Definitely winter Downunder

An excuse to put up a couple of shots of Lui – an amazingly cheap new cat basket that my friend J found at Kmart for her inherited mog Sooty and was persuaded to buy another for Lui:

As for why it’s where it is, on a chair that it really don’t fit in … that black chair I bought second-hand for a good price, without thinking. His Maj instantly took to it, so that I have to shroud it in a large green sheet until someone visits. I then whip the sheet off, trying to ensure getting the fur-bespeckled side on the outside when I fold it and almost invariably not succeeding … Hey ho, into the washing-machine again. Does Lui’s fur come off things easily ? Only when someone sits where he’s been … Otherwise the answer is NONONONONO.

Sighh …

Here I am …

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go and not be questioned.

—Maya Angelou

There have been times – many of them, I think – when I have felt strongly that someone was about to hector me about something. Not Chic: he hectored me on so few occasions that I can no longer remember them. This feeling goes back to my youth – to my home and my school. Why it wraps its hood around me at this stage of my life is pretty weird and says a fair bit about me, alas.

But now …? Now I still experience the daily early morning waking up believing myself not alone, just for a second or two; but the – ahh – haunting hectoring :) has gone. Deo gratias (there had to be some usefulness obtained from my Catholic upbringing !). Just as well: it used to enrage me that a woman of my years could allow herself to shrink from being lectured again, just as she was 60 years and more ago. Seems to me that the greater part of my childhood was spent in having fingers wagged at me. Sighh …


The point I’m getting to so obliquely and slowly is that I’m in seventh heaven in my new place. I sit in any one of my recliner chairs with my laptop – once Lui has gone back to bed, this is – with the sun pouring in through the front window and the little side yard that has all my pot-plants in it deriving as much pleasure from this as do I … I put all last night’s dishes into my wonderful little Domain dish-washer and it’s just finished; I’ve had my second coffee for the morning from my totally excellent Breville Dynamic Duo – earlier than usual; I’m amusing myself with inserting all these unpaid ads, sort of; my doted-on handyman is coming this-arvo to hang all my photos and put up towel-rails and hand-towel rails; the MACS handyman has just brought back my rubbish-bins from whatever place they were taken to last evening …

Tomorrow I start taking photos. Be warned.   :)

Ah ! – life is good. La vita è bella, vero. It matters not that I am ancient: there is much joy to be found in the most ordinary, everyday things. I am finally home.


The philosophy of leaving

You can see that’s what’s on my ancient mind, yes ?

Not on Lui’s: he has no idea what ghastliness awaits him tomorrow. I do, alas ! – and I hate it all beyond words … He detests so much being put into his carry-case that we always end up having a fight about it (I come off worst every time). Still, once he’s in there it’s not so bad. Besides, I mean to pop him the contents of a capsule in his brekkie; and that might work in an hour or two to make him a bit calmer. Chasing my beautiful moggy around the house is not my idea of fun.    :(

Back to the philosophical thingy … One must get one’s act together for this – and I should know, having done it five times already since first arriving in Geelong, at the end of April 2016 ! It is completely loathesome, moving (I must be the worst masochist alive !), so the adoption of a calm and serene attitude is necessary.

I wish I knew how to do that.

So this quote from a blog by someone called ‘Mon Arce’ is both right and wrong: for me there is never a door left half-open – it’s simply goodbye. Am I brave ? – in this case, perhaps a little.

That’s all, she wrote …

Thoughts one shouldn’t think

Been thinking about this business of the weight of years. One does, that’s all I can say. It doesn’t mean anything sinister or depressing: it just means that my nails need cutting and I’m sitting here putting it off, so have time on my hands (so to speak).

The loss of stuff is the main irritant: collagen and the like, you know ? The backs of my hands ! – how can there be so many little sharp wrinkles ?! How come I keep finding little places on my skin (not my hands) where odd dry bits are; and if I scratch at ’em I make a sore ?! Why did I need to have cataracts removed and replaced with artificial lenses that mean I can’t see anything close up any more ? – I spent my entire life being able to look at things held six inches from my eyes; but since last September I can’t see anything much closer than bloody infinity ! I wish I’d done what P did, and had close vision lenses put in: I’ve had to get multi-focals again, with the top part nothing at all, the middle (a very small middle) laptop distance and the bottom for C&K.

Why is it that I stiffen up when sitting here and walk like a duck when I first arise from the seated position ? Why do I need a goddam nanna nap most afternoons ? – and after one, look like someone had pressed my face with a large tamper ? (Actually, it could be an ordinary-sized tamper that they’ve applied a lot of times.)

I really do know the answers to these not-too-inscrutable questions; but every so often they gather about me again and fly in my face. Which reminds me: is my chin just like Mitch McConnell’s ?, or am I being merely morose ?

And the stuff people publish about how to beat this ! – hard to credit that there are many who take it all very seriously and do their utmost to avoid the A word.

Still. Bottom line: I don’t mind it. It’s just that sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in some reflective surface and am actually startled: WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN ?!

(I shall search out a pic. of me and Lui when I’ve just woke up from a you-know … n-n … because I’m not too ashamed to reveal the ghastliness. Just don’t know right now where I filed it.)

Found it. It’s worse than I thought; kinda wish I hadn’t shown bravado …

But you must admit that whilst I look like I’ve been dragged backwards through a bush, Lui looks his usual sublime self.   :)

Which isn’t fair: at 12½ cat years he’s almost exactly my age ! PFUH ! It’s like I’ve always said: men only get better-looking as they age, whilst women …