A black cat for Halloween

      Sharing the house with a large, totally black cat, is not by choice. Although, a topical subject, I think, as it's Halooween. 

     He goes by the misleading name of Mr Chuckles. He is of great age, but opinions vary as to exactly how old that may be. A cat used to doing as he pleases, he is nobodies fool, that's for sure. I must admit, he is quite beautiful for a cat. Mmm, cats, I can take, or leave. I have rather a horror of them, if I am honest. Due to the fact their nature is predatory, they have a nasty habit of catching birds! With no intention of being friendly towards them, you understand. The thing is, I love birds. I love how small, how vulnerable they are, yet how tough they have to be to survive. I love their singing, and so many are just beautiful. Delicate little works of art.They give me great joy. 

      This cat though, belongs to my friend. He is proud, extremely proud, and haughty. A solid black, with a long haired, fluffy coat, that feels like silk. A large, full tail, he holds erect, like the sail of a very grand ship. It's true, he is a splendid, and handsome cat. Mr Chuckles is really quite majestic. Just not very friendly.

      I had a black cat once, in Australia. He found me, and followed me home, and never left again. It was when I was on one of my daily stomps through the trees. I liked to excercise around the property. I say stomps, because that is exactly what I did. The grass in many places was long, it was a 'bush' walk, which meant snakes. Snakes, can be sneaky. Lieing doggo in the grass. Until they rear out, and sink the poison fangs in. That's if they get a fright first, of course. If they know you are coming, they prefer to make themselves scarce. Hence, I always stomped, and stamped my way along, vibrating the earth. Letting them know to get out of my way. It always worked too, I saw nary a one. Although it was an area for King Browns, the most poisonous.

      This Australian cat, had the life of Riley, which is what I called him. I missed my English cats, was forced to leave them behind. Which meant he filled the gap nicely. The place there, near Darwin, was heaving with wildlife. Kangaroos, wallabies, lizards, crocs, wild horses, even buffalo, further out in the bush. Birds, well, every colour of parakeet, parrot, and singing bird you can imagine. Flocks of them, wheeling around overhead, and squabbling in the trees. There was one unusual bird, with a flash of blue, who didn't keep his distance.  It came almost to the door everyday, to sing. It sat on the excercise machines outside the screen door, and sang his little heart out. It was magic, I really looked forward to it.

      Came the day, he failed to show. The next day, and the next. Ahh, gone off, I thought. Never mind, he'll be singing for someone, somewhere. Then, looking for shoes, in the bottom of my wardrobe. I saw this glossy bundle of feathers, a flash of blue. My heart sank as I reached between the shoes. That darned Riley!  Had not only, killed my beautiful songbird, but had presented him to me, in my own wardrobe. The dirty scoundrel. I never let myself get close to another cat after that. Killers, they are, plain, and simple, for no reason.

       So, Mr Chuckles, he too rules the roost. An extremely spoiled cat. We have an uneasy truce. He, accustomed to being alone all day, whilst now, I stay, and am in the house most days. He never trusts me. Whether he senses something of my distance, or it is his way, I don't know. Except if I get too close, he will spin around, in complicated manoeuvres, as if to foil any plans for grabbing him. Suddenly, facing in another direction, long hair on end, he will shoot off at great speed, making his escape. 

        Its become a war of nerves, to see if his acrobatic moves freaks me out first. Or, if my presence stops him sleeping restfully on his favourite chair, causing him to vacate the premises too fast. He can't  be happy, keeping alert, having to exit at great speed as he does. Both of us, have  become a little jumpy. When will we have the next run in?

        I guess I am lucky the birds here know to keep mostly to the trees. As they too, sing beautifully every morning. Or perhaps Mr Chuckles is too old to care. A truce of sorts has developed with the days hotting up. We both enjoy the sun, with distance between us igetting less. I am waiting for the door bell to start ringing tonight, Halloween. With me answering the door, to children in fancy dress. They come in bunches, moving unexpectly. These are all strange happenings he won't like. Who knows, by the end of the evening, I may have become his friend, or at least an ally.

          Just as long as there is NO killing of birds, we can work something out....I'm willing to bury the hatchet.

          Or, he may be the one black cat not so lucky, or doing so well on Halloween.....Look out Mr Chuckles, this could be an interesting night.

        

Circular saws in the morning

     Yes, the builders are here. I hate builders. Especially when I'm asleep.

