Step Envy ?

I managed to train myself ( almost ? ! ) out of wanting things a while back by the simple method of focusing on the desired object long enough until the point of recognition that it wasn't going to help me achieve Nirvana. This worked with various cravings .

Readers of this Blog will recall longings for the Roomba , eventually resisted and indeed assisted by Bettejo pointing out in one of the Comments sections that it would only take one session after a cat-vomit with the Roomba doing its Thing for me to be well and truly fed up ( and on my hands and knees no doubt , or hoping D got home before me ) . Other items so far avoided have been a very expensive Man-Bag spotted variously in Fenwick , Debenhams though John Lewis didn't have a nice one ( so far , though I live in hope that they will come up with one that I can then turn my back on ) and All Saints though theirs was more of a Messenger-Bag . I think there is a difference . But they are all to be avoided being completely unecessary . And of course the hundreds of books I see every day on my travels and avoid buying , knowing I can get them second hand from Barter Books , borrow them or find them in charity shops .

However recently I think I have found something else to angst over ... I seem to be suffering Step Envy . My sister occasionally reports the number of steps she has clocked up in a day on her pedometer and I find myself then staring balefully at my hopeless low numbers and thinking mournfully why cant I even achieve five thousand these days when I used to do ten most days . CatCalling seems to need me to fly about in my teeny car . That's one excuse . I love the teeny car so much . That's another. I cant think of the third one but there must be at least twenty reasons why my step count has dropped so abysmally of late . And its not even Winter . I must get cracking .

So today I flew into Ikea in order to purchase four mugs ( each at £1 79 each , hardly likely to break the back , yet stylish and perfectly apt for the morning coffee machine business ) which always clocks up q few steps and anyway who can help but love Ikea , unless of course one has a Big Purchase to make then its a different story requiring that the protagonist needs to be In the Mood ( to say the very least ) .

And then we head for the marina at Newburn and despite the rain , take a long sheltered walk protected by the avenues of trees , culminating at the birthplace of George Stephenson where we find refreshments courtsey of the National Trust .

And , on our return , by which time Alice is barely speaking she is so exhausted , and is threatening to ring Wendy the Greyhound Rescue Agent or failing that to call a taxi to have her delivered safely back to the car , I note that I have completed 13193 steps or thereabouts and recognise that my excitement at this achievement far exceeds any normal sense of pride in completing a walk . Oh dear . Step Envy . Now what ?

All my best friends are Zombies?

Whilst at the hairdresser last week I lay back and tried hard to relax in the washing chair . This was always the best bit . Hairdressing and Shiatsu seemed to have formed a gentle alliance and I was accustomed to a solidly built and competent young woman who would tuck my head under her arm , sweep soothing drafts of soft warm water over me in tune to fine music , encourage me to close my eyes while she kneeded and massaged my scalp and neck . The shampoo smelled of oranges and the conditioning treatments were rich and luxurious. I would drift in and out , occasionally glancing at the world of hairdressing , the twinkling lights , the beautiful people and their shiny faces and perfect hair as I slid in and out of consciousness. What more could you ask ?

For nothing to change , really , is all .
For change it did .
At my last appointment I was allocated the trainee washing person , a delightful smiling young woman . I slipped into the chair fully expecting my usual fifteen minutes of rest and recuperation and bang , the shower spray slipped and clouted me over the eye ! No serious injuries but I was quite wet . Not a good start .
I felt myself slide lower in the chair in a vague attempt to escape as the water temperature began to creep up , and up , and up and .... it stabilised just as my face began to boil .... oops there goes that spray again , spouting water in an arc to the ceiling . As is my wont I start to feel hysteria rising in the form of giggles and I feel embarrased though I am not sure whether it is for myself in my soaking state or for the young woman who clearly has no idea of the mayhem she is causing .
Before we are done I have lost an ear ring and it is not only my bra that is wet through but God help us my knickers too ( how did she do that ? ) .
I am relieved that she is oblivious , as my desire to laugh hysterically is very close to the surface . Ms CatCalls becomes Ms Rather- Wet- Tee -Shirt.

This time I groan inwardly as she approaches me with the gown and two towels . I wonder about asking if I could have a plastic sheet or two but think this would be unkind . Perhaps she will have been on a course? Perhaps that was her first week ? I am sure if I was to wash her hair I would make a complete pig's ear of it too ? Now there' s a thought?

