Resisting the Lure of Cats

This girl says it all really. Except the bit about bow ties. That's a bit weird.

But what is this obsession with cats? It seems to run in the family - certainly my sister and I have both ended up with it. Grandad was always a cat's best friend, our Aunt Tracy has had at least seven feline furballs at a time and Uncle Frank describes himself as 'dotty about cats'. I grew up with a fat moggy called, er, Moggy whose eventual demise upset my mother so much that she refused to ever form another feline bond.

I so enjoyed living with Tufter, the daft old cat who shared my home until his disappearence early in this blog. I was perfectly happy to just provide him with a warm spot on the sofa and sit next to his sleeping (occasionally snoring) little body. And now that he's gone, I leave the back door open whenever I'm home just in case the neighbours' cats fancy popping round.

Tufter in his usual repose

Cats are like the cuckoos of the mammal world. They simulate human babies by mimicking the pitch of their cry and by using their body language to suggest dependence, love and affection. And they've evolved to do this because, falling for it every time, we soppy old humans will provide them with free food and shelter for the whole of their lives. It's manipulation pure and simple, a drain on our resources, a parasite.

And you'd have thought that the modern astute person armed with this knowledge would kick the cuckoo out of the nest, but no. We still fall for it. I am not broody, I have no desire to partner up and have babies (and a good job too - it would put quite a kink in my travel plans), but I do feel that little tugging need to settle down somewhere comfortable and acquire cats.

Who can explain how to get over this?

Back to the 'Diff

I promised to continue the blog despite putting the travel on hold for a few weeks. So here's a little update for ya.

Power dressing

I had a slight panic as I flew back to Cardiff; would I have anything to wear? I remembered selling a lot of my clothes and for the last four months I'd worn nothing but hiking gear and flowing cotton... if I still owned office attire I didn't know whether it would still fit. Thankfully I arrived back to a rail full of smart dresses and appropriate shoes, so I donned a Karen Millen number with medium-heeled court shoes for my first day.

How could something so pretty hurt so much?

Well that was a painful day! Apparently all this wandering about in super comfortable walking boots has robbed me of my ability to gracefully trip through the town in stilettos - for the first time in my life my legs are the wrong shape. I bought a pair of insoles from Clarks which helped a little but still my calves ached and the balls of my feet felt shredded, even into the next day. It looks like I'm going to need more practice!

Working

I won't say too much about the work I'm doing, mostly because it's not that interesting, but I can tell you that it's no fun being back in an office after such a fulfilling adventure. The people there seem lovely and the location is perfect, but I'm still staring at a computer screen all day long. And my day is forcibly structured - get up at 7, walk to the bus station at 8, spend exactly one hour having lunch... this is not natural, people! Worst of all, I keep thinking. My brain is used to being free to ponder and meditate on a subject of its own choosing and it won't be reigned down again. Working on complicated website stuff is made much more difficult when your imagination keeps drifting off into post-apocalyptic survivalism and flying goats. Sigh.

I don't have a touchtone phone

Before this adventure had started, I'd noticed that one of the scart sockets at the back of the Virgin cable TV box was broken. I hadn't have time to see to it before I went and neither of my current housemates bother watching television so it wasn't an issue. This week I decided to call the media company and get it sorted - a tick for the 'to do' list. After all, it can't be that difficult to just call them up and report the breakage, right? Check out a transcript of my 1hr and 21 minute phonecall.

Tufter II

Last night I had a somewhat surreal experience as I arrived home after catching up with my good friends in the drama group. I stepped out of the taxi and was greeted by a young black cat who fixed me with round green eyes and trotted over with a small miaow.

My pen drawing of a young Tufter

She was actually a short-haired female with a white bib but her personality was so like old Tufter's! She was instantly affectionate, quite happy to be picked up and sat on my shoulder, and incredibly keen to come inside the house (which i didn't allow). I quizzed some of the neighbours and found out who she belongs to - a lady just across the road from me. Hopefully we'll see much more of this little fuzz ball!

Voila, The Mediterranean!

On Saturday I drove to a vineyard outside Toulon, to meet a wine maker that I met in Japan. The farm is part of a national scheme of free campervan sites where you can buy local produce or artworks and stay overnight. It looks like a good way to see the country - if anyone's interested they can buy the guide book and pass from France Passion for €29 and get information on 7,000 such sites.

Seeing the Sea

After eating, drinking and catching up on Saturday night, we needed a spot of excercise. We packed bags and took a hike on cliff tops that would give an eagle vertigo, staring down into a clear navy blue sea. The sky was cloudless and the water's surface like glass so we were glad to eventually find a way down and to dive into a cove where the pool was deep and cool.

Not the English Channel

We ate an extremely fine picnic on the warm rocks and took out my waterproof camera... I had no goggles but nonetheless floated around trying to snap little silver fishes and the sea bed. I promise to share the results when the film is developed!

