Do you ever get those days when you have a sniffly runny nose and wonder if it is in fact the fluid leaking from your brain? Me either.
Living in the country does make you different. How many other people get to complain at work that they are tired because a cow kept them up all night? She bellowed all night and my only guess is that her calf was taken from her and she was calling for it.
Excuse me, but I have the rather urgent need to vent.
People who do a five minute walk through tour and then make snap decisions, should be snapped in half themselves and their pieces scattered on a motorway.
May all those self-indulgent parents who told their child that they were wonderful for merely drawing breath; and may all those parents who don’t give a shit about their feral children and never taught them any values or manners, may you all rot in hell before coming back as a teacher in your next life, if there is one and get to teach your kid; otherwise just burn in hell. Twice.
“Don’t leave your bag in the doorway”
“Why?”
“Because someone will trip over it.”
“It’s not my fault if they are stupid enough to fall over it.”
Treat others as you would like to be treated, or I will surely break your arms and legs off.
Argue about the literal meaning of a proverb over the metaphor one more time and I will ram your arms and legs where the sun don’t shine and post you home to mother.
Why should class be fun? Why can’t you just pay attention for 40 minutes and learn something for once in your damn life.
Can I put up an Easter reading suggestion display with the slogan “Don’t be a wasted space, read a book for once”?
May the subject coordinators who create dodgy lesson plans for teachers to present, be locked into an eternal Groundhog Day of teaching that lesson. May you be eaten alive at the end of each day. No exit clause.
Would someone for f-ing sake build covered walkways between our classrooms so that we don’t end up with 152 sopping wet students in the library at lunch time.
Sometimes, sonny boy, you just don’t get to negotiate or argue every point, sometimes you just need to shut up and do.
Don’t give me the finger because you don’t know how to merge on the highway. I see your finger and raise it one as well.
Stop trying to rearrange the front of my car and attach my car to yours by changing into my lane without allowing enough space between our cars.
“Put your phone away”
“It’s my mum”
“Tell Mum that Mrs FD is trying to teach you right now.”
“But she wants to know ,,, whether to wash my blue blouse or my pink; where I left the remote; whether she can borrow some money…”
“Tell Mum to send a text that you can answer after class.”
Total disbelief as an expression from student who continues conversation with parent.
Enough with the rain already, we need to dry out.
I am a goddess why are my feet in the bloody trenches?
Sorry for being like a bad mother and parking you in front of the YouTube screen for the past two days, but I have had a couple of doona days (sick days) due to a rumbly in my tumbly.
Couple of news items (Australian content) that have driven me mad. One the temerity of the Australian media to think that they had the right or the expertise to question the physical appearance of Olympic swimmer Leisel Jones. Jones has won medals at previous Olympics during a period when she has gone to a 14 year old child to a woman. So what if she doesn’t fit what we amateurs think a swimmer should look like, she has qualified and that is enough. The arm chair critics should shut up, and keep their gender bias to themselves. No wonder women have body issues when even those in peak condition at a world level are picked on!
The other issue, also related to the Olympics has been the very vocal complaints from some of our runners that they should have been given more opportunities to compete in various events. I find this very interesting from a generational point of view. With the Olympics we are seeing Baby Boomers having to deal with Generation X and Y. Boomers hold tight to loyalty, while X and Y have lived in a environment of instant gratification and been instilled with a sense of entitlement (usually by their Boomer parents!) and it is interesting to watch it play out. Sadly, it is in such a public forum, and when the sportsmen are living the dream of so many others it does seem petty and selfish to many viewing from the edges. As equestrian rider Andrew Hoy said in a television interview that when he was not selected for the Beijing Olympics he just worked harder so that there was no way they could over look him for the next Olympics. He is riding in his seventh Olympics, so maybe the runners need to listen to his sage words.
That said, I can’t wait for the Olympics to begin, not because I am a keen follower of sport, but because I am so tired of endless hours of empty news reporting on the Olympics.
My money is on Prince Philip lighting the Olympic cauldron at the opening ceremony. That is why they had to cut the opening ceremonies, to accommodate the length of time it will take Phil to totter to the cauldron with his flame.
The time has come, my little friends, to talk of other things / Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings / And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wigs
I rediscovered one of life’s little pleasures while I was ill – sitting up in bed in the middle of the afternoon eating ice cream; just because I wanted to. Vanilla is my favourite. I like chocolate too, but vanilla ice cream is just so pure and simple; it just swirls around my mouth and down my throat. Pure bliss.
