Category: antidote to writer’s life

DAISY’S DIRY – The thoughts of small cat on lockdown. Episode III

Jacky Colliss HarveyLeave a comment

I may be but small cat with tail on the wrong way round, and not at all Thinker of Great Thorts like Bird, but even I know there are two things every cat must establish soon as they get a Hoomann to look after. Number 1 is Ground Rules, and Number 2 is Routine. And these are speshally important now everything in Hooman world Outside has gone a bit squiggly, with Bloody Carniverus rampaging about out there. Therefore, Bird says, we should share our tips as being of great value to cats and Hoomans alike, so here goes.

First of all, Bed. It is most important to teach Hooman proper etiket of Bed from Day One. Bed is ours, and that is that, so take no notice of Hooman Moaning where Bed is concerned. Our Hooman, for example, says being in bed with us is like playing world’s worst game of Norts and Crosses (sorry, Hooman thing, no idea), because whichever corner she tries to put herself in, one of us is there first. Now this is just Hooman Nonsense as we don’t sleep on the corners (perish the thort!); I sleep draped nicely over Hooman hip and Bird sleeps on her head. We recommend this arrangement. First of all, it is handy for URKS, should such be needed (see below), but with Things As They Are it also means it is easy for you to check your Hooman is safe and well at regular intervals throughout night. You can do this simply by stretching out paw till it is in Hooman’s eye. If Hooman gives mighty jump and goes eeeuargh!, all is well.

Then you want nice early start. We start our Hooman at 5am. Hooman’s come in two sorts, Bird tells me, the Morning sort and the Not Morning sort, and ours is the Not Morning sort, so often requires a bit of Dancing On and Squeaking At to wake her up properly, and sometimes Bird even has to resort to what Hooman calls the Yeti Noise, which is Bird going URK into Hooman’s ear in her deepest voice, as loud as she can. Then Bird and me have our breakfast crunchies, and then we do Mad Cats, up and down the hall. We usually let Hooman go back to bed while we do Mad Cats, until it is time for even Not Morning Hoomans to get up, except for the odd occasion when I get so excited I barf up breakfast on the rug. Hooman is very good at getting up then, and this, says Bird, is important trick to pass on – if you need your Hooman up in a hurry, make barf noise. We have taught ours this, and it’s never failed yet.

Once Hooman is up, you must take them to pee. For some reason this is first thing Hoomans have to do, soon as they are up on back paws. This is another Ground Rule: while it is unfurgivable error for Hooman to enter bathroom when one of us is in the litter tray, it is vital that all Hooman pees are closely supervised. This is my job, and with Things As They Are, I always check Hooman’s right knee with nose while I do it, to be sure Carniverus did not make off with knee overnight. Then it is time for 2nd breakfast, and another Rule, because again it is unfurgivable Hooman error to allow bottom of kitty-dish to be visible, EVER. Inadvertent glance into bottom of kitty-dish is worst thing that can happen to a cat, punishable by not just barf, but by pee on rug, as well.

Time was, our Hooman would then head off to Libree, and Bird and me would have Kitty Qwiet Time, but now we all have our Hoomans home ALL DAY, there are xtra duties of regular checking up on them to be done. Our Hooman now spends day tappytapping away at desk, so we have to go back and forth, back and forth, back and forth… I always make sure Carniverus has not snuck onto Hooman lap without her noticing when it is my turn to check on her, even though Hooman moans that with me on lap she can barely reach keyboard (so?????), while Bird does Desk Patrol, and checks pencils still obeying gravity. If Hooman gets up, we escort her safely into kitchen, which is also chance to check on kitty-dish/crunchies situation, and Take Akshun, if needed.

End of Day sees Hooman on the sofa, writing to Monster in Merica. Soon as lap is free of annoying small tappytappy thing (kitten – we think – of big tappytappy thing on desk), it is ours, and sometimes we make it ours even if Hooman is still doing tappytappy on it, because it is also important Hooman understands Who Is Boss, which is me ow ow OW no OK Bird it is you.

And then we come to Most Important Part of Day, which is Kitty Play Time.

