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Monday, 8 November 2010

The Cat in the Window

Cat Stevens - Where Do The Children Play
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Good news on the greenhouse front. An early start, massive help and guidance from Chris and Greg and by 4:30 pm the greenhouse was nearly there. We deliberately did not hang the doors or insert  the roof sheets because of the very windy weather forecast and the structure hadn't been secured.

Chris was super: undoing all my earlier errors. It needed at least 3 people to construct the thing, one of which knew what they were doing - which wasn't me.

We had hoped that the allotment site would be quiet yesterday as we didn't really fancy having loads of people gawping and passing comment. No such luck, we were the star attraction. A veritable queue of onlookers appeared to wish us luck and to ooh and ah at our progress or lack of.

There's always one: the smart Alec who with one sentence can show what a prat he is. "Of course, with these kits if you're out one inch at the beginning you'll be a mile out at the end - and you'll never sort it out." Thanks. "You should have waited: you could have bought Jack's greenhouse who's given up his allotment - much cheaper than what you've paid - and it's standing!"

Today is windy and wet but I'm sure our Crystal Palace mock up will withstand the "cataracts and hurricanoes": the weekend should see completion!

This morning we took young Ginja to the vet for his six monthly multi-million pound check up.

It didn't start too well; I was given the job of picking up the little darling  and dropping him into the cat basket. Unfortunately, I awoke him from an extra special dream and, for only the second time, he spat at me. He was on his hind legs, front paws trying to grab my arm; his tail faithfully mimicking that of a rattle snake. A chase along the landing, down the stairs and the silly boy jumps onto the table and starts purring. I pick him up, the missus at my shoulder with the cat basket, lid ajar. But he's too quick, and he's in and out like a jack in the box. Now he's clawing at the back door; his soft eyes pleading. "There, there", I murmur and lift him up again. He is so heavy, so solid, so soft, I just want to hold him. But in the basket he goes and we're off.

In the car in the back with the missus, he's chauffeur driven to the vet. He emits a piteous meow, we reassure him with soft words and promises and we arrive. Out of the car, through the door and we're met by the vet who ushers Ginja and the missus into the surgery. I wait outside
Then the consultation is over. "Not a problem, he was purring while the vet was handling him: he was so good." The missus hands over her debit card which bursts into flames as the cash is sucked out of it. "He said he was a very beautiful cat, the vet did." The missus was puffed up as she said that climbing into the back of the car with the money pit called a cat.
Ginja doesn't bear a grudge and a plate of biscuits puts him into a good humour and he's staring up at you as you tell him how brave and clever he's been.

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