Michelle, with a resolution to be blogging regularly about red tape, Kitteh Princess Pippa, Trouble with Travel, and many more little quirks in life that thwart or delight . . .

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

That would be the  completely fabulous Christopher Hitchens, whether I agreed with him or not on different issues. Christopher Hitchens. Christopher Hitchens. Christopher Hitchens. I want to say his name many times, do NOT forget his name.

I can’t even tell you what a great public debator/orator  he was. There are no words to describe. Simply one of the best of public debators in the world. Oh, just go to Richard Dawkins’ website to see the obits.

http://richarddawkins.net/articles/644246-christopher-hitchens-obituaries

Hitch, I will miss you muchly!

Love,

Michelle xxx

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

Yes, but what does that have to do with anything, Michelle, I hear you cry?

Well, on Saturday, Kitteh Princess Pippa caught a sparrow. She caught a sparrow despite the fact that she is 12 years old, and despite the fact that she wears a pink, diamante collar adorned with a very twinkly, tinkly bell (courtesy of Borg Sector R). And despite the fact that she knows I hate her catching birds, because she has done it before, and I have expressed my displeasure by frowning and telling her not to do it again.

Yes, I know that this is what cats do. They catch things. They torment things. They play with things. Much like Sir Terry’s elves in Lords And Ladies. Nobody ever said that elves were nice. Nobody ever said that cats were nice, either.

Anyway. I could see when I came out into the garden that Kitteh Princess Pippa had something small and feathery in her mouth, so I leaped into action.

“Open your mouth right now,” I called, as I ran toward her flapping my arms (why I flapped my arms I have no idea, it just seemed like a good idea).

But she had other ideas. She ran around the garden with the sparrow in her mouth, and me in pursuit. She ran into the kitchen, sparrow in mouth, and me still in pursuit. Still flapping my arms. Down the hall, halfway up the stairs she went. And then she dropped the sparrow and ran back down the stairs into the living room. I closed her into the living room and went back to inspect the poor little bird.

Definitely dead, I thought. Definitely not resting. Definitely not stunned. Definitely deceased. Definitely it was no more. I mean, it was lying there, eyes closed, legs up in the air, much like the dead parrot in that wonderful Monty Python comedy routine. Like the parrot, the sparrow was not pining for the fijords.

What should I do? Should I bury it? No, Kitteh Princess Pippa would be bound to try and dig it up. So I got an old rag, picked up the sparrow, and put it into the empty trash can just outside my garden gate.

About an hour later I had cause to take a bag of trash to put in the trash can. Imagine my surprise when I lifted the lid and there, sitting on the bottom of the trash can, full of life, was the sparrow. Looking up at me with its very life-filled eyes. Thank goodness I hadn’t buried it alive!

So I left the lid off the trash can and came back into the house.

Ten minutes later I re-checked the trash can, and the sparrow had flown away. Whew.

But I am seriously thinking of making some tiny bird-sized cards with the words, “I ATE’NT DEAD” on them. Just in case there’s a next time.

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

Anyway, it was no surprise when, during a particularly loud, ear-drum shattering spin cycle last week, the washing machine went *BANG* and finally died.

I’ve been putting off getting a new one for ages, because I find washing-machine shopping so deadly dull, boring, and intimidating. Yes, intimidating, because washing machines these days come with so many features and different cycles that I get easily confused.

All I really want the machine to do is to a) wash clothes at different temperatures, and b) spin the clothes at different speeds. If a garment is that bloody picky that it needs a special washing-machine feature I am either a) not going to buy it in the first place, b) wash it by hand, or c) take it to the dry cleaners.

To recap: I do not want a washing machine that gets up on the table and does a song and dance routine, or one that can change my flat tyre. I just want it to wash and spin the clothes. Story. End of.

So, in order to get the buying of a new washing machine out of the way, Oh Patient One and I set off first thing Saturday morning to the washing machine shop. It was quiet. There was only one other couple in the shop apart from us. They were clearly being given a tour and description of EVERY SINGLE ONE of the million trillion (seemed like) washing machines in the store.

Oh Patient One and I immediately set about looking for our perfect washing machine. I.e., one that did not cost a fortune, one that would fulfill our requirements. We wanted a white one. A white one with basic settings. Within five minutes we’d found it. And then Nice Sales Assistant appeared, pouf, as if from nowhere, and began asking us questions about washing machines.

This is what happened. . .

Nice Sales Assistant: “Good morning Sir, Madam, can I be of assistance to you?”

