blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
It was a long weekend in Sydney. On the Saturday we went on a little night-time bushwalk with friends in the mountains to a glowworm cave, which was nothing short of delightful. It was particularly good to see how physically adept most of the kids in the group were and how open to Odd Things in the Outdoors. The one who wasn't was actively helped along by some of the others, which was lovely.

Yesterday, the rugby league team we sort of support (we don't really follow league, but they are Erskineville locals and were always so lovely when they were training at the oval or grabbing a kebab that we started to watch their games and cheer for them) won the premiership for the first time in 43 years. Their opponents were enormous, one of them looked like a polar bear, and for the first 65 or so minutes of the game it was very scary and could have gone either way. And then in the last quarter hour, the Rabbitohs went from securing the lead to streaming away to 'Chaps, are you still playing? The game is still on, you know.' I may have cheered quite loudly, which made this morning a little awkward when I realised my neighbours had bedecked their house with flags for the opposing, losing team.

They're still going to like us more than the previous person who lived here, he was a bastard.

Today I was catching up on the gardening. One of the biggest jobs was laying new pavers in the front yard, where there was originally a muddy path and where we've been making do with slabs of sandstone I just plonked down when we moved in.

Mr Brammers said that he was going out the back to read a book and let the cats have some outdoors time. I told him to keep an eye on the cats, as Rusketus had been eyeing off the Catproofing, looking for ways to thwart our efforts. Some half hour later I could hear a little chirruping miaow. I looked around and could see nothing. 'Have you got the cats?' I called down the side passage. 'It's fine,' came the reply.

I went back to digging in the concrete-like ground (the WORST soil: building waste, stones, cinders in one bit. HOW?! And full of onion weed …) and then heard the same sound. I looked up to see Ruus with his tail straight and high (the position that says 'I am cleverer than my humans! Hurrah!') trotting across the front garden towards the gate.

He had slipped through the catproofing at the side of the house, trotted down the passage to the gap under the neighbour's fence, squirmed through, made his way down to the front where he could hear me and offer commentary on my work, then squirmed through another gap to return to our garden.

The good news is that he does come when called, and since I had just dug a hole, things were relevant to his interests. He was extremely offended to be returned to the indoors. This was his face:
image

I suspect he is plotting my death. It will probably involve divebombing from the shelves beside the bed, and occur around 5am.
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
One day, quite soon, I hope, we will stop dealing with Moving Issues.

Last weekend was buying a new table, which we picked up secondhand. 'It came into the house like this …' the woman said. 'Are you sure?' I asked. 'I would have thought you'd have to take the door off.'* 'Oh no, no, no,' she said. 'Definitely not.'

So we spent ten minutes trying to get the table out. Mr Brammers came up with four possible strategies, thwarted only by reality. We then took the door off.

At this point – and you're wholly right that it should have been before – I said, 'If we have to take this door off, won't we have to take ours off, too?'

'Oh no,' Mr Brammers assured me, 'Our doors are wider.' This was a lie. But we didn't take the door off. We removed the side gate, instead.

We had one of my fave friends over for dinner at our new table on Monday, which was fabulous, despite the fact Mr B was in bed recovering from carrying a giant heavy table and knocking over and then rebuilding a giant heavy gate. That laid us low for much of the week and we only cooked a couple of meals and emptied a few boxes. So this weekend we were determined to do better.

We did! Garden centres were visited, half a tonne of buiding waste was shovelled out of the front garden and about 150kg of compost slathered on one bed, one more bed to go and then a whole new bed to dig over and form next weekend. Pots were potted, heavy things were lugged, and the cats' climbing hammocks were reassembled and placed against the side of the house in the conveniently hard-to-get-out-of back garden. And then we spent 15 minutes trying to get Rusketus off the roof.

You saw that coming, too, didn't you?

We're still a bit worn out, that's our excuse.

Exhaustion and overwork is also my excuse for missing so many birthdays lately.

[livejournal.com profile] tsosh, I miss you. I hope you had a splendid day yesterday and that this year has been kind to you, which you so thoroughly deserve.

[livejournal.com profile] gossymer, I hope you come back soon, I miss you, too! I hope you have been mugged by the present fairy!