As every cat knows, best and faverit Kitty Play Time is when Hooman has brushed teeth and is just getting into bed, which is when you should charge into bedroom and leap onto bed to show her you are now ready for Play. Our faverit game is String, and way to play String is this: we hide under bed, behind quilt Monster bought, and Hooman trails String along carpet, making exciting chase noises as she does so, and then we Ambush. This always makes Hooman laugh, no matter how much moaning and complaining she may have done about wanting to put light off and go to sleep before. ‘You have entire Toy-Box of goodies,’ Hooman says, ‘and all you want to play with is a piece of string.  You’re cheap dates, you two.’

And that, of course, is whole point of Kitty Play Time, and why no matter how much your Hooman may moan on about being tired, Play Time is Most Important Part of Day. Because when you do Play Time with a Hooman, you are showing them that no matter how squiggly it may get out there, some things will never change, and one is that when Hoomans do String, cats will always make them laugh. And that when they sleep, we will be there too – me draped over Hooman’s hip, and Bird on her head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

DAISY’S DIRY The thoughts of small cat on lockdown. Episode II.

Jacky Colliss HarveyLeave a comment

Dear Diry, likewise World Outside and Cats of Posterity

This is coming to you from under Bed, and not because Monster is here again, either, no Monster is Still Stuck in Merica for Months. This is coming to you from under Bed because Hooman is doing Housework. This means Hoover is out AAAAAARGHHHH, and not only that – Hooman is doing Angry Housework, the very worst kind, the sort where she shouts things over Hoover noise. I tell you, Kitty Quiet Time round here is but fond memory.

But Hooman, it seems, has lots to be angry about. First of all there is Monster, Still Stuck in Merica. Then a fellow Hooman was trying to tell her that people should all be buying extra Hooman crunchies in case there is Shortage. Shortage of Crunchies sounded pretty serious to Bird and me, but our Hooman says no, if there is Shortage, she says, ‘It will be caused by bleeping idiots like that. It’s like those bleeping WHUURRRR WHUUUUUR cretins who whine on and on about how they’re stuck in a bleep-bleeping WHURRRRR traffic jam without thinking how they are the goddam bleep WHURRRR traffic-jam. BLEEEEP!’ and she yanked Hoover across the carpet so hard that even though Bird says Hoover is Instrument of the Borsh the Borg WELL BIRD YOU SPELL IT THEN Bourgeoisie whose one aim in life is to eat Mousie (as well as making horrible WHURRRR WHURRRR noise), I almost felt sorry for it. Almost.

Then it seems that along with bleeping idiots and Carniverus, there is something out there in the world called the Lying Orange Liar. Lying Orange Liar is meant to be taking care of Merica, where Monster is, and keeping everyone in Merica safe from Carniverus, but isn’t interested in doing anything unless it means extra Crunchies for him. Lying Orange Liar, to quote Hooman, is bloated whitehead on nose of humanity. I asked Bird what that meant and she says it is like when we were in rescue place, before Hooman rescued us, and both had itchy butt-buttons, only worse.

Hooman then sat down with little book and pencil with chewy thing on end, and started using chewy thing to rub out writing in little book. Bird and I had come out from under bed by now, seeing as how Hoover was back in cage (also I wanted to make sure Mousie was safe in Toy Box and had not been et), and did all we could to help – inspecting pencil when Hooman waved it about and testing chewy bit, and I even gave her the tummy, but no. Nothing helped. Still shouty. Monster’s birthday – gone. Visit to her Mummy – gone. Trip to Paris with Nice Friend Lee – gone. ‘Three bleeping months of this,’ says Hooman, ‘and that’s if we’re lucky. We’d better start getting used to each other, girls.’

I looked at Bird and Bird looked at me. It seemed to us we could hear faint evil antispatory whurrrrr of pleasure from Hoover’s cage in kitchen. Three months of Angry Housework? Three months without Kitty Quiet Time? BLEEEPING EEEEP! Pass the nip!