Oh Patient One and me in unison: “Yes, please. We’d like to buy a washing machine.” Talk about stating the obvious. Why else would we be sacrificing precious Saturday time if not to buy a washing machine in a washing machine store?

Nice Sales Assistant: ” Excellent. May I show you our full range of machines? Now, this one is very nice. Although it costs a trillion pounds, it’s worth every penny, because it will also do your banking for you and change the flat tyre on your car.

Oh Patient One and me: “Er, no thanks, we’d actually like to buy–” this one, we nearly said but didn’t get the chance to.

Nice Sales Assistant: “Or how about this Super Delux Zoomer? It only costs five trillion pounds, but apart from doing your banking and changing your flat tyres, it also has a special setting for Molravian Spider Silk delicates.”

It was then, just as we had a sinking feeling that we were going to have to have the full tour of the gazillion washing machines, that I came up with An Idea.

Me: “Excuse me.”

Nice Sales Assistant: “Or this Super SUPER Delux Zoomer that will also take care of your Vulcan silk items–”

Me: Excuse me, but isn’t it bad to have so many special settings?”

Nice Sales Assistant (clearly perplexed): “Um, why would that be a BAD thing?”

Me: “Well, I was thinking that with so many different settings and special features, a person would have to run at least ten or twenty loads instead of just one or two or three, and wouldn’t that just waste water and power and be bad for the planet?”

Nice Sales Assistant: “Um. I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

Me: “So, it’s really nice of you to show us all these machines, but we’ve already made our choice.”

Nice Sales Assistant: “You have? Goodness, you’re the fastest customers I’ve ever helped. Which one do you want?”

Oh Patient One and I: “We want this one.”

Nice Sales Assistant sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and set about completing the paperwork. Within five minutes we’d paid, and been assured of a next-day delivery, and our old machine taken away.

As we left the store Oh Patient One turned to me and said, “Nice one. You do realize that you’ve just saved us a whole Saturday morning of washing machine boredom.”

Me, with a smile: “I aim to please.”

And then the following day the new machine arrived, was installed, and we all have clean clothes.

And then I threw away the protective ear gear.

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

But about the cat eating my homework. . .

Since Kitteh Princess Pippa came to live with us after my mother died, she has taken over the whole Cunnah household by devious means of Kitteh ESP. Also, she has become picky.

Don’t believe me? Well, no, I don’t really think she has developed Kitteh ESP, but it certainly seems that way. But she has become INCREDIBLY picky.

Maybe it’s because it’s Halloween, but this is what happened earlier.

Me (opening front door at 4.45pm after day job):  “Hello Kitteh!” (LOL, I’ve always wanted to say that.)

Kitteh ESP vibes from Kitteh Princess Pippa (waiting for me in the hall because her Kitteh ESP senses tell her that I am due home):  “Abouwt tiiiiime. Come fid me nau. Nau. Nau, I tell you. I is hungry. I can has cheezeburger?” (LOL, I’ve always wanted to say that, too.)

Me (walking through to kitchen and opening kitty food cupboard): “Kitteh, come and have some lovely, lovely senior kitty food.”

Meanwhile, Kitteh Princess Pippa decides that she is 2 rather than 12, and does a mad kitteh running up and down the stairs thing because a) she is pissed at me for being out and leaving her alone for several hours, and b) she is pissed at Borg Sector R for currently being in NJ, rather than being in the UK, and therefore unavailable to meet her every whim while I am at work.

I open a sachet of food and put it in a clean bowl for her, then put it on her kitteh mat in the kitchen.

Kitteh Princess Pippa finally finishes her mad dashing around and saunters into the kitchen, nose and tail high in the air. She heads for the back door.

Kitteh Princess Pippa ESP vibes: “Let me ouuuuuut. Ouuuuut nauuuwwwwww.”

Obligingly, I open the back door for her, and again, she decides that she is 2 rather than 12 and climbs the fence to go check out her domain.

Five minutes later I get the strangest feeling that she is by the back door waiting to be let in. And there she is!

More mad dashing around and lots of meowing. Lots of meowing. And more kitteh vibes, because she has forgotten that I have just put new food down for her and thinks it has been there since this morning. She does not like old food, no she does not, and I don’t blame her. But this food has only been down there for 15 minutes max. I mean, how picky can a kitteh get?

Me, as Kitteh Princess Pippa IGNORES the new food and meows: “That is new food. Come on, go taste it, you’ll LOVE it.”

Kitteh Princess Pippa vibes: “Nonononono. Is OLD fud. Fid me NU fud.”

Me, exasperated: “It’s NEW food. Come on, just try it. You know you want to.”