[livejournal.com profile] sassy_cissa, I KNOW you were mugged by the present fairy. You're the loveliest person, thanks for bringing the light you do to fandom!

On the topic of which, [livejournal.com profile] birdsofshore, you are a fandom gem and you bring so much delight! I hope that you are having a spectacular day and that your cake levels are bordering on the ridiculous.

And it's possibly exactly the right time to say happy birthday to the wonderful [livejournal.com profile] meri_oddities. May gifts and cake and joy be even more dominant than usual in your life today.

Sorry to everyone I've missed in these chaotic months, I've thought of every one of you!

* When it comes to spatial awareness, I am staggeringly excellent with things, utterly rubbish with my own elbows.
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
To Dear [livejournal.com profile] mummimamma, the happiest of days! You are my favourite fleet-footed Moomin!

I have no other news, save that I have nearly reached the end of work hell, and that my kitten is a genius escapologist.

The other morning I poked my head out of the window to say goodbye to the cats in the run. Rusketus's reply came from above me, and was a bit urgent.

He was on the roof. The nearly 5m-high roof.

Where he had jumped to from the top of the cat-run wall, which is in itself about 3m high.

After 45 minutes of woman-handling a giant ladder, which I did not go very far up as I was on my own, luring him to a lower part of the roof and trying to convince him that the Mynah birds were not new friends as they swooped and scolded him, I finally caught him and was able to lock the cats inside and head off for work. Late.

I knew how he had made it to the top of the run: he swarms up the mesh like a sailor on the Victory and then parades up and down the wooden frame. To get back down, he jumps onto the mesh hammocks that are slung in a stepped fashion below the living room window for the cats to enter and leave the cat run. But I had been convinced the nearly 2m vertical jump from the frame to the roof would be beyond him, and so it proved. Instead, he leapt diagonally onto the guttering for the lower roof section, about 1.2 horizontal metres (4 feet) and nearly as much vertically. All with a long drop to concrete below.

That night we spent three hours 'kitten-proofing' the run. He managed to lock us out while we were at it by dint of running up and down the back screen door wailing until he kicked the latch into 'lock'. Happily, we were able to sort it from outside.

The next morning, we let them out into the run, impressed by our handiwork. He swarmed up the wall of the run and met our barrier and was stopped. We congratulated each other. He came back down and sat there investigating it for 15 minutes.

Just as I finished my hair, I heard a familiar miaow. Sure enough, when I popped my head out, there he was, on the roof.

Luckily, Mr B was still home and he is a foot taller than me, so the catching part of the story went far more smoothly, but suffice to say, no cat is going outside until we can fix it on the weekend. The older two have been showing their displeasure in vomit.

I cannot believe that with a combined age of 92, we are being out-thought by a kitten! The shame!
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Jones's new human and his cousin came to pick our little kitten friend up today. They seem very nice.

Monster is thrilled he is gone.
Cookie is a bit 'Oh, he wasn't that bad …'
I am missing him horribly.

photo(14)

Off to new adventures, he thanks you all for your good wishes.

And if it doesn't work out, we will have him back in an instant!
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Phone call this afternoon: Hello, this is Mr Kitten, I am trapped at work and won't get away until late. I'm so sorry! Would it be possible to change the pick up to Saturday morning?

YES! Yes it would!

He was ever so grateful, so I confessed I am greedy for any extra Jones time and that if he turns up and I don't like the look of him, I am sending him off empty-handed. rt5ttr Guess who was just on the laptop? Mr Kitten says he understands and would do the same. Alas, this means he is probably fab.

So I will just enjoy my grace days. Cookie has given me a look of 'Really, human? Am I to have no peace?' But we are actively intervening in Jones's I Must Love Cookie At All Times plan for the evening so that she can have some time without kitten embraces.

Obligatory pic time (not a single one with Cookie in which he is not a blur of action):
photo(13)

Yes he is about to leap up and demand patting. Yes patting did end in arm savaging. Earlier we had a nap where he curled up against me and was a purring bundle of delight, but I was focussed on sleeping not on kittie pix. Poor Jones, no pictorial record of his goodness!
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Tomorrow, Jones will be going to a new home. Unless I take one look at the fella who is coming for him and decide he looks like a bad lot.

For our last evening together I had planned some toy time, some cuddles and some patting.

