Annual Forecast

Raise your hand if you managed to catch a glimpse of Christmas speeding past you like the Starship Enterprise on turbo mode, leaving your innards vibrating with the aftershock.

Me neither.

The sheer fact that it HAS passed and I'm back to procrastinating behind an office desk after an all-too-short annual leave stint is nothing short of depressing. I see no light at the end of my tunnel. I mean that metaphorically and am not referring to my anus. That's a different post.

This post, on the other hand, is nothing but one big complaint. Leave now if you're feeling happy today. Should you choose the masochistic option of sticking around, don't say I didn't warn you and don't you dare comment with glib attempts at motivation. It's a Monday and I'm entitled to my grouchiness.

I'm not too pleased with the yesteryear, to be honest. It just wasn't speckled with the cheerful madness that my life is usually full of. Sure, there was plenty of travelling around and the odd puppy picked up and rehomed successfully, but seeing the humour in living just seemed such a task. 2010 did not, for once in my life, feature any JOY worth reminiscing about.

I blame my parents. They are Sri Lankan, after all. So am I, and blaming parents is what we children of the soil do best when things are not satisfactory. Although, come to think of it, no one seems to be pointing any fingers at Mommy and Daddy Rajapakse, no? (I have a feeling Mervin's mum is thought about alot, however...).

My two were exceptionally active with the emotional blackmail last year. To say I’m going on 32 and need approval on how my hair looks is a testament to their insanity. Their skills have reached new levels in expertise and absurdity. Mother Dearest has mastered the Quivering Lower Lip to a tee and can now whip it out at the merest 'ahem'. Dad's speciality- Delusional Rants - peaked during the Christmas season and nearly drove me to homicide.

Yes, we're a nice, quiet little family, we are. So quiet, in fact, that when we dine out together you can hear the chef’s hat pin drop into the soup, way back in the kitchens.

If my family is ever at the same restaurant as you, do check your soup for signs of dropped pin.

My resident evil aside, not everything in 2010 has been a complete disaster. I did manage to rescue and rehome 24 furry four-leggeds (I can see RD sniggering at that one), visit two new countries and learn to bake a decent cupcake. The cons outweighed, though. The least of which was my car and I careening into a wall and causing both airbags to pop out. Ah, good times.

I suppose I must now join the merry bandwagon and do my bit of resolutioning, no? Not that it makes a difference. Last year’s list is still waiting. But for what it’s worth, this year, I PLAN to-

• Find my runaway mojo
• Change jobs – by workplace or career, whichever seems more lucrative and comes first
• Outperform last year’s animal rescue stats
• Move out of home
• Get a tattoo – because really, it’s the fashionable way to rebel, innit?
• Write a book
• See a new country
• Learn to cook 10 new dishes and achieve non-toxic rating for at least one of them

Watch this space.

Because She Said So

Ah. Hallo. Didn't see you there.

I'm zoned out today and its not because of weed or anything cool like that. It's because it's a Monday morning and I shouldn't be in front of a PC at office on a Monday morning. Nobody should. Not that office on a Tuesday is any better, but you wouldn't have to hear me bitching about it. For the first time in a very long time I have diddly squat to do at office and it's upsetting my system. I've been staring at an empty desk for several hours now wondering if I'm actually awake. Not that my desk is ever empty... it looks like a Sri Lankan parliamentary session in progress - a bloody mess. I was being metaphorical.

Anyway.

The days suck more than a porn star with a PHD in fellatio. Either I'm too busy to piss and end up with my bladder bursting open at the most opportune moments (client meetings, for example) or I have fuck all to do. Either way it frustrates the shit out of me. Again, I meant that metaphorically. Frustration ending in actual faecal matter would be cool too, I bet.

But this post isn't about me detesting the day or feeling too sleepy to go into further lengths on detailing just how much I detest it. It's a post about something far, FAR more irksome - My Mother. Mothers in general, in fact. Mothers I know about but especially mine.


Yes, I love her and all that...I've even written odes to her on this blog. But what is it about mums? What exactly is it about nature and society that turns perfectly ordinary, cool women into maternal menaces that make their offspring want to tear their hair out at every given turn? The tearing of hair concept was not a metaphor, either. I literally do that sometimes when my mother is anywhere close by. I have a nice big bald patch for proof.