My Grandchild to Be now has arms and legs and likes to play (remember I was a child bride and like Remax, or Remix, or whatever Bella and Edward named their spawn, my children aged at an accelerated rate and then stopped ageing, I am only twenty something plus thirty something). Daughter1 had another scan this week, and they got to see My Grandchild to Be, flipping and floating and doing all the things it should be doing. D1 has had a little discomfort as her joints have softened a little too much to accommodate the pregnancy and so she has had to wear a girdle brace for the past week. Her morning sickness is peaking (week 11). I tell her things will improve…if not she will forget it all after My Grandchild arrives!
Daughter2 is not moving to England, she is off to Perth for a 12 month secondment. That is right across the country, like going from New York to Los Angeles, but at least it is the same country. I shall miss her dreadfully, as she is my movie buddy and indulges my eccentricities, most of the time, until she reaches her limits and threatens to kill me. I keep her readily supplied with crazy mother tales to entertain her friends, so no doubt she will miss me too. We shall just have to watch movies in marathons when she comes home.
MIL is 90 this year and SIL is planning celebrations. We begged her to keep it a quiet affair, but she is off on her own tangent. Memories of FIL’s 90th come flooding back though – he landed in hospital the day before and we ended up cutting the cake in the hospital. It is another 6 weeks away, a long time when someone is 90…
Do you think Romney is a stick puppet? He always appears so stilted and uncomfortable in public, I can only imagine him with a stick up his….
Three policemen came to our door and Mr FD thought ill begotten youth had finally caught up with him. Hunney the statute of limitations expired on that a long time ago (not sure if Australia has a statute of limitations. I hope not)!
In truth, someone had parked a vehicle on the spare allotment next to our house and young men were seen walking in and out of the bushland and one the neighbours had called it in to the police. We had noticed the vehicle, but as we live at the end of a cul de sac and the allotment is vacant it is not unusual to see vehicles parked there when neighbours have multiple guests. We are all taking turns creating stories to go along with the mystery. It’s a small life but someone has to live it…
a fitting punisment for Mr FD?
A thief entered my mother’s room at the care facility last night. Luckily, she and the other residents were together in the dining room, when a young man entered the building and started to rifle through rooms.
Mum’s was the fourth room that he entered and somehow he triggered an alarm in her room. Two staff members confronted him, but he managed to escape. He was going through Mum’s handbag when discovered. She had nothing of value in her handbag, just some store loyalty cards and about fifteen dollars in cash. My sister has all her important cards.
The police were called, naturally, but Mum was not told about what happened. They phoned my sister and she agreed not to tell Mum as nothing was lost (she probably won’t remember the money) and it is best not to worry her as she has started to really settle in now.
Obviously, the thief knew the routine as he struck when it was meal time aware the staff would be occupied with the residents in the dining room. Heartless to strike at people so vulnerable.
To think Mum lived all those years in her home, the last 12 alone and was never robbed, and here within her first month in a place we considered safer for her, she is a crime victim. The security of the facility has been my main concern since the night Mum wandered out into the street. I know they can’t lock them away, but I do think they should have more secure systems, such as locking the front door. They do at the facility where Mr FD’s Mum is a resident, though most of the ladies there are capable of answering a knock on the door from anyone wishing to enter. Mum’s companions all have walkers and are less mobile so staff would have to answer the door, but I do think it needs to be considered.
Well, no guess about who has gone to the top of the stick list – actually he will be lucky if he only gets the sticking he so richly deserves if I get my hands on him. One day he will be an old person, and I hope bad karma rains down on him!
I am wearing my knitted blue dress and I am so sexy, even if I say so myself (and I do!)
We have a bird problem outside the library; birds perch along the exterior window ledges and poop over the paving, especially in front of the doors. We notice that it is worse after the weekends when the birds can perch unmolested. So, one of the building staff purchased a large plastic owl and had it installed on the corner of the building. The theory is that it will scare the birds away. I think it is more likely that the birds will fall about laughing! This morning a big black crow was making friends with it, and the crow only took flight when I walked towards the building (no, you don’t want to make comment as to the relationship between my appearance and the level of fright of the bird, well, not if you want to live). Pity the owl doesn’t have a voice and motion sensor. I would record the message “No food in front of the library! Put your bag on the bag racks! I am talking to you, kiddo!” Then it would really earn its place!