 

DAISY’S DIRY

Jacky Colliss Harvey1 Comment

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Dear World Outside

The Hooman has at last left Inside, wearing her bouncy big-shoes (the ones where you have to watch your tail), so Bird and me are going to try to write our first diry entry. Or at least Bird tells me she is going to be the writer, like Hooman, and I am going to bong and bing the letters out as best I can. I asked why it had to be she who was writer and me and my nose who had to bong and bing, and Bird said it is because she is older and bigger than me, and everyone knows black cats are the smartest. From each according to their ability, says Bird, that is what Soshlists believe; and I am but little sister whose tail is on the wrong way round. Also without Plittikal Wareness.

The reason for the diry is that we think Something Odd is going on out there, and Bird says it is important we record it for Cats of Posterity.  And we think this because Hooman is most unexpeck most unecks is always here. There is no more going off after our breakfast to the Libree, there is no coming home with treats, she is just always here, here, here. Oh says Bird, for the days when she was left in peace with great thoughts and I was left in peace with Mousie and Toy Box. Hooman is now not only always here but seems to be unable to walk past either of us without picking us up for cuddle. What happened to Kitty Quiet Time, Hooman? I don’t think I got more than four uninterrupted naps this morning!

Also, Hooman has been doing squeaky thing, and when she picked me up yesterday in middle of squeaky thing, she was being leaky too – eeugh! Aaargh! Apparently the thing that had upset her and made her squeaky was news that Monster is Stuck In MERICA For MONTHS. We are quite fond of Monster, Bird and me, as he means Double Laps, and Four-Handed Stroking, mmmmmm, but he also means we all have to share Bed. We are happy to share Bed with Hooman, but Monster takes up too much room and means Bird and I end up on Sofa. So him being Stuck In MERICA For MONTHS seems like Not Bad Thing to us, especially as CatGod knows, it looks like there will be plenty of naps we have to catch up on. I appreciate that Monster matters to Hooman at least almost half as much as we do, but was it really necessary to kiss me so hard my top whiskers not only got wet, but bent as well?

So far as we can tell, all this is due to fact that Outside there is now thing called Bloody Carniverus. What Bloody Carniverus might be we have no idea (sort of Dog, maybe?), but Bird says she thinks he/it/they is reason why no Monster, and also why no Kitty Quiet Time, so is clearly Very Bad Thing. So it is a bit worrying when Hooman is out there in same place as it, even if she does have bouncy big-shoes on, to run away. Without her, who will serve up Crunchies, and whose head will I sleep on? Also Hooman is a bit off her cushion today, like me when I have had too much Nip, as she gave us extra treats before she went out without remembering we’d had them already. To each according to her needs said Bird, but my need is for Hooman to do chin rubs and find Mousie when Mousie has got stuck under Chair and what if Hooman gets lost too, because out there is HUGE. And now I need to pee.

Oh meow! Hooman has returned! She came running into bathroom while I was still in litter-box to wash hand-things. Excuse me, Hooman! ‘It’s like Twenty-Eights Days Later out there,’ she said, (which is? What cat can tell?) as I did my best to ignore her and finish pee with dignity. ‘Only without the zombies. Everyone’s in masks like Hannibal Lecter.’ (Again, we have no idea.) She had brought big bottle back with her, which went into fridge. ‘There may be no loo-roll,’ she declared, seizing Bird and bending Bird’s top whiskers for a change, ‘there may be no pasta, but as long as we have pinot grigio, we’ll survive, little ladies won’t we? Now, who hasn’t had any treats yet this morning?’

ME! we both said, at once. I’m telling you, completely off her cushion. Eeeps!

TO BE CONTINUED….

 

HEY NONNY? NO! On misbehaving wildlife

Jacky Colliss HarveyLeave a comment

Despite all that Ciara and Dennis could come up with between them, the wildlife in E14 has heard the call of Spring, and once heard, never forgotten. No matter that the waves on the dock outside my front window have whitecaps, that the spiders who live on the window have all huddled in the corners of the frames, that the trees in the garden are almost horizontal in the wind; furred or feathered, one and all, they know what season it is, and what they are meant to be getting up to in it.

It all makes for some truly shocking public misbehavior.

