who mostly ended up in Auschwitz. The photo is reinterpreted through puppets, and in toy trains which recreate the journey across Europe from Paris to the camp. I was fascinated by the idea, but perhaps a little worried about this as I am by any art on the Holocaust. Unfortunately, the exhibition wasn't open, gave no indication of when it would open, and had a pile of mail on the mat. I took a couple of photographs and cut my losses.
These losses took me to ASDA where I needed bread, meat, milk and so forth, and I missed a bus by ten seconds. Curses and black puddings. Still, I was back home an hour earlier than anticipated and could tidy some more, as well as doing some mince in case we ate.
N arrived at 5.30, and we set out a couple of hours later for a pub crawl. Usually we begin at the Doves, but there was a semi-private function on and we didn't stop - moving instead to the Old City (funnily enough we never considered the Cross Keys). After one drink we went to the Farmhouse, which hovers awkwardly between venue, restaurant and pub, and felt as welcoming as a morgue. The high street beckoned, and O'Caseys, where I admired the barman's tshirt, and we were amused by Japanese students playing drinking games. We actually had a few at the Carps, where the support band sounded reasonably good punk folk, but my glasses kept steaming up. We popped into the Hobgoblin, which was surprisingly quiet, and finished up at the Bell. Here things get blurred.
I don't remember if I bought a takeaway. N must have. I don't remember the end of the night.
I awoke at 7.30, and fed the cats. If this were a normal Sunday, I'd listen to the radio and fall asleep again. Typically, when needing sleep, I merely shut my eyes. There was cat puke on the floor. Grr. There was cat puke on my battered copy of Millennium Women. It's even more battered now.
At 11 I get up and wash my hair. By the time I've finished, N is up. We chat for a couple of hours, and head into town. I don't feel ok, but should feel less ok than I do. Worst is the memory of a couple of tact free moments I may have had. Screw it. I don't speak my mind often enough. Shame I need to be drunk to do so. We wander through Floodplain House and the Tannery development - I hate these new houses: one set is grey upon grey, the wet November Thursday afternoon of architecture, the other is whiter, but feels like a mouse maze. Then up to the high street - bumping into D - and lunch at Bohos.
I leave N to catch his train - it may be an epic journey - and trudge home via Westgate Gardens. I have a leisurely bath and slide into bed for a couple of hours. I need an early night.
I keep finding Tilda on the table, though, which she's never been on before. It's only a couple of hours later that I find I'd moved the takeaway onto the table, and she's managed to open the plastic box. There wasn't much left, but she's clearly had some. There may be cat puke ahead.
There is a cat on my dining room table.
I think my table has been clear at some point since Tilda and Marlowe joined me, but it has been used as a dumping ground, and it was only the prospect of a houseguest that led to this clearance.
N and I got into a habit - him not being in C over the summer, and then moving away - of having a joint pub crawl to mark our birthdays, between the two birthdays. This has also got into the habit of being pushed back in the year as we try to sync two calendars and the seeming endless list of family commitments on N's part. His working Saturday mornings every fortnight does not help - if only because it squeezes the visit to 24 hours.
This year was particularly delayed (we tried in August), although I would argue it is still between our birthdays. This nearly fell at the last hurdle as I have been hovering on the edge of freshers' flu for ten days, and we pushed it back a weekend, despite the horror which will be the train network next Sunday (don't try to travel between London and east Kent). This gave me another week to
However, it turned out that N's attendance at his godparents' daughter's boyfriend's parents' anniversary bash was de rigeur, despite that being a weekend that wasn't one where he would work on a Saturday. Cheers, mate. But I'd more or less got the living room straight, cleaned kitchen and bathroom, removed the piles of books from the spare bed, and corralled various piles into the other half of the spare room. And cleared half the table. It would be this weekend, not next, after all.
I could not do Brisingamen Towers - there's still tidying to do - but I want to meet the cats and I want to go to the exhibition which ends Wednesday. So Saturday I caught the bus (cursing that the return ticket is a mere 10 pence less than the rover ticket) through to Brisingamen towers, killed about ten minutes admiring the landscape, and went to meet the Krumpies.
These are clearly Not Right. Half cat, half squirrel? Half skunk? These are cats which are a generation away from prehensile tales. They pretended to pose for photos, moving at the last instant, but I got a few I liked.
Then along to the gallery, where there was an installation, by Estelle Rosenfeld, based around an old 1930s family photograph - of a family who mostly ended up in Auschwitz. The photo is reinterpreted through puppets, and in toy trains which recreate the journey across Europe from Paris to the camp. I was fascinated by the idea, but perhaps a little worried about this as I am by any art on the Holocaust. Unfortunately, the exhibition wasn't open, gave no indication of when it would open, and had a pile of mail on the mat. I took a couple of photographs and cut my losses.
These losses took me to ASDA where I needed bread, meat, milk and so forth, and I missed a bus by ten seconds. Curses and black puddings. Still, I was back home an hour earlier than anticipated and could tidy some more, as well as doing some mince in case we ate.
N arrived at 5.30, and we set out a couple of hours later for a pub crawl. Usually we begin at the Doves, but there was a semi-private function on and we didn't stop - moving instead to the Old City (funnily enough we never considered the Cross Keys). After one drink we went to the Farmhouse, which hovers awkwardly between venue, restaurant and pub, and felt as welcoming as a morgue. The high street beckoned, and O'Caseys, where I admired the barman's tshirt, and we were amused by Japanese students playing drinking games. We actually had a few at the Carps, where the support band sounded reasonably good punk folk, but my glasses kept steaming up. We popped into the Hobgoblin, which was surprisingly quiet, and finished up at the Bell. Here things get blurred.
I don't remember if I bought a takeaway. N must have. I don't remember the end of the night.
I awoke at 7.30, and fed the cats. If this were a normal Sunday, I'd listen to the radio and fall asleep again. Typically, when needing sleep, I merely shut my eyes. There was cat puke on the floor. Grr. There was cat puke on my battered copy of Millennium Women. It's even more battered now.
At 11 I get up and wash my hair. By the time I've finished, N is up. We chat for a couple of hours, and head into town. I don't feel ok, but should feel less ok than I do. Worst is the memory of a couple of tact free moments I may have had. Screw it. I don't speak my mind often enough. Shame I need to be drunk to do so. We wander through Floodplain House and the Tannery development - I hate these new houses: one set is grey upon grey, the wet November Thursday afternoon of architecture, the other is whiter, but feels like a mouse maze. Then up to the high street - bumping into D - and lunch at Bohos.
I leave N to catch his train - it may be an epic journey - and trudge home via Westgate Gardens. I have a leisurely bath and slide into bed for a couple of hours. I need an early night.
I keep finding Tilda on the table, though, which she's never been on before. It's only a couple of hours later that I find I'd moved the takeaway onto the table, and she's managed to open the plastic box. There wasn't much left, but she's clearly had some. There may be cat puke ahead.
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