I increased my life insurance and income protection insurance this week, so if I mysteriously disappear in the near future, please feel free to point the finger at Mr FD. He has been following the Baden-Clay case closely, as indeed everyone has. If he suggests I suddenly developed a passion for going for walks late at night, call him a liar. We all know that I do not exercise, indeed exercise for me is moving from one end of the couch to the other (Flamingo Dancers do not get sweaty, we merely become dewey). I also do not swim in local water holes or creeks. I do not walk along the nearby river’s edge either. Even if he didn’t do it, he deserves to suffer in my absence. He should have taken better care of me!
merely dewey, not sweaty!
The quote on my desk calendar states, “The plainest sign of wisdom is a continual cheerfulness: her state is like that of things in the regions above the moon, always clear and serene” (Michel de Montaigne). Obviously I am never going to possess wisdom, for continual cheerfulness is beyond me. To be continually cheerful one must no doubt be continually nice, and we all know that I find being nice so damn exhausting. Last week I developed a severe migraine from an extended period of niceness, and required a day in my bed to recover my evilosity balance.
Over a week ago I bought some green grapes which I put into the vegetable keeper of the fridge and promptly forgot about. On Monday morning I remembered that they were there (okay, I didn’t remember, I found them when searching for a tomato that hadn’t gone mouldy) and decided to take them for my lunch. Problem was that after a week in the fridge the grapes were no longer as fresh as they had once been (who is?) so when it came to lunch I allowed myself to reject them in favour of some chocolates that were being passed around. Guilty as only a catholic girl can be, I vowed I would eat them the next day, so I kept them in my lunch bag (lunch bag, think of something Fred Flintstone would carry, except in insulated black nylon!) Next day rolled around; as did grape time and I now know those damn grapes have been in the bag, not even the fridge since yesterday. My mind imagines the brown patches as browner, brown patches. Now, we all know that I am never going to eat those damn grapes. I am going to keep playing this routine until the damn things fall out of my lunch bag, or the fuzzy mould takes hold. Then I will throw them out. So, why don’t I save myself all these feelings of guilt and just turf them into the compost bin now? They are going to a better place – earth to earth and all that. However, there are still starving people in the world and so I keep pretending to myself, which is even worse, as it is not as though my lack of grape appreciation is public knowledge (I am no longer on Facebook) so I need only hide my dirty secret from my own consciousness, but I can’t. I have a solution though – I shall give them to Mr FD when I go home. And that, Virginia, is what husbands are for…
Speaking of vaginas, Virginia, male student was waiting for male friend at the circulation desk and was reading through a homework quiz. One of the questions was “Do women have a cervix?” Neither of them knew, and I did not enlighten them. Some things a boy just has to work out for himself.
I am tired of parents who change the spelling of traditional names or combine two or three parts of various names to make an “original” and even more tired of students who roll their eyes and act as though you are so stupid because you mispronounce their name due to the fact that their parents couldn’t spell it correctly to start with! (Remember Monty Python’s Raymond Luxury-Yacht (pronounced Throatwobbler Mangrove?)
I realise that trying to get a group of teachers to agree on anything is harder than herding cats. There is always someone complaining about something, which always means yet another meeting, to disagree again. If only we would disagree on holding another meeting!
It’s Saturday night, the rain is pouring down outside, and I am lying on my bed. My idea of a perfect night. Mr FD is downstairs watching football on TV, so it is even more perfect!
We had to go back to the ballot boxes this weekend to vote for Mayor and city councillors. The way Federal politics is going we may have an early election this year also. I am so over Australian politics with its sniping, back stabbing and negativity that I really could move far, far away. The fact that it was raining made it even less palatable. If only they realised that I am the answer to all the world’s problems. I have the answer for everything, just let me get on with the job.
The school is holding an Open Day tomorrow (Sunday) to market to prospective students and their parents. The library, being the gem in the crown, is central to all activities, so we had to make the place shine. I found a number of articles, such as old photographs and early uniforms which I used to create a display. I have to admit that I did advertise that I was open to bribes from teachers so that they could avoid embarrassment due to unflattering photos. Not only as staff, but many of the teachers are former students, so there are more than a few of them in school uniform. Oh what fun!