Reynard – where in London is there not a Reynard, I ask you? – goes trotting down the quayside of an evening, tail bushed and whiskers twitching; and just in case the fact that this is date-night somehow slips his mind, Mrs Reynard, or Mrs Reynard-to-be, rather, serenades us from the centre of the garden at 1am, sat there on her haunches as if she owned the place, shrieking ‘I want a boyfriend and I want him now!’ Cue the snapping on of lights all over the building, the wailing of children startled from their slumbers, and AirBnBers staggering out onto their balconies, peering down into the darkened garden, trying to identify the spot from which the desperate shrieks and screams are issuing and what on earth it is, down there, that can be producing them. Last time it happened, some newby, uninitiated in the ways of London wildlife, and convinced that somewhere down there in the garden, murder was being done, actually called the police. We all got back to bed at three-ish. Hey ho.

Then there are the seagulls. It’s too windy for them out at sea, so the dock at present is thick with them, squabbling and yawping, and performing the kind of aerial ballet just outside the windows guaranteed to drive a kitty-cat insane. Bird – by far the smarter of my two felines – hunkers down and watches them entranced, nothing moving but the ears; but Daisy (smaller, dumber) goes into a frenzy every time, leaping up onto the arm of the sofa, tail lashing the air, and doing this demented feline machine-gun impersonation – ‘Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-AH!’ – as if shooting the gulls down mid-air. Any one of them would be big enough to carry her off as the giant roc did Sinbad. Seriously, the idea of this cat lasting even five minutes out there on her own is absurd. There’s something about small seems to double-down in the natural world on feisty: shrews pursue each other through the chippings on the flower-beds, sending dusty puffs of bark into the air whenever they meet, like small atomic explosions; whilst the colony of wrens who have taken up residence in our otherwise undistinguished selection of spiky shrubs have territorial sing-offs and joust almost to the death. There are grebes out there on the water, a pair of them doing their springtime disco mirror-dance (head up, head down. Head up, head down. Head bobble, head bobble. Head up, head down. Big fish, little fish, cardboard box); prelude to tiny baby grebes, stripy as toothpaste and streamlined as if extruded from a tube. There are cormorants, too, also bobbing up and down as they fish (‘Guess where I’m, going to surface next! Nope, fooled you!’), then hanging themselves out to dry off like big tattered flags. Why Mother Nature thought there was a place for a non-waterproof diving bird in the grand scheme of things I have no idea, but no corner of the dock is complete without one of them at present, wings extended, baring their all. C’mon ladies, they seem to be saying. Smell me pits.

And then there are the coots. I should preface this by saying that technically, my neighbourhood coots are citizens of Millwall, and then further explain for those not up on English football that for years, the favourite chant from the terraces for any Millwall fan was ‘No-one likes us. No-one likes us. No-one likes us. We don’t care,’ sung to the tune of Rod Stewart’s We Are Sailing. During the worst of the bad old days of football hooliganism, Millwall was synonymous with getting your head kicked in. It’s moot as to how much, even then, Millwall deserved their lousy reputation; but clearly it was something in the water, because the Millwall coots are thugs. They’re bloody awful parents too, apparently, semi-starving their multitudinous broods of chicks until the weakest ones quietly die, but the anti-social behaviour sets in long before that. Let one Millwall coot spot another Millwall coot in the water at this time of year, and the pair of them round on each other, heads lowered, and power forward at ramming speed, like something out of Ben Hur, whilst the cootettes gather in a huddle to the side, squeaking ‘Leave it, Gary, leave it! He’s not wurf it, you know ‘e’s not!’ Not only that, but let any bit of seasonal bovver start up amongst the moorhens, say, or the resident mallards, and every coot on the dock streams toward the aggro at once. I’ve watched one have a go at its own reflection in a floating plastic bag, piling in with those comedy lobed willow-green feet in a slap-fest of fury. The amount of testosterone these daft birds have in their systems in spring-time is absurd. They’re positively fizzing with it, like an out-of-date yoghurt. No flipping wonder that they’re bald!