On Saturday I took her for the HSBC World spice food festival. Only because she couldn't shut up about it all day and wanted to go. I didn't mind... I wanted to try it out too, but with a different date for company. But she was excited, so I figured I'd enjoy a girl's night out with her. She spent about 2 hours getting dressed, to start with. I kept reminding her that we were going to Galle Face green, but she needed to look good, in case the Hi! magazine was taking photographs. We got to the venue and took another half hour trying to get parking. The guy at the entrance told us that parking was available at the Taj, but she didn't want to walk so 'far'. Neither did she want to let me drop her at the entrance and park in case people thought she was a fat hooker. Because only hookers dress like mums and go to Galle Face Green. So we had to use charm and beseeching looks to curdle the hearts of the Nana's vendor to get him to give us the spot his food cart was perched on, right outside the grounds. And just when I began to chill out she turned into my mother. It was a disaster.
She walked in and had a heart attack when she saw the stage set up and the entertainment acts. It was too loud for her. Why wasn't there soft soothing music being played? Why were there so many people? Why is that girl with that boy? Why are the tables made of plastic? only 30 odd stalls? Why not more?

After traipsing through stall with food from just about every country imaginable, she whined that there wasn't enough variety to select from. All the women around... they were hookers for sure. The mere fact that there was a rock band playing on stage meant this was a loud, vulgar place that was giving her a headache.

We ended up eating at the Crescat food court. Incidentally, just before we left Galle Face, a Hi! magazine photographer captured me snarling at her in frustration.

If its not one thing, it's another. Like another recent dinner date with her, for instance. A Japanese dinner date. Not that the date was Japanese...that would be awkward.

Mother has a recently-developed penchant for Japanese food, you see. Something to do with the wasabi hit unblocking her sinuses that have been barricaded for 20 odd years. I've tried telling her that perhaps she could get herself some medication for a change, but she insists wasabi is the mother of boons to all congested noses.

So we went to a Japanese restaurant and sat down at an ordinary table after 15 minutes of Mum explaining to me why she didn't want to kneel on the matted floors. The waitress brought us two moist face napkins to refresh ourselves with. I'd have enjoyed the experience if it hadn't been for the fact that I dropped mine when I saw mother carefully picking her rolled up napkin out of it's basket and proceeding to pop it into her mouth.

"WHAT are you doing???" gasps I. Gasps, hyperventilates, wheezes, screeches.... whatever way you want to have it.

She stops half way from closing her teeth on the soggy cloth and looks at me quizzically.

"I'm eating the spring roll" she patiently explains. Like I'm one of the 3 year old children she teaches for a living.

"That's not a spring roll. That's for your face." I can barely breathe in the humiliation. Apparently 3 year old minds are something she can relate to sometimes. The waitress is watching her with eyebrows at her hairline.

You'd think that would be that, but it wasn't.

"Why would I use a spring roll on my face?"

It takes me five whole minutes to stop asphyxiating long enough to demonstrate the finer details of a face napkin and its virtues without digging a hole in the floor and dying. We are now the entire service staff's entertainment for the evening.

She's not even embarrassed. She just says 'oh', and wipes her face, leaving me to smile apologetically at the waitress in the hopes that I wont be talked about in the kitchen. If I get jagged sashimi, I'll know it was because the chef was laughing uncontrollably whilst cutting the fish.

The waitress, evil gossiping bitch that she's bound to be in ten seconds, smiles back benignly. We went straight into ordering. It was like a choral performance. Every time I requested a dish, Mother would follow it up with '...and extra wasabi, please.' you'd expect the waitress to have got it down after repeating the sentence 8 times, but mum still managed to slip in the 'don't forget the wasabi' when we finished off the order.

If that wasn't enough, the minute the waitress turned her back on us to leave, mum leaned over the table and whispered loud engouh for the whole restaurant to hear, "These waitresses are not like the normal vulgar ones, no."

Retreating waitress has heard this, I know. There's definite interest being shown on her retreating face. I ask mother what on earth she's on about.

"Oh you know... normally they're 'vul' ones who offer 'other services' no..." there's definite dramatic emphasis on 'other services'.