Instead, we have had I Will Eat Your Linens, Your Arm Is For The Savaging and, his and Cookie's favourite game: I Groom You: I Kill You.

Guess which one is doing which?
photo(11)

And now, time for bed. Or, more likely, time for Stay Back, Madam, I Believe Your Feet To Be A Security Risk And Will Defend You From Them!

Here, have a pic of him being good. He can be. Sometimes for whole minutes at a time!

photo(12)

Oh no!

Feb. 4th, 2014 01:26 am
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Jones has a home!

Obviously this has all been organised by someone who was neither me nor Mr Brammers as we have been spending all our time playing with him, but – tragically – it is a lovely young cat-centric chap who is living in his first house without a cat and not coping and has a small Jack Russell living with him who is also missing living with a cat. The dog belongs to one of the housemates (three young lads, all cat loving) and they all think the cat should be an indoors cat until they have a cat run outside and think that it would be a good idea to desex him as soon as it is medically a good plan. And he has enough money for vet bills. I may have interrogated him a little.

I can't come up with a single reason why Jones shouldn't go to live with this lovely young chap. Aside from the fact we just love him, but he will have more fun there than here, and our cats will have more calm without him. Bugger!

Monster the cat has an inkling and is writing us a thank you note even as I type*.

He goes on Thursday, so this will be one of the last kitten pix:

photo(10)

*By which I mean purring and not vomiting up her cat food in the bedroom doorway. She's not technically literate, but she is very expressive.

Kitten!

Jan. 22nd, 2014 01:47 am
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Jones the kitten

He and Cookie have an amicable calm relationship: Monster is plotting his overthrow. I have been gifted with a few cuddling and patting opportunities, and am trying to tire him out to the point where I can take lots of photos in a bid to write an irresistible ad to find him a new home. This is the only photo so far in which he is in focus: he seems to feel that stillness is the enemy and it must be defeated!

We are calling him Jones, after the cat in Alien, for a long and complicated set of reasons. So far, he answers to 'Chicken', which seems to be the only English word he recognises. And he purrs like a little engine.
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Except it's an essay on writing, not, you know, a story. But there are a few good tips in there, especially on getting through a block.

Absolutely nothing useful on dealing with procrastination. I have many faults, but hypocrisy is not one of them!

You can read it here at the lovely [livejournal.com profile] hd_writers comm.

I have many other things I want to write about and comments to comment, but I will be run off my feet until after Easter and apologise in advance. But I did have brunch with [livejournal.com profile] sinden and [livejournal.com profile] pollymel and they were brilliant! Though they encouraged me to have two hot chocolates, never again! I will try to make some time, though, Australian politics has gone wholly pear-shaped, again and needs satirising.

Having said that, it remains more actually functional than either the US or the UK. It's sort of like clowns performing rocket science …
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Oh good God in heaven and all his tiny monkeys … no sooner had I typed that subject than I looked up at the LJ posting header, which is ENTIRELY BLOODY CATS!

I did NOT run over a cat on the ride home this afternoon. Not for lack of trying on its part as it belted out in front of me on a downhill stretch riding towards a busy roundabout where I am usually concentrating on the upcoming traffic. Happily, my peripheral vision was inherited from generations of flyers and riders and I spotted the little bugger early enough to brake and shout 'Kitty!' so the bloke on the speedy road bike coming up on my right could hit his brakes, too. We shared a nod of Shared Successful Pet Evasion Skill Admiration.

Inside the house, there is no new cat wee anywhere there oughtn't be, hurrah! Moushka The Visiting Cat has been in disgrace for a few days after weeing under the bed more than once (it is possible she was cornered in there by Cookie or Monster). A Serious amount of cleaning and spraying of anti-cat spray and dusting with bicarbonate of soda has done the trick, though I am still getting the smell out of the jeans that were under the bed. That will teach Mr Brammers to store his clothes on the floor. Alas, there is no sun to speak of at the moment, so no hope of solarising all that ammonia.

She has ALSO weed on the bathroom mat. She did this first when she was new and confused, and I think possibly being chased away from the litter tray by our two cats. She most recently did this the other day when I was standing next to her shouting 'NO! That is SO INAPPROPRIATE! I'll send you to your aunt's house!' We surmised it was a protest at having to use the same litter as our cats. She has won on this one and now she has her favourite litter back.