      I was comfy in the land of nod, before strident banging around the window frames woke me. Groggy, and tired, it tried to ignore it. Oh no, he wasn't having any of that. It got louder, and moved closer, as he continued playing his morning drum beat along the window sills. Who does he think he is? The town crier in a drumming festival? Ringo Starr?  Wearing a grass skirt, a jungle in Africa amusing tourists? Well, it's not amusing me. His rhythm stinks anyway, all he is is loud, loud, LOUD.

      Soon, my head, starts banging too. It, along with my body objects to this unceremonious awaking. It's barely quarter to eight, for gods sakes. Does the man not have a home, a sex life? Nor anything that may keep him there a while longer. Is he a madman, that he thinks the whole world is up, and about early. Is he on 'peace work'? Working towards a bonus. I've got news for him, none will be forthcoming from this direction.

       Half comatose, I need the bathroom now. Now I am awake, other needs intrude. Holding my throbbing head, I stagger, stagger being the operative word, to the bathroom. Business over, I slide back into bed, determined to beat him. He cant keep it up for long can he? Of course he can. My sigh of relief, for a pause in the banging is premature. For next comes the circular saw.

        Oh, the joy of the circular saw. It starts as a whine, speedily building to a scream, and then an ear splitting screech. Soaring...get it, sawing..up, and down, high, and higher. Argggggg. My head, or my brain, or my half awake self, may combust very soon. On, and on it goes. Interspersed with more banging. He is an extremely busy little builder. Damn him.

       Oh joy to the world. Thank you for the hammer, and the circular saw. For without them, I would be asleep, in no pain, and happy. Contended in the land of dreams. I was having an exciting one, too. Believe me, my dreams are far too exciting to be interrupted by builders, and circular saws.

         So, dear readers, where ever you may be. I sincerely hope your day began, with love. Or, at least in a more peaceful manner than mine.

         What is it they say, 'tomorrow is another day'. Well, for sure, I might as well give up on this one. My only solution, as I can't stop the builders, is to hop in the car, and relax in a quiet, restful nook somewhere, with a coffee.

         Ahhhhhhhh

When the builder calls

    If you must stay in bed, for any reason. Isn't  it a nuisance when the builder calls. Even worse when he is rambling around outside, and then inside the house. Do you run for the bathroom when he steps outside? Will your fear of him coming through the bathroom door, stop you. The door, being the one unhappily, without a lock. Will it scare you off going at all? Will it stop you stepping, vulnerably naked, into the shower? Into the running shower, where you won't be able to hear a thing, no matter who comes in.

    Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he were the fantasy hunky, well stacked builder. The one from romance novels. You know, the bit of rough women are supposed to fantasise about. This one, though, is a wizened old man, with suitably grubby clothes, and glasses. At least I could outrun him. Not that that would help me much. I expect his eyesight is still good. Also my embarrassment level remains high. Mmm, not good at all. It seems I have a bit of a dilemma.

     You can gaurentee that if you stay late in bed, the whole household is bound to go crazy. Visitors, builders, even a Gardener coming later, I expect. All, with their own key. What is the world coming to? Who's silly idea was it to give them keys? It's sad, when a  Girl cannot have a little extra time, relaxing in bed, with a cup of tea, and her iPad before facing the world. So, here I sit, writing on the iPad, putting off the moment of making a decision. 

      In the meantime, the hour gets later, the embarrassment level rises, and nothing is decided. Exactly how brave do I feel this morning? As the noise level outside my door rises, my suspicions grow, that perhaps I am trapped here. Imagine trying to walk out of here even later, in the afternoon.....

        Oh dear, I must be brave, wait for a quiet moment, then run. Wrapping the thickest dressing gown around me, holding a big handkerchief to my nose, and sneezing. As if I have the flu.

         Do you think that sounds like a plan? Otherwise, I could be here until night time........

          Helppppppp!

Fantasy

       The palm tree outside my window blows in the breeze. It's pointed leaves, hang like full, giants' hands, with many fingers. In many bunches, the leaves, are so thick, and overlapping, that the centre, of each bunch of fingers, is dark, and impenetrable. The trunk of these palms, long, and graceful. Smooth, dark, yellow/grey in colour. It's not a Nikkua, it's not a Phoenix, but what ever it is, it's beautiful. Along the graceful trunk, the bark wraps, with triangular slabs, like moulded butter. Greeny, as if mixed with herbs, with the vee pointing up. One smooth slab, overlapping the other, from bottom to top.