HARD BODY: On going to the gym

Jacky Colliss Harvey1 Comment

Screenshot 2020-02-05 at 14.44.12

As a writer, most of your day will be spent hunched over your keyboard, peering from an unhealthily close distance at your screen. Your sustenance will be flagons of coffee in the morning, and gallons of tea in the afternoon. Your lower legs will be knotted around each other in either terror or excitement, depending on how the Muse is behaving today, with your entire body-weight resting in effect on one butt-cheek and one big toe. This will become apparent only when you attempt to stand, when you will realize that all feeling has departed from said toe, possibly never to return, and that the butt-cheek is now busy informing you by every means it can that you need a hip replacement. Your fingers will be bitten; your eyes will be scrunched. Your lower lip will be chewed like a dog-toy, and possibly your upper lip as well.

As the ideal antidote to all of this, you may wish to take yourself down to the gym: unbend, de-knot, stand tall and breathe from the diaphragm. Here is a writerly guide to some of the items of equipment you will encounter if you do.

Cross-Trainer

This is an excellent machine to start with, especially for a writer. The contradiction of trying to pull the handles back toward you whilst your feet advance on an endless trek to nowhere is a perfect metaphor for the writer’s life. It comes complete with graphics of a pounding heart to monitor how close your lifestyle choices have brought you to cardiac wipe-out, and on the more advanced models a TV screen where (since the cat chewed through your ear-buds) you can watch in eerie silence the world you will never be part of again.

The Leg-Press

Do you remember the pose in which the exploded fossilized alien was discovered in Ridley Scott’s Prometheus? That’s the one you want to adopt here. It is an excellent research tool should you ever need to describe the torments of a sandwich trapped in a sandwich-maker.

The Pull-Down

The Pull-Down exercises the latissimus dorsi, the biceps, and a tiny muscle you never knew you had in your right index finger, which will suddenly start screaming like a bitch. It was a favourite with Torquemada.

The Standing Leg Curl

Speaking of Torquemada, you really should try this. It pretends it’s there to strengthen your hamstrings, whereas an acquaintance of mere seconds will be enough to convince you that its true purpose is to bring you to confess every deep-buried shameful secret of your inmost soul, and then to die.

The Half-Rack

Oh please. How graphic does a name have to be?

The Leg Raise Dip

Place your back against the big bit of padding, and let your arms rest on the two smaller pieces. Yes, what, indeed, are you supposed to do with your legs? If the oxymoron in its name isn’t enough to warn you off, the experience of once trying to raise your legs to your chest on this one, in defiance of all the laws of physics in the known universewill certainly do so instead.

The Foam-Roller

This is neither hard enough nor heavy enough to be of any use in putting you out of your misery, no matter how much you beg.

The Ab-Crunch Bench

This is designed to reduce pressure, whilst you crunch, on the back and neck. But since it will already have caused you to push all the major organs out of your body, that’s not really going to be a concern for you, is it?

Kettlebells

These are heavy. They have handles. They lend themselves to being swung at head height. Are you choreographing a murder mystery? Then their usefulness to you should be obvious.

The Preacher Bench

The reason the seasoned gym-goer sitting on this one appears to be judging you as you pass by is because of course they are. If they should begin to denounce you out loud, the proper course of action is to hide in the toilets until the gym closes, leave via the fire exit, and never return.

The Rowing Machine

Think of poor Douglas Adams. Don’t go near it.

The Peck-Deck

This machine exercises the pectoralis major and the deltoids. If your burning ambition is to look as if you are wearing epaulettes even when naked, this is the one for you.

The Leg Abduction Machine

This one abducts your legs and refuses to release them. It opens you up as if you are a book, and your legs are the covers. It is recommended for writers of science fiction in particular, as the position it puts you in is exactly the one your character will be forced to adopt after they have been abducted by aliens: helplessly pinioned with legs akimbo, screaming for rescue. Again, an excellent research tool.

The Hammer Strength Machine

Would you rather be a hammer or a nail? This machine gives you the opportunity to experience the sensations endured by both, simultaneously.

The Stability Ball

It’s a ball. By no stretch of the imagination could it ever be described as stable. Don’t be surprised if this is the one you find yourself attempting to balance on, in those dreams where you are trapped in the gym butt naked, and being denounced by the guy on the preacher bench. Second cousin to –

The Wall Ball

This is the one for the end of your workout. Position this securely between your forehead and the wall, and you will be ready to start banging the former upon the latter. Three reps, of 20 concussions each, and don’t forget to stretch.