The climb back up was a little more difficult but we were soon sat in Thomas's car listening to Led Zeppelin as we rolled home. It was on this journey that I learned about the rule on speed bumps in South France. Apparently these sleeping policemen are always installed outside the homes of the people who requested them and it's therefore obligatory to make as much noise as possible when crossing them, both by honking the horn and by lowering gear and revving the engine.

Hungry cats vocally educating seafood diners in sharing

We finished the day by dressing up and heading to a secluded restaurant on the seafront where we provided fine dining to the local mosquitoes. The chef's special that night was my arse, served through a nylon skirt between narrow slats of a wooden chair.

Ouch!

Cecil has had a brand new battery and has had his gas cannisters filled and we've moved onto Cannes for a couple of days. From there, who knows? Maybe Italy, Switzerland... I'll be back.

Saying Goodbye

I had such a romantic notion of the 'farewell tour' before actually leaving this country. In my head it would be as perfect as waving a silk handkerchief through the open window of a steam train, or from the top deck of a great cruise liner.

My plan was to host three parties, one in each location where I have a high density of friends, so that I would have a final chance to drink with everyone I know and love. Being rather keen on events planning, these would of course be immaculately organised and perfectly run.

Hmm.

1. London

Well this was always going to be difficult. I wanted to have a party to include my beloved colleagues at One to One and also my fantastic housemates at the Old College in Paddington. But of course with so many of my colleagues going through redundancy, and with all my housemates going through eviction, there was little appetite for celebration.

My colleagues did organise a joint leaving party for us all but I'm sorry to say I was so exhausted with packing, moving and planning that I barely stayed for two drinks. I instead went into the office on my last day, the 9th February, to say goodbye to everyone in person. Ben made the most beautiful carrot cake I've ever tasted in my life and Winston broke into the wine cupboard, and I choked back the tears as I realised that this would likely be my last time ever sitting in that office and talking to the fantastic array of people there.

And I made them pose for this photograph:

L-R Andrew, Carmen, Mimi, Paul, Erdeniz, Sagi, Gurvinder, Winston, Zahra, Angustias, Ben, Aleksandra and Bernadett

  2. Cardiff

I telephoned the caterers in a panic with just 10 days' notice, only to learn that I'd already booked them and forgotten. I also ordered 80 designed invitations from Vistaprint and left 75 of them in my handbag. There was not one part of this event that I had properly organised.

Luckily there was still a great turnout - the amazing friends I've made at Telstars Theatre Group, some of the best rebels from my old office at Confused.com and of course my lovely neighbour James. We had a chilly outdoor marquee at the Gwdihw, with hot Indian food provided by the Vegetarian Food Studio in Grangetown. As the party was winding down, I borrowed a plastic recycling sack from the bar staff and poured all the left over bajis, samosas and atom bombs into it. We went on to a bar on Womamby Street where dancing, drinking and offering strangers Indian food from a bin bag took place. 

Some sober and stable friends, photographed by a sober and stable Emily

Finally, James and I took a taxi back to my house where one of my lodgers was still up and about, as well as Tufter the cat, so the three of us carried on the party until such time as all naughty children should be in bed. The bin bag of Indian food went in the freezer.

3. Salisbury

A week later we ploughed into The Pheasant, a pub that I called home for several years in my youth (literally - I lived with the bar manager in the adjoining cottage). This was in many ways the easiest to organise - I had still failed to send all my beautifully printed invitations, but I had managed to get food orders for everyone.

We had a three-course meal for 16 people in our own private room, with flowing wine and conversation and a heartfelt poem written and performed by my sister. The pub's boiler was condemned during our visit, so we were again condemned to be chilly, but another glass of wine can always solve that problem. Some friends had to leave early to big hugs and kisses, but most of us went on to a number of pubs in the area. Apparently. It was a night full of nostalgia all the way back to my school days, but sadly not a night I can remember.

4. The Cat

Four days after the Salisbury party, Tufter disappeared. He followed one of my housemates down the road in the morning and then never came home for breakfast. I spent the week that followed searching for him day and night, posting leaflets through neighbours' doors, publishing his photograph on 'lost cat' websites and talking to local vets and council departments. He has been spotted since the disappearance, locally too, but hasn't been hanging around his usual haunts and certainly hasn't popped back through his cat flap. I hoped with all my heart that I would find out what happened to him before I left, just to be sure that he'd be okay, but sadly there's no news to this day.

Now I just imagine and hope that an old lady has taken him in, and that she'll feed him roast beef and salmon trimmings and that he'll spend his last years purring in front of the fire somewhere comfortable. It's all I could ever ask for him. So, in memory of our long happy years together, here's a picture taken just a week before he went on travels of his own:

Tufter, age 16: he beat me to it