        When. I rise in the mornings, light hits the shiny leaves, making of them, an, out of water reflection.  A kind of ghostly watercolour. With many sharp pointed ends, and dense, dark shadowy centres. Whilst through the sharp cut out shapes, the light blue of the vast expanse of sky breaks through. So bright, it hurts your eyes to look at it directly. In places, the morning sun hits the tree top directly, creating small spots of brilliant, dazzling white light. As if, living diamonds hang, sparkling amongst the foliage. Shining through the drops of moisture, left from the night mist. 

           At dusk, when the sun has dipped below the horizon. A while before dark falls, throwing its heavy blanket over all, real magic occurs. It is the time before fruit bats emerge, to soar blindly around, radar sounding. Delicate, furry little craft, with sharp teeth, and hooked wing tips. Flying fearlessly, feeling their world bounce back at them, showing the path to food. So, before these leathery minions emerge, and after the night jar sings, new glimmers are seen.

           Minuscule glimmers, spark, and are gone. Deep within the darkest shadows of leaves movement builds. Gradually, the glimmers strengthen, becoming larger, and of various colours. There are silver, pink, turquoise, lemon, and limes. These soft, jewel colours, and more of assorted mixed tones, build until hundreds are on the move. Flitting both around this tree, and another of similar size, accross the street.

           This kaleidoscope of bright fragments are moving away from the trees, in ever increasing circles. Busy, like bees, popping in and out of shadows, skating down sloping, slides of leaves. Dozens, mixing, and intermingling together, in sometimes ordered, sometimes haphazard groups. It's a party scene, of fast moving glimmers. Flashes at such speed, and sometimes grace, as to confuse the eye. Only when one of these sparks of light comes closer to the window, do I see exactly what it is.

          The small, smoky blue spark, flies towards the glass. Even with bare eyes, in the gloom of my room I can see well enough. The gossamer wings, with delicate rounded tips, the mass of pale hair above a slender neck, and pair of graceful arms, held aloft. The slight wisp of body covering, in that pure blue, glows as bright as the moon, not yet risen. Two shapely legs, flash, as the little female peers in, interested in the whole room. Ignoring me completely, as if I cannot see her. Perhaps I should not be able to see her? Yet I can!

          Suddenly, as if she realises there is a blank where I stand, or perhaps I blink? With a flash of light, she is gone. Just as suddenly, the rest of the lights blink out. All is dark, all is silent, waiting. 

Changing windows, and staying in the dark, peering out anew. I wait, watching for any new movement. Warily, only a few at a time, glimmers move cautiously. Time has gone, soon the bats will fly. It stands to reason, that these little creatures will not do well with  sharp toothed, hungry bats. 

          All I see this time, are a few assorted flashes of lights. Nothing like before, no bustle, oh how I miss the sight. Had I not seen the one little creature close up, I would not guess what lives in the palms. 

           Every night, for the rest of my life, whenever I can, I gaze at palms, at any trees. Never again do I catch even a glimpse. Remember though, if you are ever standing at dusk, near trees, stand very still, and watch carefully. For somewhere still, there are....

                                                                                  FARIES

 

            

In the dark of the night

When all around is still, and quiet, where does your brain skitter to then? Do you rehash the previous day, regretting, or celebrating things you did. Do you plan tomorrow. Vowing, tomorrow I will put it all right. Tomorrow I will do all the things I should have done already.

Or, do you examine, or fear the dark? The heavy, ominous dark pressing in on you. Pregnant with unspoken sorrow, or danger. What is that scratching you hear, where is it coming from? Is it from the darkest, deepest corner... The movement of unseen horror, or only in your mind.

 The scratching as the wheels in your brain try turning, trying to make sense of your life. To make sense of the mistakes you made yesterday, or this week. Do they slowly turn, grinding, still rusty, as they try to operate fully? How often do you think things through properly, how often do you just act, without thinking? No wonder the wheels are creaking, and scratching. Vow to use them more....before they seize up altogether. Before you lose all reason.

Or, is there something else there, in the room with you? Something that that has no right to be there. There! There! In the darkest place, where the air is stagnant, and ominous, hunting. Heavy with danger, with pain, and fear! Can you feel it, can you see it move? Is it coming closer, does it slither, or glide? The hair on your arms stand erect, as fear crawls, a frozen finger, trailing inexorably through you. Shaking now, as adrenaline courses through your body. Every sense alert now, it must be close enough to touch...why can't you see it? Do you want to see it? No, if you see it, it exists, it's really there, stalking you...waiting its chance.

