Missing

A little over 5 years ago I was asked if I would mind if Michelle was given a cat for her birthday. I wasn't overly keen on the idea but didn't want to be so mean as to say no.
A few days later we went to a house in Maryhill and picked up a long haired tabby kitten, which Michelle would later name Fudge.

I was completely uninterested in Fudge and went to the pub almost as soon as we brought her home. When I came in that night she was locked in our kitchen, scratching and mewing to get out. As soon as I opened the door she bolted right out and into the newly bought litter tray. That the little cat had been too proud the relieve herself on our newspaper covered kitchen floor duly impressed me and so I decided that shutting her in anywhere was counterproductive.

While I was happy not to keep her shut the kitchen I was determined that she would not be sleeping in the bedroom. No chance. Never.

At that time there was no latch on our bedroom door and so the only way to keep Fudge out was to block the door with my dumbbells. Obviously, if you have seen my massive arms, you can assume that these weights were far too heavy for a tiny baby kitten to move. In fact in order to get through a door blocked by these weights a tiny cat would have to fling herself repeatedly against the door in a single minded endeavour to do so; which is exactly what Fudge did.

Being the magnanimous person that I am (nothing to do with Fudge giving me no choice of course) I decided that she may sleep in the bedroom after all, in her own bed on the floor, never on our

bed. No chance. Never... Ah forget it!

Five years later and I now cannot settle in bed without Fudge at my feet. In fact when Fudge is in bed before me I will actually ease myself into bed so that I don't disturb her. I have indeed become a sad cat person.

At night she sometimes carries a little soft toy to bed in her mouth and sits and cleans it before she settles (something Michelle, a lifetime cat owner has never seen or heard of). In the morning she shouts impatiently as Michelle or I put out her breakfast. During the days and evenings she lays by our sides on the couch and whenever we leave a room Fudge is sure to quickly follow. Our little puppy cat. Our companion.

Fudge went missing just after 6pm on Tuesday 20th July. She is for the most part a house cat who never strays further than the grass outside our flat, for her to disappear is the last thing we ever expected. Since she's been gone I have walked the streets for hours searching, chapped on neighbours doors, phoned everyone that can be phoned and posted notices on surrounding bus stops. She hasn't eaten in 32 hours and the rain has rarely stopped coming down. There is little more we can do than wait at the point. All the while fearing that we may never stop waiting. That we may never see Fudge again. That she will always remain missing.

And yet, I cannot believe that. not Fudge. She may be timid but she is, as I have evidenced here, determined and single minded. If she is lost she will find her way home. If she has been taken she will escape. She will come home. I believe this. I have to believe this. I have to see my cat again. I have to see my Fudge again.

Onyway...

Michelle and I had parenting classes this week. The classes are split into two sessions - an hour with the physiotherapist and an hour with the midwife.

There were a few people in the class: A girl with her mother, a woman on her own, an obnoxious couple, and a very young couple.

Of the mother and daughter team the mother seemed to adamant that we all realise that she too had been pregnant at one point. During each segment of advice she would exclaim "Oh ah remember that" or "Ah don't miss that, Ah cin tell ye." after which the physio would pause and briefly acknowledge her with the strained politeness of a public servant.

The physio herself, who's name quite rudely escapes me, was a lovely woman, though when she spoke to the woman who came alone she did so in the same tone that you might use to speak to a small lost child: condescendingly gentle.

The next couple were nice enough though, as I said they were quite obnoxious by which I mean they (mostly the gentleman of the two) were simply a little louder and more self confident than Michelle and myself. That being said it did raise a few eyebrows when the midwife asked how the ladies were sleeping and he said that she tossed and turned so often that he sent her to the couch (His partner, quite meekly and clearly embarrassed, quickly clarified that she sleeps better there).

The young couple were pleasant and young. They earned a few unsure looks from the teachers when the class were being told of things that would happen just before labour started. After each segment of information the girl would speak up and tell us all that she thought these things had happened to her over the last few days. The third or fourth time this happened I half expected her waters to break right at that very moment.

Lastly there was Sandra, the midwife from Larkhall (a fact which she imparted several times). She was good; informal without being unprofessional and informative without being condescending. Often times when giving her advice she deviate from her initial point and tell a wee story in a kind of Billy Connolly-esque way. After each segway in conversation she would then return to her original point by saying "Onyway..." which I think is Larkhall for 'anyway' and the first time I'd ever heard the word pronounced that way.