I didn't have any food in my mouth, but I choked anyway. Not only because I didn't know where she got that from, but because the waitress had stopped retreating altogether and was practically falling backwards trying to lean in on the conversation. Apparently, mother confidently informed me, kimono-clad women are almost always tarts, as seen on ancient re-runs of Oshin on ITN and Memoirs of a Geisha. But these girls at the restaurant seemed to be innocent enough, and therefore she would eat here.

I didn't know how to respond, so I just refrained. It's a tactic I've acquired over the years. When she's on a roll with her convictions, there's little you can do to sway Mother's views. If letting her think that kimonos are slut-wear kept the rest of dinner eventless, then I was happy to keep my mouth shut.

And that's exactly my point with this post. My mother, as well as some other friends' mums I know of, have this unbelievable knack for harvesting the most absurd of opinions on matters and then pontificating them like the gospel truth. If it was the mere ranting of the elderly, I'd understand. But it isn't. They make it a point to shove it continuously down our throats and make us one of them. WHY? Its like a mental virus that takes over their brains and re-wires it to be ridiculous and prepared to drag us down with it. God forbid I should ever try to shake my mother out of her silly whims... I'd be under house arrest for years. Wait... I'm already under house arrest for the rest of my life. But you know what I mean. At least I know Lady Divine does. We've had mutual feelings about our mothers for quite some time.

To explain further just how retarded her notions can get, here are some other gems of wisdom my mother clings on to and will continue to do so all the days of her life:

• Shopping malls are vulgar dens of sin. Only the desperate and the lonely go there, seeking lustful ventures.

• Basement carparks are a hive of murderers, waiting to pounce on you and rape you before cubing you with their hacksaws.

• A cough means you have TB. A sneeze can mean nothing but pneumonia. An itch instantly screams skin cancer.

• My bald spot is a sign of a blood clot in my head.

• My pot tummy means I am either pregnant or I'm growing tumors in there. Malignant ones, of course.

• Respectable girls don't have boyfriends.

• The frog swimming in the dog's water bowl is my re-incarnated great grandmother.

• My need to escape from her is a sure sign of mental psychosis teamed with third-level depression. Therefore I must be counseled. Consistently.

• A nightmare or the inability to sleep is a sign that a demon has possessed you.

• Every man that walks down our lane wearing a sarong is a suspicious character with connections to the LTTE

• Trishaw men who drop you home are criminals and thieves who are marking a map to the house so they can rape and rob you at night.

• Office-hired van drivers who drop you home are criminals and thieves who are marking a map to the house so they can rape and rob you at night.

• Movie cinemas are the hangout joints of non-respectable girls of ill repute.

• Hair colour is a sign of mental retardation.

• Tattoos are the work of Satan. Anyone with a tattoo is into drugs. Heavily.

• The dog is the only person who understands her. (This might actually be true.)

• All actors are gay.

• The next Tsunami WILL happen the day I go to the beach, whenever that is.

• Only drug lords go to Hikkaduwa. Anyone else who goes there is in cahoots with a drug lord.

• Respectable girls don't go to Hikkaduwa.

• Men who make you laugh are silly and desperate attention seekers. Men who don't are fools.

• If you have not had bread or rice with every meal, then you have not eaten and are on your way towards malnourishment.

• Respectable girls have long hair. The only reason I cut my hair is because I hate her and want to kill her with my rebellion.

• My brother, the bad-tempered, foul-mouthed, manic-depressive psycho arsonist, is an angel.

• Computers are evil.

• My grandfather's adult pampers, sold by Loraine in Thimbirigasyaya, are better because she's Catholic.

I could go on. When you thought I needed help, did you ever figure it could be because of whom I live with?

Ooh look... this is my 100th post. To think I actually dedicated it to my mother without realizing is a testament to the irony of things and that God likes a good joke now and then.

Happy birthday, blog.