Things are slightly better ( just my bra gets it this week ) but I am still somewhat anxious as I lean back in the chair and I find myself glancing from side to side , again rather peculiarly hoping my public humiliation is not being witnessed .
In front of me the two young men are snipping hair with great aplomb , merrily chatting to their customers . I watch idly reflecting on how happy they look, how animated.
One of them is wearing a tee shirt with a slogan on it and I crane my neck to read it . I feel like my Great Auntie Gertie trying to get a look at the slogan on my sweatshirt or some such when I was a child and screwing her face up with the effort .
I seem to be positioned upside down somehow and it takes a while before I can figure it out ..... it seems to say " All my best friends are zombies " .
I consider this for a while . Mm . I feel I may want to suck my teeth and think on this and eventually it may mean something or make some sense . Am I getting old or something?
I consider texting Nat , far away in Plymouth and seeing what she says about it . But I don't want to lose face with her either . Perhaps I should just let it go .

Later , reading a Margaret Forster novel "Mothers' Boys " it occurs to me that never in hospital have I been offered a sleeping tablet .
I was first on a hospital ward at the age of seventeen , and as the nurses approached with the medicine trolley in the evening , I saw that they offered every single other woman on the ward a sleeping tablet . Many of the patients were elderly , granted , but not all . I formed an opinion at that age that women in Britain took tablets to help them sleep . I wondered whether they would ask me if I wanted one, and was mystified when they passed me by , though I was given a pain killer .
Years later , this experience was repeated several times.
Ward rounds. Medicine trolleys .
Every single other woman on a ward given a sleeping tablet . Did they offer me one ? Never ? How did they know I have never taken one ?
So what was it about me , at all those different ages , 17 , 30 something , 40 something , whatever , that said to them , here is a woman that doesn't take sleeping tablets when every single other woman on this ward does/ will ? I find that odd , and wonder if it somehow connects to the tee shirt " All my best friends are zombies " .

We step out of the car to walk by the river at Hexham in glorious sunshine just as the first of the day's bad news arrives by text. A sudden bereavement for one of the CatCalls families. We walk for a mile or so thinking of the implications and hoping the burglars will keep away ( so far so good). Alice is on form though slinks shiftly past two tiny terriers much to their owner's amusement . Almost back at the car and quite exhausted she suddenly sees a flat circular patch of grass and races round in greyhound mode . We walk into Hexham in search of a bank , lunch and a dustpan and brush and ideally , something for Auntie Laura as we are paying a visit to deliver her Hen Feed Bin , a splendid item purchased some time ago from Pets At Home , the squeezing of which into the new teeny green car ( black) was not without logistical challenge) . Almost a relief that the advertitised Free Scoop was missing , though irritating nontheless. One hopes Laura will write to the company to complain . A free scoop is not to be sneezed at in the current crisis .

D spots a rather ramshackle looking art gallery yard announcing lunch and we sit down on a dishevelled looking sofa . An artistic looking chap in an erstwhile white linen suit appears and asks us charmingly to vacate the sofa ( he clearly owns the place and has designs on it himself , for wine drinking purposes , as no one else appears ) stating that the sofa has been ear marked by another . We agree and move to a cobwebbed garden bench , somewhat the worse for wear but reasonably serviceable .

A young woman appears and we order lunch . Alice is provided with water in a bowl so dirty she stares in horror at everyone , then makes an attempt on the garden bench despite the slatted seats . I am feeling the same , though it is my weak coffee that is offending me . And I am not easily offended by food . And my scone is quite perfect . D had hoped for a larger sandwich . We love the general ambience , the fin de siecle shabbiness and the friends who finally show up to drink wine with the proprietor .

Moving on , the bank is closed , and I find the perfect dustpan .

At Auntie Laura's the dog does twenty laps round the trampoline and the hens crane their necks to watch this odd lanky creature.

Later in the day there is more bad news . A family member has called off her engagement . Oh dear .

Fern Hill , Dylan THomas

YouTube - "Fern Hill" by Dylan Thomas

In the early hours of this morning I woke and could not get back to sleep . When I eventually did , I dreamed of a flashing burglar alarm light .

I logged onto this reading of Fern Hill in readiness, just in case .

All was quiet at the house .
So far so good .

But the poem is still lovely .

Brinkburn Priory

We take off for an English heritage site as antidote to Ms CatCalls 'somewhat frazzled nerves vis a vis a series of what can only be termed " Attempts" on CatCalls properties.

