Slogging and Blogging

Millions of avid reader’s of the wonderful, incomparable Sir Terry Pratchett (myself included) will instantly recognize the title I have borrowed from him for my latest blog piece. These infamous words are written on a piece of card that witch Esmerelda Weatherwax (who is good at doing witchy spells but is not so good at spelling words) holds when she is off borrowing the mind of another creature. See, when off borrowing, her own body appears still and lifeless and cold, and she definitely doesn’t want anybody (usually Nanny Ogg) thinking that she is dead and burying her alive, or something.

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.

No, I didn’t really get sucked in by a black hole, because if I had I wouldn’t be back here in blogland, but it’s been so long that I am sticking with the black-hold-being-sucked-in-by thing.  Metaphorically speaking. Anyway, hello.

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.

And now for something completely different. . .

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

First with the bad news to get it out of the way. When I say bad news, it was potentially good news. It was potentially fab news. At least, that’s what I thought. This is what happened…

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?

What on earth are you talking about, Michelle, I hear you all cry. Is this a new offshoot of Star Trek, or something or other that we’ve somehow missed? Who and what is The Borg Mothership?

That would be me. It sounds completely barking mad, but it is absolutely true.

Yes, both of my children call me The Borg Mothership, or TBM for short. They send me emails entitled, “Hailing TBM On All Frequencies,” or, “Beam Me Up, TBM.” Or, “Put The Kettle On For Tea, TBM!” In turn, when I reply to them or speak with them I refer to them as Borg Sector R (that would be No-Longer Teenager No #1), and Borg Sector G (formerly Teenager No #2).

This state of affairs has been going on for about a year now, springing from one of my works in progress where the heroine and her brother call their mother TBM. But I couldn’t remember why my children had adopted this form of address for me. So I asked Borg Sector R (who I am delighted to say is now living back at home with Oh Patient One and I, hence the fact that she can email me from her bedroom to my laptop in the kitchen to tell me to put the kettle on for some tea).

This is what happened:

Me: “Remind me, why do you call me The Borg Mothership?”

Borg Sector R: “Because when you began to assimilate us into your collective, we found that resistance was futile. Also, because you told us to.”

Me: “Did I? Sheesh, that makes me sound so bossy and controlling. Am I that bossy and controlling?”

Without missing a beat, Borg Sector R replied: “Erm….. does not compute! Does not compute! Resistance is futile!” And then, when she saw my crestfallen expression: “Of course you’re not, Mum. You just worry about us. In a good kind of way.”

Whew! Would hate to be thought of as bossy and controlling.

And then Oh Patient One and I received a joint email from Borg Sector G entitled, “Borg Sector G reporting from Deep Space Sector 149.” He gave us an update on his life at university in Scotland, because we worry about him (okay, I worry about him. It’s probably part of being The Borg Mothership). And after he gave us the update, and told us how much his books for the new semester would cost (a lot!):

Borg Sector G: “Mum, tell me, if you are TBM, what does that make Dad?”

Jean-Luc Picard, possibly?

Without missing a beat Oh Patient One hit “reply” to the email:

Oh Patient One: “Based on the cost of those books, I am the International Monetary Fund.”

It’s official. We are TBM and the IMF!