Onyway... The classes were quite good. While they never really presented much information that we hadn't read about, it was reassuring to hear the advice from someone you could speak to rather than Heidi Murkoff.

4 week, 2 days to go.

'Till then.

The Strand

With just under five weeks to go until my boy's scheduled first appearance his nursery is looking close to completion. The furniture has been bought and built. The walls, shelve, skirting boards and ceiling have been painted. The carpet has been laid.

It's a nice soft carpet, made of two intertwined threads of blue, which is pleasant lie, walk and hopefully crawl on. The carpet had already been fit a few days before I was building the furniture and it was thenthat I saw it; I shrugged and smiled at it, to all appearances dismissing what had set my mind racing in outlandish and unfounded directions. It was a strand of carpet. Mixed in with the strands of winding shades of blue was a single strand of carpet which was made of two other colours: red and pink.

What are the odds that of all the square footage of this carpet in the world that that section of carpet would be bought by a retailer which Michelle and I would visit, and that we would then buy that particular section of carpet which contained a strand of red and pink within it for our baby's room? Are they the same odds of mistakenly being told that you will be having a boy? Probably not but still; makes you think. This was not as random a thought as it may seem either. Michelle had been told recently of two (TWO!) women who were told that they were having one gender by their midwife (or whomever does the scans) and ended up having the opposite gender. Both of these stories were told to her, I believe within a week, specifically the week before I found this symbolic strand of carpet.

In case you are interested, Google tells me that medical professionals will most often advise that there is a 10% margin of error when being told the sex of your baby.

Either way, whether we have the expected boy or an improbable girl, Michelle and I will be happy. Clothes with be exchanged, blue furniture will be adorned with pink flower or the likes and the world, as ever, will keep on turning.

4 weeks, 5 days until due date.

'Till then (or before).

THIS WEEK

I Watched: Land of the Lost, Nurse Jackie - Season 2, Southland - Season 2

I Read: Pronto by Elmore Leonard

Planned to a Tea

Today is Michelle's birthday and I had planned to make her a nice New York style breakfast, of pancakes and bacon with Maple Syrup, all week.

Naturally, I had forgotten to buy any of the ingredients until the last minute. so I was off to Morrisons running about to pick up what I needed. I left the checkout three times because I'd forgoten one thing or another before I was finally satisfied that I had everything I need.

When Michelle got home she asked if I would make her a cup of tea. This reminded me that I hadn't picked up a special mini teapot with cup at my parents house. The cup/pot hybred was perfect for breakfast in bed so no sooner had Michelle stepped into a shower before I had vaulted over our viranda and sneakily over to my parents and back before she even knew I was gone. I am ninja.

So:
Food - CHECK.
Teapot - CHECK.
Magic.

I've been a little under the weather this last week or so and as a result I was kept awake all night. This gave me plenty time to mix up my pancake batter and prepare the perfect breakfast. Everything was going to plan: The pancakes were cooking nicely, the bacon was sizzeling under the gril, the kettle was boiled and the pot/cup was sitting ready for the tea. The tea... Where's the... Oh, it's okay, the tea bag container is empty but they are still some tea bags left in the cupboard... Maybe the other cupboard? The fridge?! No tea bags.

Okay okay, not the end of the world she can have a coffee. She's not really allowed coffee because she's pregnant but one small cup won't do any harm? Will it? No, it definatly won't. It'll be a treat. A birthday treat. Better than tea? Yes I think it might be. What's that smell...

Gah! The bacon! Aw look at it! It's all... well I wouldn't say burnt... But not really not burnt. Definatly more burnt than okay. But edible... probably.

Right I just need to get this coffee ready and... When did I put that pancake on? Ah! Too long ago! Is it... yes it's fine. Mostly fine. Less burnt and more okay.

For the the want of tea bag the pancake was overdone.
For the want of a tea bag a heavily pregnant woman was over caffinated.
For the want of a teabag the bacon was lost.
For the want of a tea bag a sleep deprived and overly self critical man was harassed.

All for the want of tea bag.

Sweet Dreams

While drifting off to sleep I have just imagined being woken up by a phone call from my mum to say that Eyjafjallajokull has erupted. She tells me that she should be okay but that a poisonous sulphuric gas will soon reach Scotland killing thousands. She tells me to get to a safe place but I can't think of anywhere to go. Outside I begin to hear shouting and destuction as panic starts on the streets.