Mobile Misery

Woe is me. I’ve lost my second best friend in all the world, a.k.a. my phone. Don’t ‘pfft’ at me… that phone was the next best thing to RD’s sliced wheel. ‘Twas a super sexy birthday gift from the Doc, and one that I’d been lusting after for quite a while. I still remember how he duped me into selecting it, without realising it was for me. He took me out for a special birthday dinner and kept it wrapped beside our table the whole night, not letting me touch the gift. I had to be patient till we finished dinner and got back into the car to be allowed the chance to eagerly rip off the paper and squeal in glee. I’d been wanting that phone for yonks, and he’d gotten it for me.
Aiyo. Aiyo. I feel all helpless and cry baby now.

Eric (Short for Sony Ericsson) was cruelly plucked from my ownership the day before yesterday. I still have no clue how it happened. Granted, I am the world’s biggest klutz and absent minded owner who would normally be the first person to lose a phone by leaving it somewhere and forgetting about it. Historically, I’ve already left one phone on a trishaw seat and another in a public restroom. However, this time around I did absolutely nothing. The last I remember, I put Eric in my handbag and hopped off to meet Doc for lunch. It was after lunch, when searching for the phone, I discovered it missing. Impossible, right? I mean, I never took it out to make any calls, nor did I go anywhere other than the lunch spot to have dropped/lost it. We looked everywhere. I even searched my car inside out, just in case I’d dropped it into a crack in between seats. Nada.

We tried calling it and found it had been switched off, which can only mean one thing… someone had Eric. In the midst of blaming myself for being stupid enough to lose it I called up the service provider and terminated the connection.

And now I’m miserable.

Why the dickens am I telling you all this and why the dickens do you care? Because, paduan, in the middle of my grieving process, I suddenly had a bit of a corny revelation and wanted to share.

Those of you out there who have lost phones will know what I’m talking about. When you lose something as tiny and inconspicuous in the greater scheme of things as a phone, suddenly life as you know it is turned upside down. It’s like losing a part of you… like a limb or something. You realise with a nasty jolt that the phone was actually a vital chunk of your daily survival and not having it even for a second puts you into heap big doggy doo doo.

Think about it. It’s like breaking up with someone, innit? A phone is something that goes through life with you. It’s there during times of wonderful memories and even helps out by photographing or videoing the precious moment. It’s the catalyst between you and your loved ones, every time you communicate from remote locations. For me, Eric was the go-between to a lot of things. Every morning as I woke up it would show me a sms reminding me that someone loved me. Through the day, people I wanted and didn’t want to talk to would connect with me through Eric. A single loud bleep could put a smile on my face in an instant on the worst of days, because it was a signal to say someone was thinking of me. Every night, the phone would sit patiently next to my ear, helping me tell someone that I loved them and hear them say it back. If it wasn’t for my phone’s access to the web, Facebook wouldn’t have been a possibility during office hours. All my information was in that phone- from bank account details, important dates to remember, favourite songs, personal photos, special smses I’d saved….

And now someone else has access to all that. Someone else is laughing over pictures of my pets’ cutest poses and the Doc’s silly faces, pulled especially to make me laugh whenever I needed a pick-me-up via keypad. Someone else now knows my friends’ names and numbers. Someone else is surfing my saved Facebook page.

Someone else has my exciting birthday gift. Dammit.

And here’s the revelation…. If I can get so darned attached to something as materialistic as a mobile phone and put so much sentimental value into this gift, just imagine what would happen if I ever lost the GIVER.

Whoa.

Food for thought. You’re probably not getting me right now, but I think you will eventually. Especially if you lose your phone.

Ode to Fleadom

You know how some folks say that certain activities help them to de-stress, like cleaning the house or weeding a garden? Well, I'm not some folks. I've recently discovered my own method of stressbusting, and boy does it work like a charm for the ol' grouse. It comes in the form of a tiny little creature called a tick. Thats right... my heart lifts and my emotions soar at the thought of a parasite, and I wanted to share this new-found joy with everyone.

I don't know if it's the weather or the moggies he socializes with, but since recently my dog Tuti (short for Tutankhamun, after that rich pharoah bugger up the Nile whom I fantasize occasionally about) has started displaying miniature black lightbulbs on himself. Looks like one of those costumes from Pirates of the Carribean (I watched it recently, hence the reference to demostrate my indepth knowledge of movies). At first we though it was just another fashion faux pas of his, because he's given to his phases - like the time he took a liking to sporting my underwear on his head. On closer inspection they turned out to be a community of insects, commonly known to the local as a 'makka' in the mother tongue.