Kitteh Princess Pippa vibes: “Nonononono. Is OLD fud. Fid me NU fud.”

How frustrating is that? But no way am I going to give in. For goodness’ sake, this is NEW FOOD. I am not going to give in, I tell myself. Ohm, no, I am not. Breathe deeply. Ohm. . .

Ten minutes later after more whining, and running around like a 2-year-old instead of a 12-year-old, Kitteh Princess Pippa jumps up onto one of the kitchen sides, something she is not allowed to do, so I know she is really upset and trying to get my attention.

So I took away the old new food and gave her some new new food from the same sachet as the old new food.

Much eating and purring ensued.

Honestly, I am such a pushover. But hopefully in a good kind of way.

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

So, last Wednesday I left our Rotterdam apartment and set off for Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport, and when I arrived nice and early for my flight I discovered that the plane was broken. Yes, the plane scheduled for my flight was broken. The airline chartered another plane from London and, two hours later than expected, I flew back to London Stansted airport.

When I got to Stansted, guess what? The scheduled bus from Stansted to my town just outside London was also broken. Nice Bus Man told me, and the other hopeful travelers, that although the bus company was trying to find a replacement bus, in all probability we would have to wait an hour for the next bus. So that is what we did.

When I finally arrived back in my town, I needed to get another bus to my little village. Got on the bus, whew, I’d be home in fifteen minutes! But guess what? The bus broke down half-way home.

And that is all absolutely true.

Borg Sector R thinks that I should write a book based on all of my disasters with travel, because you just can’t make up this kind of thing.

Michelle, trying not to be paranoid

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

The very nice Melina Kantor asked me to join the Chick Lit Writers for a guest blog. So I did! My little tale of how I was thwarted by multiple persons in my efforts to either read or write romance can be found  here. Hope you enjoy it.

Meanwhile, I returned to the UK today, and guess what? I had a totally horrendous journey home, which I will be writing all about here, tomorrow.  My bad travel karma is back. . .

Michelle, off to recover from horrendous journey with a nice glass of Shiraz

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

Oh, no! I hear you all cry. You know what that means, don’t you, Michelle? It will be exactly like that other time you tried to fly to the Netherlands. . .Or that other time when you tried to get to Sheffield for a family occasion.

Oh ye of little faith. But then again, you have  a point about my track record. . .

This is what happened.

Got to Stanstead airport and checked in on time.Yes!

Got on correct flight and departed on time. Yes!

Arrived at Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport about fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Yes!

Slight wobble as I got to the baggage hall. The monitors were telling me, “al bagage lost.”  Oh, no! And then I remembered that a) I hadn’t checked any luggage on account of only coming for the weekend, and b) “al bagage lost,” does NOT mean that the good people at Schiphol had carelessly lost everyone’s baggage, but that all baggage had been unladen from the flights.  Whew. Onwards and upwards. . .

Sailed through Customs and Excise. Yes!

Bought ticket to Rotterdam, discovered that the train I thought had departed three minutes earlier was, in fact, delayed by ten minutes so I would, in fact, catch it and be in Rotterdam sooner than expected. Yes!

Called Oh Patient One from the train and he came to meet me.

Have had a lovely extended weekend here. Bonus is that Borg Sector G is also here on break from university, so I got to spend time with him, too.

Of course, I’m travelling back to the UK tomorrow morning, so I shouldn’t count all my travel successes before they have hatched.

Wish. Me. Luck!

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

This morning I got up, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, everything was bathed in Spring, and I thought, “Be organized, Michelle, tackle a job that you have been putting off. Do a bit of electronic Spring cleaning. Check your website email’s spam box and clear it out. Go on. You know it’s there waiting for you.” So I made a cup of tea, and sat down to tackle the job. My eyes were gleaming with determination. My fingers were itching to get tapping on my keyboard.

There were about five million emails in my spam box (felt like!). Not really, but there were enough of them to put a person off. But I soldiered womanfully on. It was mainly the usual kinds of spam. You know, “Extend your penis size,” “Come and meet sexy young girls,” “Dear nice person, please send me your bank details so I can ruthlessly steal your money,” “Try Cialis, it’s great!” As I said, all the usual kind of rubbish. I sighed, and wished (as I so often do) that spam was still only something you ate, and not something you had to wade through electronically.

After I had gone through a few pages of spam mail, I got a bit bored and fed up, I was just about to give up and hit the “Put all this stuff directly into the trash,” key, but then I spotted an email that was a bit different to the rest. The title said it was a media request. It had an attachment. “Bound to be more rubbish,” thought I. But then I thought I’d check it out, just to be on the safe side.