Speaking of bribes, I am seriously considering introducing a tribute system. I am worth it, after all. Additionally, for a large number of gold coins I shall drive past a pleb’s (your) house, toot the car horn and wave, so that the neighbours think the pleb (you) are almost important. For even more gold coins and a few of those polymer notes I will even slow down and call out “Oh hello!” before planting my foot and accelerating away before pleb germs settle on my vehicle (I can’t risk becoming ordinary). I know it will be the highlight of your little existence, not to mention my rightful due. Stay tuned for advertised dues, rates and services; it is the least I can do for the little people.
Thinking about my Mum last night led me to consuming a box of cheezels and half a block of turkish dellight chocolate. I love cheezels, but my tongue always feels as though it has been chemically burnt after I eat any, well usually it is the whole box. Not that it stops me from eating them, I just look upon it more as a scientific experiment now than comfort eating.
Have you noticed that now days, when someone says they painted a room, and you ask “oh what colour?” that they answer “scarecrow”, “misty wind” or “scallywag”. What the hell description is that? What happened to the good old days when we just had red, green, pink, blue, yellow? Same with clothing, a pair of black trousers can be anything from “midnight” to “burnt wood”. Why can’t we just call it as we see it?
Our bookclub is reading The Great Gatsby. Can anyone tell me why it is a classic? A group of shallow, self indulgent unhappy rich people, who pretend it is a classless society when it so definitely is. It is such a chore to read and as hard as I try, I can not see the genius in it. To make it worse I am the one who suggested it for this month, and now I have to admit that I am fallible. Just as some bad teachers mark according to a student’s reputation, I think Fitzgerald got a get out of the reject pile free card on the Great Gatsby. This month’s meeting shall need cocktails to start and finish!
We have decided to sell our house, which means that I have to actually unpack the boxes in the garage that have remained unpacked since our move to this house in 2002. We think we know what is in them, but obviously we don’t know anymore, and even more obviously we don’t appear to need it, so logically we need to get rid of it. However, that means we really should go through it just to make sure we haven’t left some piece of family treasure in one of the boxes (yeah like that is a real possibility!) but one really has to do it, because wouldn’t I be really angry if I saw someone selling a rejected macaroni necklace one of our children made in kindergarten on ebay for a fortune and setting a new fashion trend that makes them the fourth richest person in the world? Slothfulness always comes back to bite you, eventually.
I need to move on to more important things, like finishing the remaining turkish delight chocolate. Amuse yourself with the mistaken belief I care about you.
t
I can only suppose that it was the heavy scale gardening of the past few days that balanced the scales in my favour. Or someone moved the dial, but I am not checking!
I will smite any spider with foot, stick or book, but I will not battle with rodent or reptile, and if Mr FD keeps up his mocking he shall make it onto one of either of the lists, or both, and as an endangered species too!
I could always leave it up until Mr and Mrs Boy return from Europe (they are currently in Paris, before travelling onto Spain) and make myself a heroine by claiming that I wanted to share another Christmas with them. Then when I have them all back in the same room, I could guilt them into doing the deconstruction work! Poor mother me, you spoiled my Christmas by having a marvellous European holiday, leaving me to feed your worms, the least you could do is pack away the Christmas decorations.
There is nothing wrong with making do and not having matching teal baskets, folders and buckets of varying sizes. I think the problem starts with we neglect to actually put things in the recycled computer box, or shut the lid on the biscuit tin, while piling things on top of every available space. I think we all start with best intentions, and things are great until the pressure mounts and the deadlines loom and that is when intentions get replaced by panic and expediency. Mess comes to visit, outstays its visa and moves right on in. It is not the pretty stuff that keeps us organised, it is our own effort and commitment. Now where is that tin of short bread biscuits I received for Christmas?
What has been annoying The Flamingo Dancer this week:
Handshakes. What is it with handshakes? Why do we shake hands at all? We no longer carry swords and so there is no reason to disarm the sword hand, so what possible service does a handshake provide, other than to transmit germs?
Hugs. I hate hugging. All that, do we touch cheeks, or kiss checks? Yesterday I got hugged by a female friend outside the supermarket. I saw no reason to hug, I hadn’t won a prize, and I wasn’t crying. I didn’t need comfort. I was in fact about to buy Christmas?
Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas” over the supermarket speaker. It is Australia. You can dream all you want about a White Christmas, and the most that will happen is a hail storm, and no one wants one of those, especially on Christmas Day. Wouldn’t it be better to play some relaxation music, so I don’t feel like taking my trolley and ramming it over the family of FIVE SCREAMING CHILDREN who keep crossing my path, even when I jump two aisles to escape them?
Wrapping paper so thin that it tears as I wrap my gifts. I know it is going into the recycling bin on Christmas morning, but I would at least like it to last long enough for me to wrap the present and place it under our tree.
The glorification of Christmas light shows throughout the neighbourhood. It always strikes me that it is probably the family that can least afford the extra power costs that indulge in this habit. Do they know, Virginia, that there is no Santa Clause coming, and if he did he would be on the side of a Coke Cola delivery truck rather than in a sleigh?
Gift giving trees in shopping malls. You know, those trees that department stores set up in the anticipation that they will guilt us all into spending extra, in their department store of course, for people in need. Now, don’t get me wrong, I think we should all support charity, and no better time than Christmas, but wouldn’t it be better to donate money to a real charity to use where it is really needed? Not making shareholders richer. (Here I do have to admit that on more than one occasion when our children were younger we did in fact buy for the gift tree, but have in more recent times seem the capitalist star on the tree and donated to charity instead).
People who have moved during the year, but neglect to write their address on the back of their Christmas card so that you can return a card to them. More than once I have had to play sleuth and search through whitepages.com.au for what I suspect might be their address on the few hints they gave in their card.
People who say they will only send a card if someone sends them a card first, and then complain on Christmas Day about how few people sent them cards. My mother has fallen into this trick for a number of years. Now the family insists that she sends cards first, and we take turns writing them for her, to the extent that she only has to sign them. Now she complains about the handwriting of the ageing card senders, who these days find it hard to breathe let alone write!
People who complain that they “just can’t get into the Christmas spirit this year”. Why do we even expect to? We spend weeks being told to hurry up and finish our shopping, which most people ignore, then we plan huge complicated meals we have neither the energy nor ability to cook, to serve to people that we are not altogether sure we want to spend an entire day with. Try it with 33C summer heat and no air conditioning. No wonder the murder rate goes up at Christmas! More than one Christmas I have looked at the carving knife with strong desire.
Silly ecards of cute puppies and kittens waiting for Santa and looking disappointed. Then Santa arrives, Surprise! I got one today that had the puppy eat all the cookies off the plate except for one, which Santa ate when he left a bone. If I had known Santa would settle for dog biscuits I would have changed my offerings years ago.
The dramatic grieving, chest beating and wailing that is taking place in North Korea. See, that is what happens when you worship your leader and not the God Capitalism. That is never going to happen in a western country where most of us would be happy to send our leaders to sea in a leaky boat in a bad storm. Watching grown men in military uniform blubbering is kind of fun I must admit, but the fact that these people have a finger on a nuclear bomb does causes one to pause in concern though. Let’s hope that someone gives them some happy juice and soon.
Why does it seem that so many British people appearing on television can’t pronounce their r. I have just been listening to a British presenter talk about Euwope. Euwope. He said it every second sentence. Euwope. Maybe we should send him to North Kowea to cheew up the cywing. The r affliction does seem to be endemic in the British. Is it because of inbreeding? (I am told that my parents were not related, but their grandparents may very well have been… it happens when you can only marry someone who lives within an afternoon’s horse ride!)
I am not one to complain. Okay, I am, so I am not going to go against habit now and change my ways.
First, today is the eleventh anniversary of my Dad’s death, and that is no less painful than it was on this day in 2000. There is rarely a day that goes by when I don’t think of him, and the silence his absence has left in our lives.
I wrote yesterday, that the washing machine may be terminal. I left it in Mr FD’s hands to solve today. He has a deadline. We need a functioning machine by the weekend, or we shall be investing in new clothes and underwear. A fast and sensible result might be to move MIL’s washing machine to our house, now that her house is not in use. The only issue is that it is MIL’s…and that can be a political minefield at times. One never knows what mood she is in and how such a request might be received. Even in the mid years of our lives, Mr FD’s mother has the power to have us ducking and weaving. So that sucks.