No. Close your eyes, curl small, into a ball, head on knees, bottom on heels. Might it miss you now, as small as you are? Still, keep still, and silent, but you can feel its breath, as it begins to envelop you. Beginning with your knees, poking before you...innocent in the dark. A scream, builds like pressure inside you. If you let it free, there will be no more hiding, it will have you...

A bell is ringing, on, and on, strident. Shakily, you stretch out your hand, press a button. The alarm stops.

Ahhhh no, it's the alarm, telling you to get up, another day is starting.

The dream, if that it what it was, will dissolve until the next time....

A Sunday nothing goes right

Continuing the decorating theme....

      Yesterday, painting, and cleaning up after ourselves went well. Although we had to work very hard to get done with the ordinary rooms, and ordinary paint. The remaining rooms all need waterproof paint for kitchens, and bathrooms. For another week we said to ourselves, we, the three musketeers. 

       Or, should it be decorteers, or renovateers, or perhaps exhaustateers. Or perhaps three people too bloody old for taking on something like this...with a deadline. Or at least, with constraints we put on ourselves in order to cause my mother as least disruption as possible. At least we have managed to keep the place looking as if nothing much is happening. Not an easy feat, I can tell you.

       However, the new washing tub, for the laundry was a pig to make work. What should have been a simple exchange, the old, for the new, almost same fixings, same same size etc. turned out to be awkward in every way. The tub is several millimetres smaller than the old one, tiles, still newish, were not put under the old one, so a big gap of old Lino was visible. Not a pretty sight, and we were all ticked off about it to varying degrees. Left over tiles, were eventually found in the outside shed, but still, laying them, and letting them dry overnight, delayed everything. We were supposed to be done yesterday, but it did not happen.

         Today, Sunday, tiles were dry, tub heaved into position, and fitting commenced. Of course, none of the supplied fittings fitted. The new ones, purchased specially, failed to do the job either. A leak, and another set of extra pipes, and several hours later. It was done. In the meantime, the poor guy who was stuck with the job, had me on his back too. I was becoming stressed for lack of time, because I needed to get all the curtain, I took down, washed, and dried before we left. Little chance of that I decided.

          I must say, he was so patient. If it had been me, struggling with that drafted tub for the second day, and getting nowhere, I would lose it. I am sure, at least once, the tools, or the pipes would have gone up the wall, with my right arm behind them. "Well, what would be the good of that? he asked. "That wouldn't get the job done". I agreed it wouldn't, and granted, I would have to pick them up, and start again, but they would have gone at speed anyway. 

            Not until three in the afternoon, did I get curtains in the washer. Two loads later, I have some hung out, the day is almost gone, and rain keeps sprinkling too hard. Eventually, the washing comes in again, damp dry. What else could I do. It hangs in abundant swathes on every possible surface in the spare bedroom, and the garage.

            Here's hoping for the best, 

                  dry by next weekend do you think? & half the windows still to do.....

My Saturday

This is not really about writing, except that I actually am writing, right now. No writing experience is wasted is it.

Today was the third Saturday of decorating my mother's house. Two bedrooms, hallway, laundry, toilet, bathroom, and kitchen. The living, and dining room were done last year. First, all the old wallpaper had to be stripped. Now, that was a mission.

My, mother....is a little treasure, but a little 'deaf' treasure. Ninety years old this year, not in the best of health, but she certainly has all her marbles. If she could hear perfectly, she would be lethal.

As it is, I rely on her not hearing everything. That way, I can at least get away with a few things during my time there. Ha ha. Otherwise, she runs me ragged. There is little doubt she still believes me to be no more than about sixteen years old. A fairly stupid sixteen at that. 

The smartest defence mechanism from her point of view, is no matter what I try to explain to her, or tell her, her deafness protects her, Her general inability to hear well, means no matter how hard I try, if she doesn't want to, she doesn't understand a word I say. Which, totally frustrates me. She knows very well, I can only speak that loud for a short time. Selective deafness, is definitely at play there. Otherwise how does she know when I say, in a quiet tone, Time for a  cup of tea. "Yes Please' comes the cry.

Ah well. Only a couple more weeks to go before the decorating is finished.  

Think of me, being scathed up, and down. As I work my fingers o the bone. 

I know she has a great time through this though, so how can I complain?