How I Zombified My Cat and Other Stories

The other night, I decided to see what would happen if I didn’t give His Lordship his daily antidepressant. (Okay, so he was hiding under the bed and I was too knackered to flush him out and ram a pill down his throat.)

The change in him – already evident the very next day – was amazing. I hadn’t realised what I’ve been doing to my cat these past few months.

When I woke up, he came to greet me and curl up next to me like he used to. He came to sit in my lap when I was working. He started purring again. By the next day, the peculiar weakness he’d developed in his back legs, which meant he could no longer jump or balance properly, had gone. He began sticking his head where it’s not wanted and getting up to mischief.

I’ve never liked the idea of antidepressants and after seeing them in action I’m doubly convinced. His Lordship became this fat, white, furry zombie that did nothing except eat and sleep. He’d walk away if you tried to stroke him. He even stopped purring! And I thought these pills were meant to make him happy again? He had three days off them and looked happier than he’s been in weeks.

He became a lot noisier all round once he was off the meds, but it was mostly variations on his chirrup noise, which is a lovely, musical sound. There was a transitional period marked by purrs and chirrups, but then … the angst-ridden pacing and loud nocturnal howls returned on the third night and there was nothing for it but to give him half a pill.

Subsequent nights have ended in medication, too: I can’t risk complaints from the neighbours. But once I get back from India, I’m going to find a method of weaning him off the pills. It’s been horrible to realise what it’s been doing to him.

What *is* the next step though – a feline psychiatrist?

Quest For the Hairless Prima Donna

I have completed the next trial in my quest for a hair removal method not involving potential open wounds.

Today I was seduced by the promises of the bladeless shaving kit. Hmm … it’s just normal hair removal cream that you scrape off with a razor-shaped scraper, isn’t it? Marketing ploy, ahoy! Nevertheless, it’s worth a go.

Compared to the cold wax strips, plenty more disadvantages were apparent from the word go, the major ones being the mess and potential for hair-free cats. Doing a leg was disturbingly like boiling an egg – lots of tedious waiting around for three minutes.

That was how long it was meant to take for the hairs to loosen. Slightly thicker ones may need a little longer, but under no circumstances was I to let the cream take effect for more than six minutes.

I’m not quite sure what kind of nuclear waste-based solvent I need, but six minutes was not enough. Granted, a large proportion of them did come away, albeit in varying degrees. So now I just look like I have mange - but with silky soft skin.

The cats still appear to have all their fur.

Hearts Are Trumps

I cast The Mourning Primrose almost a month ago. How behind I am with my director series posts is a reflection of how behind I am with the production in general. A good start!

The other side of the casting table wasn’t quite as awful as I’d feared – and much better than being on the actors’ side for sure! Thanks to my trusty assistants, no one got left in the corner by his/herself (for long) and there weren’t (too) many distraught cries of ‘well who is studying section F then?’

As quite a few people are taking a break this autumn, I had just about the number of people auditioning as there were roles. This largely saved me from the aspect I was least looking forward to: the 'thanks but not this time' calls.

It primarily boiled down to choosing whom to put where. Although I was surprised to find that most people seemed to slot quite naturally into one of the roles. There wasn’t much deliberating to do, and even those decisions were quickly solved by practicalities, like injuries and holidays. Practicalities! Can this really be how (amateur) plays are cast?

In fact, about three-quarters of the way through the audition I pretty much had my line-up. I only waited half an hour to start calling people so they could make it down the pub!

Chamber of Hairies

I’ve never really been into wax. Or should I say, I’ve never been bothered to get into it. I sort of used a wax strip on stage as part of Successful Living, but not really since I’d already shaved before the show. With an eye to India, I’ve been looking for a hair removal option that doesn’t involve potential open wounds.

So I decided to try these cold wax strips for real. They have many advantages – relatively cheap, easy to use, no mess, no pain, three hair-free weeks – and only one disadvantage: they don’t work.