In the history of CatCalls this has not happened previously , and a morning swanning around ruins in the weak sunshine with a reluctant greyhound is in order , followed by lunch at Barter Books , ordered in the Coffee Shop and taken in the Old Station Waiting Room where it would appear Critters are permitted , particularly those who lie quietly on the carpet and say little , eyeing up the sausages .

Although not of a nervous disposition I dislike burglar alarms at the best of times , mainly due to my increasingly poor eye sight . My recent consultation with a new neurologist at 8pm one evening last week ( these poor doctors , one can't help feel sorry for them having to muster enthusiasm for a patient at that time ) provided me with some new information about my eyesight namely that I have a squint which explains my inability to focus properly . I have no problems with those alarms I have been tapping numbers into for ever , as I can do it without looking , but new ones involve me in that horrid business of looking for specs , putting specs on , lifting specs up to see door handle , putting specs down to see numbers blah blah . I'm sure you've all been there . All those of you over the age of thirty anyway . And then that dread feeling in the pit of the stomach when you press button a instead of button b and wait for it .... oh here we go the whole thing is about to go off . In fact in my case its usually about entering a property and finding not that I've forgotten the number but that I can't actually get the little alarm cupboard door open .Something to do with my fingernails being too long or recently , since I cut them , too short , anyway , I fumble and I fiddle and I panic and , there she goes the alarm is about to go and .. yes there she goes .

But I can now safely tell you that that ineptitude on my part was one thing . And now this driving up to a house and finding that the day after you have called the cops out having noted someone has tried to get in via a side entrance , and now you arrive and the burglar alarm is going off ... that's a whole different kind of "I hate burglar alarm's feeling".

Closely followed by a Should I really be going into that house on my own ? kind of feeling .

There's nothing quite so scary as a big house in semi darkness all of a sudden , even one you felt you knew quite well earlier .

Exhausting Day Out

After an exhausting day out visiting our friends the Griffins in Pity Me when it becomes clear that I have forgotten the identity already of Fred the Shred, and Alice declares herself besotted with Nathan , she collapses in a heap on the sofa on our return , fit for nothing but a long spot of Cockroaching ( see useful greyhound terminology courtesy of Google) and heavy sighs.
Meanwhile I find D disappointed upon his return from court that the house is filled with the aroma of freshly baked cake and alas , no cake . Our return with a large chunk is not the same so I set to and make another .
Meanwhile , now that he is on holiday , the rain is torrential .
The dog snores on .

What of my Blog , I ask myself ? In fact I cannot recall the last time I blogged , so busy holidaying have I been. Though the word holiday perhaps creates the wrong impression , implying a lengthy stay in another part of the world . Maybe this is apt though as I sit here staring at the screen and finding it strangely tricky to encapsulate the events of the last few weeks .Nothing too strange or startling , but we have hopped from one ninor upheaval to the next. Nat was in Majorca at the same time as the Eta bombs , Toby was stuck behind a wardrobe whilst we were fitting a new coffee pot to the bedroom , and meanwhile

(Pearl looks on whilst the wardrobe is dismantled) the rooms downstairs were being re carpetted, involving a whole new look down there . The upstairs look is not yet complete , still resembling Offshoot Junk Yard but will be attended to " sometime soon " . A day or two after this my new car is due to arrive . Bliss . But ... this precipitates under major event .... the "clearing" of the old car . The Scenic was large , larger than I knew and proved to hold skipfulls of Stuff which was not quite fit for the rubbish dump and yet could not quite fit in anywhere in the new look downstairs rooms and the junk outpost upstairs areas were already fit to bust . Oh!

A trip to Barter Books was needed . Nat and I set off there with Alice and several carrier bags full of books and video tapes ( is that what they're called? I forget...) We were given a stern telling off ( for bringing in too many bags) by a fourteen something young woman with a tight pony tail who rejected our videos with a curl of the lip ( we can't sell these ! ) but no one objected to Alice joining us in the lunch dept waiting room where we had cheese on toast and jacket potatoes so all was forgiven. Greyhounds seem to attract the right sort of attention wherever we go even when they insist on lying across the doorway and refuse to move for passing trade.

My new little green car ( actually black, though with Green credentials ) is far from silly and as Nat's dad said it would goes like "sh*t off a stick" a metaphor I initially found somewhat intriguing but now I have driven the C1 , quite understandable . I picked it up on August 21 feeling sad at losing my lovely old Renault , but .... I have not looked back .

Nat and I whizzed to Grasmere and Ambleside for our annual pilgrimage on Sunday and managed to contain our luggage in the boot . Nothing was too much trouble for the cute little thing .