As does the fact that my eyes , eye is being unreasonable and not actually cooperating in the focussing department. I had a similar problem last year, and so logic would tell me to try the same treatment again, but as I write this I am at work and the medication is at home. I suppose once I roll home I can hope for some improvement. Just stay out of my way on the drive home…
Another thing that is less than perfect, and this may surprise you, is that the only two tasks I have today are 45 minutes on exam supervision, and 25 minutes on play ground duty (well, library supervision duty really, in air conditioned comfort). How does this suck, you wonder? Well, it makes it a long, dreary day. I have no classes to teach as they are on exam block, and no exams to mark as my subject is not scheduled until Friday. I have resorted to writing report comments for students who haven’t even completed their assessment! That, and writing this blog post, and reading my copy of The Help. Tomorrow is more of the same, but at least I don’t start until 10am!
Then there is the media frenzy about Kim Kardashian. I don’t even follow them, but from the little I gleaned from the magazines in my physiotherapist’s waiting room, even I could sense that it was nothing but a sham to make money. And the media fell for it. What did George W try to say “ fool me once…don’t fool me again? Fools rush in, indeed.
Except for Greece it seems, who are prepared to bring the financial world crashing down around us, because they refuse to accept responsibility for their own actions. Someone, needs to explain the phrase “don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” and tell them that they aren’t “special” and need to take one for the rest of us.
Is the world ready for a gospel singing American President? Lord, I hope not, because that is really going to suck big time. It does beg one to wonder if perhaps he is not capable of independent thought if he has to resort to song lyrics to communicate.
Another thing that really annoys me, and yes there is more, is President Obama’s blood pressure. The man lives in a crucible and his blood pressure sits at 107/71 mm Hg! I have to take daily medication for mine, and it is still nowhere in that neighborhood. And I have never smoked, except for four puffs on a cigarette when I was 12. Maybe the fact that he doesn’t have to worry about paying his bills or keeping a roof over his head is more stressful than trying to be Leader of the Free World. Free World – now there is a contradiction in terms, if ever there was one.
And, here I was thinking I was a special individual, and now I am made to confront the truth that I am just one of 7 billion. How am I ever going to get the recognition I deserve in that bunch? Maybe it is time we stopped telling our children that they are a “bright star” and just tell them to suck it up, and keep to the left?
That is not the end of my sucky list, but perhaps you have read enough. All I ask is for empathy, sympathy and for someone to gift me a large amount of money. Aspects of my life may still well suck, but at least I would be more comfortable in my sucktitude.
Son is starting a new job, one in which he can actually use that education that cost us all so much! On Saturday he purchased a number of new pairs of trousers, and of course they needed hemming. I don’t sew. I can rehem something if it has been hemmed previously, but all that cutting and stitching in the original form is beyond me, so we normally pay someone to hem for us, now that Grandma is too old to sew as well.
Of course, Son wanted his new pants for his first day. Tuesday. So, bright and early Monday morning I front up to the lady at the alterations shop with four pairs of men’s trousers to be hemmed. She didn’t blink an eye when I asked for them to be hemmed “yesterday”.
“Come back after 4pm” she said. Well, she didn’t have them finished at 4pm, in fact I had to wait until closer to 5pm, but the wonderful woman got them hemmed!
I gave her a small chocolate as a gift for great service, as at the very same store a couple of years ago, another employee told me that it would take over a week to hem one pair of pants.
The woman, who barely came up to my shoulders, was so stunned that someone appreciated her efforts that she came out from behind the kiosk counter and hugged me in the middle of the mall.
So there is another life lesson, if you find nice exhausting, don’t give strangers chocolate in appreciation.
We live in the middle of a suburb, in the middle of a city and yet we have wild animals (either kangaroos or deer) feasting on our pine trees in our front yard.
Last night, some animal scaled the fence and feasted on the green “Black Russian” tomatoes. I found two half eaten tomatoes discarded on the lawn beside the raised bed.
Not far away, there was also a mass of feathers. We had heard two crows screaming from the roof of the garden shed, late yesterday afternoon but it never occurred to us that another bird was being attacked. No body, but by the number of feathers, I don’t think a survivor would have been expected. We don’t have a cat, but some neighbours do.
Life and death and nuisances in the suburbs.
Going to visit BIL at home today. I have made tiramasu to celebrate. We shall have large slices. Maybe even two.