Again, we are losing to cats. This is very depressing.

Our two cats remain well and continue to hate Moushka. There is much hissing. Moush doesn't really care, she demands pats and cuddles and has her own feeding spot and the sofa and seems perfectly happy with her lot now we have bowed to her will in the matter of litter. Her need for pats and cuddles has seen our two remember that they also like pats and cuddles, and the demands have significantly increased. Sadly, this has led to situations where Moush has been happily tucked behind me on the sofa and Cookie has leapt into my lap for happy purring pattings, with sudden descent into spitting hatred when she spotted the spare cat behind me.

I feel like one of those American families on the news who have two perfect children and then adopt a troubled third and find themselves bleating at the TV cameras, 'I just don't know how we're going to get through this, but I'm just going to keep trying to love everyone equally!'

And possibly buy a water pistol …
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
I do not know what happened to this year. It was here one minute, and then the next, it was all but gone.

Since I do not need to spend 2013 earning All the Monies, I hope it will be slower. Or I shall just have to start listening to Enya and watching Parliamentary Question Time, so it feels as though it is.

A very HAPPY BIRTHDAY to [livejournal.com profile] silentauror! You have been busier than me this year, I hope that it is all working out for you and that life is starting to fall into place in the ways that make everything easier and more seamless and not just entertaining dinner party anecdotes in future years. One thing I must be better at next year is birthday wishes! Sorry, flist!

Today we accidentally tortured a cat. My friend M is headed OS and needs to find a home for her 12-year-old calico Moushka. She may be able to stay with her sister, but they have two kittens, so we thought we would try her here. I know all the steps one OUGHT to go through to introduce them, but alas, time is too short and our house too small. So we went with the free-range trial today to see is there was any hope.

Cookie was unimpressed and went to defend Monster from the interloper, which consisted of sitting between Moushka and Monster and being the fluffiest cat in the world, with a spot of retaliatory hissing. Monster was briefly hoping someone might have brought her chicken, and gave up after a while when it became clear noone had. Poor Old Moushka hid behind the sofa, first in a bucket in the corner, and then in the crack between the sofa and the side bookshelf. She was not too perturbed about the strange people, or being left by her human, or even the house, but she did NOT like Cookie and was not that keen on Monster. Hisses abungo! She did take to the bucket, though.

Over the space of about six hours she barely came out and didn't eat or drink, though she did purr whenever we patted her. Our two gave up being concerned about the corner cat, and she did not want to leave her corner or her bucket when it was time to go home. At the moment, it looks as though there is a 40% chance she will cope with being around two grown cats, but we are going to try again on the weekend. And yes, I know it's all wrong, but our house is too small and open-plan to sequester her and give her a separate space and introduce scents and so on over time. Constant Vigilance is the only option! Otherwise she is off for life with a very nice small boy and two kittens, so she will be fine either way.
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
A few months ago I met [livejournal.com profile] fire_juggler online, which was a GOOD day. She had the brilliant idea for a podfic fest, [livejournal.com profile] hp_podfic_fest, which has been running for a week and which I have SO many things bookmarked on already for listening to at the gym. 

But I couldn't hold off on listening to this one: [livejournal.com profile] raitala's reading of Tidings of Comfort. It's all in the very best spirit of regifting, as this was a story I wrote for rai after hanging out with her in London and Paris in 2009. It's all about our shared love for Wren's architecture and Draco Malfoy's cheekbones. Her reading of it is spot-on perfect, with Draco's crisp need and Harry's tentative warmth coming across beautifully in the voices. She even captures the briskness of the weather – it was started on her sofa in the winter of '09 while I alternately typed and cupped my nose with gloved hands in an effort to thaw it ;-)

At only just over 10 minutes, it's a very quick listen, so even if you have never dipped a ear into podfic before, this is an ideal place to start listening (NB, it is [livejournal.com profile] raitala's reading that makes it so good, she could add charm to Hansard).

The fest has fics ranging from under 10 minutes to over an hour, and a variety of pairings and gen are up so far, so load up your ipod!

Summary: Draco Malfoy has been coming to sit in St Paul's for a few weeks now. He isn't looking for salvation or forgiveness, just quiet and space to think. When he meets a familiar figure on the steps of the cathedral one winter evening, it's better than anything he'd thought of wishing for at Christmas.