Having brought up countless canines ever since I can remember, ticks are commonplace in the homestead, and don't evoke the stereotypical shrieking and exclamations of 'eeyah' from any of the household women. Nor does it spur us into action by way of speedily transporting said dog to the vet and wrining our hands in abject dismay, until a stinky solution costing the earth is poured onto the fur and we grimace at the sight of the ticks falling off and scrambling all over the floor.

No. We pride ourselves on our primitive methods, and thus, as we have for many years, we immediately swooped down on a thoroughly perplexed dog and began using those glorious tools called fingernails and proceeded to pluck at the parasitical baubles.

It's been two weeks since, and we're still plucking.

I know. You'd advice me to use the stinky solution and have it over with in a day. But here's the thing, mate... it's LOVELY to pick ticks. It's actually relaxing and very zen-like. There's something so releasing about picking out a crawly little bugger and flicking him down the toilet. It's a sense of accomplishment, I tell you, to collect them in a bowl of water, and at the end of a grooming session, proudly survey your pluckings, backstroking in their new swimming pool. So much so that it's almost become an unspoken contest between Mother and I; working tirelessly from two sides of dog and competing to pluck out the most number of fleas.

We're not the only ones benefitting either. You should see Tuti. He flops down on the floor and surrenders himself to our greedy fingers with a sigh of content and a look on his face that is very much reminiscent of a maharaja enjoying a sensual oil massage at the hands of his harem. The cats are incredibly jealous.

I have to admit, I'm now addicted to the art of de-ticking my dog. Before them creepy crawlies came, I couldn't tear myself away from Yahoo game demos. Now, all is forgotten and trivial in comparison to the joys of playing Nazi to a bunch of fleas. After two weeks of fur-weeding and strict prohibition from hob-nobbing with strays, Tuti's little companions are a dying race. Soon, they will be gone, leaving a fond memory of the happiness their exorcism gave me.

You should try it sometime. I swear, it's a rewarding expeience like no other. Ask you dog to think about it.

And if you're too squirmish, you know who to call for the job. ;)

Cats in My Cradle

So last week we celebrated World Animal Day and all…

Colombopetrescue’s recent blogpost on her late dog Picky inspired me to write this tribute to some of the dearest friends I’ve had in my life- my legendary cats of the past. I say legendary because each has a story of it’s own, slathered with highly interesting personalities, that has provided much dinnertime conversation amongst human friends and family. Thus I felt the most fitting thing would be to pay tribute by way of immortalizing them on the internet.

If you’re a cat person, then you’ll know what I mean when I say that they are a delightful species of pet to own. Independent, beautiful, full of energy and riveting to look at, a cat can be the best possible companion for a like-minded person.

Me being the sort of girl who really goes for the chilled out attitude of a cat, I’ve housed more than my fair share of them in the past, earning me various labels from the amused society that surrounds me (As if my blog URL didn’t give you enough of a clue…)
In 28 years I have enjoyed the company of 15 cats consecutively, plus a myriad of others who drop in from the neighbourhood. Mine were Pulun, Sooky, Booshie, Twinky, Simon, Martin, Dudley, ‘Feet’, Stevie, Lonely Bat, Nangi, Tigger, and more recently Socksy, Hades and Isis. Each could not be more different from the other, and each has left their pawprint firmly embedded in my font of pleasant memories.
Pls note that the supportive images are not those of my cats (I didn’t have any softcopies to upload,) but are some I found online, that have remarkable- even twinlike- resemblances to my own fellows.

Pulun

Meaning ‘cottonwool’ in Sinhala, Pulun was, in one word, beautiful. Pure white with gorgeous blue eyes, she was the cat who commanded respect, with her ladylike qualitites and breathless looks. I don’t remember much of Pulun’s antics, save that she had a way with the boys, and as a result mothered a fair amount of squirmy half-blood kittens in her time, more often than not in one of my mother’s kitchen cupboards, inside shelved cooking pans. The photogenic one of the bunch, she’d sit serenely for any camera, knowing full well that every side of her was a ‘good side’. Tragically, Pulun was kidnapped, and if memory recalls, murdered by some insane neighbours, although I have little recollection of this, owing to it being my early years.