I tried a number of times, following all the instructions to the letter. Not only did I have zero success, but I also ended up covered in bloody wax. Even after a couple of minutes of scrubbing my shin with the special wax residue removal wet wipe. It didn’t come off with soap and water either. (At least something in the instructions was true.)

I still have a slightly waxy strip down one leg, and it’s slowly collecting cat hair… The only hair removal system that actually makes you hairier!

I believe I removed a total of one leg hair. And I think that fell out out of pity.

Carry On Up the Kyber

It seems that this summer’s major events have come about largely by chance.

Idly browsing the property pages a month ago has led to me moving into a new home by the end of August. After toying with several preliminary holiday destinations – Chile (flight too expensive), Barcelona (cost of living too expensive) and Riga (more of a long weekend trip) – I found myself idly browsing Finnair’s website. Why I even checked prices to Delhi I don’t know, but it cost less than most flights to continental Europe!

I later discovered that this promotion was designed to lure tourists to India during the monsoon. But this hasn’t put me off – at least it will take the edge of the heat.

Maybe the moral of this tale is don’t idly browse the Internet? Or do? But it’s too late for such philosophizing. I’m off to spend two weeks doing the Golden Triangle. I’ll (un)fortunately miss experiencing the infamous Indian railways, as I’ll be covering those many miles with my own personal driver.

How terribly turn of the century that sounds! Still, my chance to be a memsahib who’s served gin and tonic on the veranda ran out a good sixty years ago. I should rather heed keltanen’s tales from last year and prepare myself to visit all the carpet shops owned by the driver’s extended family.

Ah well, at least I’ll have protection: the driver to protect us from the touts and my companion to protect me from the driver. Despite the fine points made in April’s debate, India is not the sort of place one should go alone.

So … anyone for tiffin?

The Pile – redux

Remember the Pile?

Although the order of the upper strata gradually changed with wear, the Pile didn’t really diminish any in the last seven months. In fact, I think it even managed to inch higher through the addition of new clothes I bought because I couldn’t find (or even remember owning) the ones buried deep in its bowels.

The other day I found myself feeling rather helpless in the face of so many problems I didn’t have the power to influence. To counteract this, I picked on something over which I had complete dominion: the Pile, which had just been sent tumbling to the floor by a flying kitten.

I know what you’re thinking, that me ironing all of those clothes is inconceivable. And you’d be right. I thought about it … then decided to just fold them up and put them away unironed. I mean, in the wardrobe unironed is better than gathering dust in a basket unironed, isn’t it?

Niceties

Too many people from generally unhelpful institutions are being nice to me. The other week, the lady at the tax office was jolly and obliging. So were two women manning the bank’s customer service line; and now the bank’s personal financial advisor is in on it too. This just isn’t natural!

But it can’t be Doomsday quite yet. When I rang the state healthcare centre about my holiday vaccinations, I was given appalling service. Not only that, but also bad advice that – if I hadn’t had other sources – would have meant me not being covered for all those nasty diseases in time.

All my questions were answered, or rather not answered, by a woman who sounded as if she was late for her afternoon suicide attempt.

Chicken / Egg / Chicken

OMG I’ve bought a new flat!

Or at least my offer has been accepted. It seems these cows will soon become a familiar site as I wait for the train in Pitäjänmäki. I haven’t made it back to the centre of Helsinki – vain hope that that was! – but at least I’ll be sneaking back inside its borders, if only just.

Everything seems to have happened so fast. A couple of weeks ago I was idly browsing the property pages, thinking I’d better sell this place before it’s too late, and here I am with a new place! Now all I have to do is offload this one, and preferably before the end of August.

It’s the old chicken and egg dilemma: buy first or sell first? I’ve chosen to buy first, simply because suitable properties are in such short supply and the lady at the bank was nice to me and gave me that option. Still, I can’t help but wonder what treacherous pothole is awaiting me round the next bend…

Be Your Own Bailiffs

Thanks to everyone for the messages of support re my freak out of last week! Unfortunately, the move is starting to look a lot less rosy again. I’ve had my flat valued by a couple of agents and they gave wildly differing estimates. One would allow me to get something nice along the lines I’ve been looking at. The other would mean a tiny studio in an accessible but slightly disreputable part of town, or two rooms in the distant slums of East Helsinki.