In other news, poor little Cookie cat is not having a good week. She did something to the tendons of her back right leg yesterday morning (probably a mis-step in one of her epic leaps of teleportation), and it was very painful. The vet massaged the tendon back into place, then dosed her up on painkillers and anti-inflamatories, which had her wide-pupilled and tripping all day. It was very hard trying to keep her calm in order not to exacerbate her original injury. Today she has been rather sore and stiff and having the sort of reaction to the drugs that I do -- which is to say her stomach is rebelling and she is not a happy camper.

Because she is a tiny black cat, she finds it quite easy to hide around the house, which is full of tiny dark nooks and crannies. Despite searching methodically through a room that we know she is in, torch in hand, she often defies finding. It is as though she moves into a parallel dimension and then slips back into this one when she wants some human company. Which is normally fine, but when she is ill, it's a bit distressing. Poor wee beastie. I don't know how people manage having sick children, having a sick cat throws me into a pother of concern that wipes out most other thought.

And, unrelatedly, since I have been going to the gym I have dropped a dress size and so some clothes have been moved on – in some cases to sleeping or garden clothing. At the same time, Sydney is CHILLY for the start of summer: 17-21 degrees C as opposed to 24-37 a few weeks ago. The other night I pulled on some old yoga pants and a stripy long-sleeved T-shirt that had been redesignated as pyjamas. Then, because I was reading in a draughty room, I added a beret and gloves that were on top of my woollies pile. After a while, I pottered into the study to see what Mr B was up to. He took one look at me and burst out laughing. I looked down. I realised what he could see. I backwards-walked-against-the-wind out of there.
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
A few months ago I met [livejournal.com profile] fire_juggler online, which was a GOOD day. She had the brilliant idea for a podfic fest, [livejournal.com profile] hp_podfic_fest, which has been running for a week and which I have SO many things bookmarked on already for listening to at the gym. 

But I couldn't hold off on listening to this one: [livejournal.com profile] raitala's reading of Tidings of Comfort. It's all in the very best spirit of regifting, as this was a story I wrote for rai after hanging out with her in London and Paris in 2009. It's all about our shared love for Wren's architecture and Draco Malfoy's cheekbones. Her reading of it is spot-on perfect, with Draco's crisp need and Harry's tentative warmth coming across beautifully in the voices. She even captures the briskness of the weather – it was started on her sofa in the winter of '09 while I alternately typed and cupped my nose with gloved hands in an effort to thaw it ;-)

At only just over 10 minutes, it's a very quick listen, so even if you have never dipped a ear into podfic before, this is an ideal place to start listening (NB, it is [livejournal.com profile] raitala's reading that makes it so good, she could add charm to Hansard).

The fest has fics ranging from under 10 minutes to over an hour, and a variety of pairings and gen are up so far, so load up your ipod!

Summary: Draco Malfoy has been coming to sit in St Paul's for a few weeks now. He isn't looking for salvation or forgiveness, just quiet and space to think. When he meets a familiar figure on the steps of the cathedral one winter evening, it's better than anything he'd thought of wishing for at Christmas.

In other news, poor little Cookie cat is not having a good week. She did something to the tendons of her back right leg yesterday morning (probably a mis-step in one of her epic leaps of teleportation), and it was very painful. The vet massaged the tendon back into place, then dosed her up on painkillers and anti-inflamatories, which had her wide-pupilled and tripping all day. It was very hard trying to keep her calm in order not to exacerbate her original injury. Today she has been rather sore and stiff and having the sort of reaction to the drugs that I do -- which is to say her stomach is rebelling and she is not a happy camper.

Because she is a tiny black cat, she finds it quite easy to hide around the house, which is full of tiny dark nooks and crannies. Despite searching methodically through a room that we know she is in, torch in hand, she often defies finding. It is as though she moves into a parallel dimension and then slips back into this one when she wants some human company. Which is normally fine, but when she is ill, it's a bit distressing. Poor wee beastie. I don't know how people manage having sick children, having a sick cat throws me into a pother of concern that wipes out most other thought.

