A Cat's Life

I realised that our cat, Milo, is the most chilled member of the house. Of course, truthfully, he has the least to do. Sleep on the couch, eat breakfast, head upstairs to the vacated bed, lie down for the day. Head down stairs, eat some more, get on the couch. But is it traditionally the cat that is the most relaxed member of the household?

We’re all pretty chilled, really, even Bud, just don’t try and take him off the couch, then he turns into growling monster bulldog, until his paws touch down on the carpet. Then he has his mad eyes on, willing me to explode, as he sits between my legs. Then he relaxes, I feel his tension go. He harrumphs. And he goes to his bed.

It’s a cat’s life though. Only the very best people must get to come back as cats.

I put Nancy Wilson on. It always reminds me of being a kid with a migraine. When I say kid, early to late teens. It was the only thing that fixed it, Nancy Wilson. I was lucky I had a father who joined up to one of those record clubs, and who got a number of albums he, perhaps, didn't want before he mastered the automatic monthly order facility. Lush Life, in a dark room, hand, literally, draped over my brow. Migraines are debilitating. Not to be disturbed.

And they were still mystified when I came out as gay at 25. (chuckle) The clues were there people.

Now it is into a $500 pair of noise cancelling headphones, so you can understand that it is my own peculiar little world. My very own solitude. The outside world goes on as if in some else’s peripheral vision somewhere.

Some memories you just have to laugh at. Another person. Another life. But, it gave me my first taste of great jazz, and a great black lady singer, the stars had aligned.

Nancy Wilson is the best. Now a days. Smoke a joint. Put your feet up. Where did that behaviour come from, I ask you? Busy day. I just have to get the cat off the couch. Laptop on my lap, who'd have thought.

They call it stormy Monday, but Tuesdays just as bad...

Of course, it drives Sam mad, we know that. The sitting back, feet up, stoned thing. Apparently, you have to do something, every day. Who knew?

This job thing is very curios, coming alone at this time, you know after a delivery, and two weeks alone, the house to myself. I have to pull it together for, essentially, a job interview, 12pm Thursday. (Oh, the pain) They all know me, I have worked there before. I still can't go in in track suit pants with my eyes hanging out. Still, if I work for a few months, tops things up for this year and for next year. Groan. Too sensible. I hope they don’t want me to work for more than a few months, and then I could only commit to three days. I can’t do more than that per week, otherwise my week morphs into something completely different, all work, no play. It seems the bone idle even have to work sometime.

I met up with an old friend, a writing friend, for breakfast Sunday morning. I can do mornings, I quite like them. Just don’t ask me to come out in the evenings, they can be so long and boring. I’m glad she didn’t ask me if I have been writing. I hate that question.

I find my emergency secateurs, I haven't been able to find my real pair I have looked everywhere. And its rubbish day. I never throw things out, I knew there would be a pair in one of the cupboards.

Adele is the anti dote to Nancy Wilson.

I chop up all the branches that have been falling in all the wind we’ve been having lately. I clean up the back yard, swept the paths, picked up the debris. Who says I don’t do anything?

11.11am. It rains.

I stew apples and pears. Green and yellow fill my kitchen. Autumn colours. It is a good batch too, sweet and juicy.

Sam is at some conference, so he won’t be home for lunch. He walked off on the wrong side of our street this morning, I meant to question him. Send him a message. Ask why? Now I know.

I am getting my own lunch. That calls for a joint.

11.30am. I light a fire.

I contemplate a movie, just like a song, my god this reminds me, of when we were young.