I’ve seen a list of the actual sale prices of flats in my building during the past three years. It doesn’t look promising. A flat exactly like mine in terms of condition, storey and size was sold last year for something along the lines of what the less optimistic agent quoted.

Hell to me has always been a one room flat. Ah well, heaven always did sound a little dull.

I guess there’s nothing for it but to be my own bailiffs. I’ll keep the few good pieces I have and offload all the MDF. Half of my old Finnish dining table can be my desk. I’ll also keep the bed and the newer sofa, huge though they are. Although they’re only Ikea, I guess I’ll also need the chest of drawers, a night table, and the tall thin bookcase for my work books and papers.

If I want anything that’s not strictly necessary, like books and cds, I’ll have to buy some storage boxes and make sure I get somewhere with a cellar or attic locker. The rest will just have to go. Including the three video players and two televisions in the cellar!

Part of me is pretty miserable about selling or giving away practically everything I own. Another part is rather relieved at divesting itself of the burden of all this Stuff.

So if you’re looking for furniture and furnishings, or know anyone who is, keep your eyes peeled for my upcoming virtual flea market!

You have 380 new messages

When I heard the ding heralding new e-mail, I was more than a little surprised to see that I had three hundred and eighty new messages!

I thought the spam filter had suddenly broken down completely, but it was all the messages I haven’t been getting for the last six months! Sorry to all those people who’ve been expecting replies or my presence at parties.

The unreliability of this old account has meant I’ve practically stopped using it. So if anyone is still sending me mail at kolumbus, be warned and use gmail instead.

You expect the post office to put their coffee cups on your postcards for a few months, but six-month late e-mail? Maybe the Internet really has gone all AI on us and needs something put its Java on.

Sick with worry

It’s a cliché, but it’s surprising how spot on clichés can be.

Yesterday evening, I suddenly felt I couldn’t cope with anything any more. The move, the cats, the play, money, going on holiday, nothing. I couldn’t stop the torrent of worries and worst-case scenarios. They literally made me feel sick.

The very thought of food sent my stomach into nauseous rebellion. I went to bed early, but found it impossible to relax – especially at home, because everything about my home has turned against me. I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. I could feel my heart pounding away, the adrenalin gushing continuously into my blood stream. While I was reading the words on the page, half my brain was constantly buzzing away with worry. I felt hunted, like a hallucinating zebra that sees lions hiding under every cushion.

Eventually I got some sleep, even though I woke numerous times during the night and had nightmares about my neighbours turning abusive and aggressive.

Today things are back to normal. Life is largely miserable and stressful, but I guess I can probably cope after all. And if nothing else, all this worrying and lack of money is making me to lose weight.

Purr-o-matic

An odd thing has happened: Her Ladyship suddenly likes me!

After almost a month of running under the bath, into the wardrobe or under the bed at my approach, she’s not only quite happy to let me walk past her, she’s started coming to me wanting to be stroked. Especially when I’m sitting at the computer. If I stop paying attention to her in order to type, she’ll even jump up and put her front paws on my lap. (Unfortunate with the set of claws she’s got on her at the moment.)

Not only that, she’s become a real purr-o-matic! She purrs at everything: stroking, time for food, getting comfy in her bed, etc. The only thing she doesn’t really purr at is His Lordship. No wonder, seeing as he’s always chasing her and trying to bite her head off. Although I’ve seen her start chasing him and bashing him round the head too, so there’s more to it than a simple case of kitten bashing.

Her Ladyship looks like she’s becoming an incredibly friendly cat – even more so than His Lordship! Her fur is also starting to grow back after her various tests, operation and itchiness attack. She still tends to look evil in photographs, but that’s just her oriental looks. Here’s at least one piccie of her not looking (very) evil though!

Now, if I could only sort out Sir’s mental health, we’d be getting somewhere.