Sooky

Sooky was a ball of silver Persian fur, and the star attracting after Pulun’s untimely demise. She spent a good long life in our household, birthing litter after litter and becoming one of my mother’s favourites. One could call Sooky the ‘Grand duchess’ of the household cats, a role she played with much grace. That said, with all her finery, Sooky did have the inbuilt evil streak in her, and treated us to many a dismembered rat, squirrel and bird in her day.

Booshie

Sooky’s first born and my favourite, owing to the fact that he was MINE and not merely the household feline, so much so that he was my topic of speech in a grade 2 effective speaking examination. Booshie grew up with me, and became my best friend in those dim distant days of being the ‘weird kid’ who didn’t make many human pals. He was silvery grey just like his mother, but short furred and chubby. His emerald green eyes would stare at you and set your mind blank with awe. His colour wasn’t the only thing Sooky’d passed on to him, because Booshie could be lethal with any other smaller creature fated to cross his path. Booshie loved dressing up, and had quite the collection of outfits tailored by mother, that he’d wear before going to sleep in his very own customized cot. He’d follow me around wherever I went, and was never far from me at night. More often than not, I found myself being rudely pushed off my pillow because Booshie felt it to be more politically that he slept on it instead. Needless to say, I was heartbroken for years after Booshie died as a result of a snakebite.

Twinkie

My goodness. This one is a living legend amongst the archive of stories about my cats, due to her very unusual name. Or should I say names, because there were not one, not two, but THIRTEEN of them. Anne Mary Jennifer Sandra Sally Senorita Fredericka Booshina Silvia Twinkerbell Esmerelda Agatha Edith was she. I can still say it all in one breath. For practicality’s sake, we called her Twinkie.
Twinkie was sliver of a cat, sexy in her slim glossy black-and-white coat, and commanded the attention of all the perverted tomcats in our neighbourhood. SO much so that she was quite pregnant, quite often. She lived a good long attitude-filled life, until she decided one fine day to run away from home and never return. To this day, I don’t where she went.

Simon, Martin & Dudley

The musketeers three. Born of Twinkie, each couldn’t have been more different than the other.

Simon was the eldest, as one of a previous litter. The thug of the pack, he was big-made, rough looking and always wounded in battle. Bill Sikes of Oliver Twist comes to mind with Simon, even down to his raspy gruff voice that would rather wheeze than mew. This cat had the guts of a Doberman, which he showed off with pride when it came to the family dogs.

Martin, on the other hand, was the quiet guy, often found cowering behind a curtain from Simon’s eyes. One could not help but feel sorry for Martin, watching the sibling abuse he went through, and how he took it all with silent dignity, right up to the day he couldn’t take it anymore, and took up permanent residency with our neighbours instead.

And Dudley…. Dudley was a different kettle of fish altogether, and has gone down in the family history as the cat who will never be forgotten.

Because… Dudley was gay.

I kid you not. I had a homosexual cat, who knew it, and was proud of it. How did I know he was gay? Because apart from the long hours he’d spend on grooming his gorgeous bushy tail (when his siblings, mother and father were all short-haired strays), and the many times he’d cower on his toes on the kitchen cupboard with a petulant mew at the sight of a cockroach, Dudley would, at any given opportunity, try to mate with his brothers, much to their disgust. Even the neighbourhood thugs gave up their fight for his territory, simply because his ogling attentions scared them. ‘Dudders’, as I fondly referred to him, lived a long and sexually unsatisfied life, until the cat flu got the better of him.

Stevie

Shortly after we lost Dudleykins, a completely new personality entered our lives. A little black ball of fur we found on the street on rainy evening, whose tiny eyes had tragically been pecked out by crows. We rushed her to the vet, expecting a decision to put her to sleep, but were told she was healthy enough to live a full life minus her eyes. And so we took her home and promptly named her Stevie Wonder, given her colour and physical limitations.
Stevie grew up to amaze us and all those who witnessed her will to live a full and happy life. With her heightened sense of smell and hearing, she was often better than a cat who could see, because of her sense of focus and sheer determination. At kitten stage she’d bump into walls and chairs when trying to find her way around, but soon developed a map in her mind, bourne of the many accidents. This map and extra sensory perception allowed her to streak around effortlessly in a few months, and even climb the trees in our garden. She even started making very human like sounds, and had ‘words’ to express what she wanted, as that was her only understanding of communication.
Sadly, Stevie was mauled one afternoon by a neighbouring dog, on the one strange occasion that she dared to venture out of familiar territory. In the four years that she did live, she taught us many a lesson – one being that no obstacle was beyond overcoming.