And, unrelatedly, since I have been going to the gym I have dropped a dress size and so some clothes have been moved on – in some cases to sleeping or garden clothing. At the same time, Sydney is CHILLY for the start of summer: 17-21 degrees C as opposed to 24-37 a few weeks ago. The other night I pulled on some old yoga pants and a stripy long-sleeved T-shirt that had been redesignated as pyjamas. Then, because I was reading in a draughty room, I added a beret and gloves that were on top of my woollies pile. After a while, I pottered into the study to see what Mr B was up to. He took one look at me and burst out laughing. I looked down. I realised what he could see. I backwards-walked-against-the-wind out of there.
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
I love my little Monster Cat, she is a fat bastard and licks my hair dry when I wash it, but she is a dear sweet thing. Except she is obsessed with wool. [livejournal.com profile] leochi  once drew a genius picture of the damage Mon can wreak with nothing more than a ball of wool and a room full of furniture, but alas, it was lost when she moved her art over to Deviantart.

Normally, this is charming. The good Cookie Cat comes and miaows at me when Mon is being naughty and stealing wool, and we all have a good laugh.

Except right now I am most of the way through a minidress for [livejournal.com profile] treacle_tartlet 's Small Girl, and the last ball of white wool has been stolen. It will be somewhere in the house, but this house has a lot of nooks and crannies that a cat can fit into and I cannot. I imagine we will find it when we move. The wool seems only to be available from a nice company in the US, despite being a New Zealand brand. If anyone has a ball of Naturally Perendale in 53 white, I'll swap you something nice for it!

Damn you, Monny! If only you could talk! (… you would say: 'Is that chicken? Do you have any chicken in that bag? What about that one?')

blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
I love my little Monster Cat, she is a fat bastard and licks my hair dry when I wash it, but she is a dear sweet thing. Except she is obsessed with wool. [livejournal.com profile] leochi  once drew a genius picture of the damage Mon can wreak with nothing more than a ball of wool and a room full of furniture, but alas, it was lost when she moved her art over to Deviantart.

Normally, this is charming. The good Cookie Cat comes and miaows at me when Mon is being naughty and stealing wool, and we all have a good laugh.

Except right now I am most of the way through a minidress for [livejournal.com profile] treacle_tartlet 's Small Girl, and the last ball of white wool has been stolen. It will be somewhere in the house, but this house has a lot of nooks and crannies that a cat can fit into and I cannot. I imagine we will find it when we move. The wool seems only to be available from a nice company in the US, despite being a New Zealand brand. If anyone has a ball of Naturally Perendale in 53 white, I'll swap you something nice for it!

Damn you, Monny! If only you could talk! (… you would say: 'Is that chicken? Do you have any chicken in that bag? What about that one?')

blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Back in December I promised [livejournal.com profile] auntpurl  I would blog photos of the cats. Er ... here we are!

CATS! )
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Back in December I promised [livejournal.com profile] auntpurl  I would blog photos of the cats. Er ... here we are!

CATS! )
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Leochi is a genius. This is what my living room looked like when I came home earlier this evening (though with more clutter on the floor)

BTW, if you've not been following her recent 50 glances series, click the previous button on her LJ and treat yourself to some of the best HP character art that is out there. It won't scare the kittens and it's beautifully human as well as technically skilled.
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
Leochi is a genius. This is what my living room looked like when I came home earlier this evening (though with more clutter on the floor)

BTW, if you've not been following her recent 50 glances series, click the previous button on her LJ and treat yourself to some of the best HP character art that is out there. It won't scare the kittens and it's beautifully human as well as technically skilled.
blamebrampton: 15th century woodcut of a hound (Default)
I realised why the childhood string game is called cat's cradle today.

Last night Cookie was prancing about with a ball of perle cotton in her mouth, feeling very proud of herself for finding such a treasure.

This evening, when I arrived home, there was a network of threads strung about the living room, around pieces of furniture, through the cat tunnel (in three separate passes), and out into the kitchen. In the middle of the mess were two kitties happily chewing on the threads. I don't think I want to weave anything with that thread anymore ... kitty saliva is a bit manky.

In other kitty news, I have worked out how to podcast! So far all of my test pieces end after a few minutes with "Oof! Monster! You cannot eat the headset, and get off my diaphragm!"
"Mroaw?"
"There are no cats in Sansa's fic!"
"MROAWWWW?"
"You are no help."

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