It was a request from the director of The Vanessa Show. Would I be interested in  taking part in an episode of Vanessa’s show? I love Vanessa, I couldn’t believe that somehow I was being given the opportunity not only to make my debut on national TV (scary, verreh scary), but I would meet Vanessa! I would become a media star! Of course, I’d need something new to wear. And shoes. And a trip to the hair salon to sort out my Albert Einstein mop. Because you can’t go on national TV looking like something the cat dragged in, can you?

Then I saw that the email was dated last Wednesday, and the show was to be taped last Thursday. I was gutted. But I wrote the nice director back to thank him for his interest, and to say that I’d be happy to take part in a future episode. You never know. . .

Now for the good news.

I found another pukka email in my spam box. This time from a lady called, and I am not kidding, Emma Taylor. “What do you mean, Michelle?” I hear you all cry, “What’s wrong with that name. Emma Taylor is a very nice name.” Yes, I know, I know. But that is the exact name of my heroine in 32AA and Call Waiting. How spooky is that?

Anyway, this Emma Taylor wrote me a very nice note to say how much she enjoyed my blog, and that my blog has been listed in the website’s piece,  The 50 Best Blogs for Your Chick Lit Fix. Which is not national TV, but it’s nice to be read and appreciated, isn’t it?

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.

Yes, yes, Michelle, I hear you all cry, but what does that have to do with losing your head?

Well, it all began when Alyssa asked me very nicely if I would help her with some research for the sixth book in her Warriors of Poseidon series,  Atlantis Betrayed. Could I possibly go to the Tower of London and check out the crown jewels, and see how the heroine of her book might steal one of the crown jewels and escape without being caught?

No problem, said I. Because apart from the fact that I was happy to help her, and I hate to admit this, even though I lived in London for a number of years, and now live near London, and although I had been outside the Tower of London many times, I had never actually been inside. It’s true!

I’d make a day of it. I planned to meet my sister, Super Sis, and her friend Gorgeous Goran for lunch. I was in great company. Super Sis is one of my most favorite people on the planet, and Gorgeous Goran, well, apart from being another lovely human being, is also a hugely talented singer.  Go listen to him yourself if you don’t believe me (but don’t clicky the linky if you are at work – his first song begins automatically). We ate good food and had a good laugh – it was one of those lunches which you wished could last late into the afternoon and evening, but I was a woman with a mission. Off to The Tower with me!

It was as I approached The Tower that I began to feel nervous. . .

I knew in advance that taking photos inside The Tower is not allowed, but what would the guards think about a lone person (me) walking around taking notes about anything and everything Tower related? Would they think I was a terrorist? Or a jewel thief, as per Alyssa’s heroine? Would I inadvertently spark a security scare and be a headline on the 6pm news?

I could see it in my head: Woman Arrested and Detained in Tower. Off With Her Head!

Just to be on the safe side I had on my person, because I had no desire to emulate Ann Boleyn: my passport, to prove my identity; bookmarks for my books to prove that I was an author on a research mission; a copy of one of Alyssa’s previous books to prove that she was a real author for whom I was performing said research; several bills addressed to me at my UK residence to prove I was who I said I was. Just in case.

When I bought my ticket, I explained my mission to the ticket assistant, and would it be okay to take notes. Very Nice Assistant said yes, of course, no problem. Whew.

As I walked through each part of The Tower, if I thought one of the guards was watching me suspiciously, I explained my mission to them and asked if it was okay to take notes. All of the very nice guards were all, yes, no problem. Whew.

In the jewel vault, I explained my mission to the guard and asked if it was okay to take notes. Very Nice Guard was all, yes, no problem, and if I wanted more information about the jewels there was a very good book available in the gift shop to help with my research. What a very nice and helpful group of people.

As I left the jewel vault and stepped into the sunshine, another Very Nice Guard flashed me a friendly smile. I decided to ask her for help with my one remaining question for Alyssa.

“Excuse me,” said I, then gabbled on really quickly because I was nervous, “I wonder if you can help. I’m doing some research for a friend’s book, and I hope that it’s not treason or something to ask you this, and if it is please don’t answer me, and I don’t want to get you into trouble, or me into trouble, but if one were to steal one of the crown jewels, what would be the quickest way out of The Tower?”

Without missing a beat, Very Nice Guard said, “Of course, Miss, I’d be happy to help you. Let me show you the way.”

And then she did. And she called me, “Miss,” and not “Madam,” like all the young whippersnapper chuggers with their scary-looking clip boards are wont to do.

All in all, a good day.

©2012 Michelle Cunnah Blog. All Rights Reserved.