Feet, Tigger & Nangi

Three kittens whose tenure with us was short-lived as a result of our fosterparenting schemes, but who left their mark nevertheless. Feet was christened simply because of his questionable attraction to…well… feet. You couldn’t walk by without being startled by a bundle of fur and claws shooting out from under a table and securing itself to your toes with razor-sharp teeth.
Tigger and Nangi were from a litter and were by far the cutest things we’d housed in a while. Tigger got his name from his bouncy, bossy personality and stripes, whilst Nangi was a typical little sister… pretty, demure and painfully shy.
All three came and went, but remained forever.

Lonely Bat

A brother to Tigger and Nangi, and the one that got left behind because of his obvious lack in the looks department. Initially named Bat due to his large cavernous ears and vampire features, the ‘Lonely’ stuck after he lost his siblings to other parents. If having a crooked face wasn’t bad enough, LB also had to deal with a crooked tail end, resulting in quite a bit of amused laughter from the rest of the cat neighbourhood.
With all his ugliness, LB was quite the poser. Take out your camera and he’d be there, giving it his all for the sake of a portrait shot. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the lens couldn’t bear it.

Hades

Another one of my all-time favourites. Black and beautiful, Hades had an attitude to kill. Despite the fact that he lost his family jewels thanks to my mother’s no-breeding motion, Hades ruled the roost with an iron paw. We’d often be greeted by loud complaints, should we have dared to ever leave him alone for too long, or delayed his meals. The two female cats in the house were subject to his bidding, and could be found cleaning him from head to toe right through the day, as he glowered at anyone who so much as smiled at the sight.
With all his gas, Hades was a pushover when it came to me. He couldn’t survive a day without being cuddled and cooed over, and loved hearing what a wonderful puddytat he was. He’s follow me around like a leech, never leaving my side unless there was a mouse or cat biscuits involved. By night, my stomach became his bed, and I was rarely allowed the luxury of movement until His Lordship decided it was fitting.
His attachment to me made Hades insanely jealous of any other humans getting too close…especially my boyfriend, and any time spent on the phone was promptly cut short with a protesting paw sneakily pushing on the phone buttons. Visitors were treated to threats and scoldings, right upto the time they’d leave.
Hades met his untimely demise at the hands of a bastard who drove his van over my baby’s head one fine day, when he went out for a walk down the lane. I hope that man rots in hell after a long and painful death.

Socksy

One of the two left with me at present. Socksy, silver in colour and sporting white socks and twitchy whiskers, was gifted to us by an aunt who found her lost on the street. From a loud-mouthed adolescent, she’s grown into a dignified grande dame, and spends her days ratting on the rooftop or scaring birds away. Socksy’s a bit of a scaredy-cat, and will never speak out of turn. Once in a while, when mood permits, she’ll become a pain in the neck unless you spend the whole day cuddling her and pampering her with massages.

Isis

The last feline member to have taken up permanent residency in our household. Isis was brought home by my parents while I was abroad, and I first met her when she’s been ours for almost a month. So much so that she found my presence obtrusive, and has treated me like a guest ever since. She’s tri-coloured with the most beautiful eyes, lined in black like an ancient Egyptian princess, thereby earning her the name.
Looks aside, Isis is a little druggie, addicted to Whiskas biscuits. There is much wailing and pleading to behold whenever we visit our kitchen, and she will not rest until a sufficient portion of the snack is dished out. The rest of her time is spent flirting with the line of interested tomcats next door.


There you go. My exceptionally long and arduous ode to the cats in my life. If you’ve lasted long enough to read upto the end, you, my friend, are a kindred spirit with as much affection for felis domestica as I am. I purr to you.