Monday, February 05, 2018


Yesterday, in a downcast mood, I wrote a piece concerning the non-sale of my house. It was more of a moan than anything and certainly not of interest. Today, on re-reading I was thankful that my habit is always to sleep on a "decision" before implementing and the offending piece has been consigned to the bin.

But it got me thinking. I guess we all suffer (is that the right word? experience?) different moods at different times, and for different reasons. Some suffer what Winston Churchill called his " black dog" and what today may well be called bi-polar. Some suffer (definitely not the right word!) euphoric episodes, which must be just as debilitating, but most just get down in the mouth or a little depressed or just somewhere in between the extremes. Fed up is, I believe, the usual generic term.

I'm not about to offer medical explanations, for which I am spectacularly unqualified, nor am I going to try any analysis for which I am equally inept. However there must be some explanation for why one can awake fresh from a night's sleep and be in a 'bad mood'. Similarly, why can one awake the very next day feeling fit to conquer universes? Changes in mood during any given day are likely due to varying fortunes during the day, but what happens during a night's sleep to change a good mood on retiring to a bloody mood on awakening? Fickle is what it is, and bloody annoying,too!

And while on the subject of fickle, we seem to have acquired a cat. As a family we've had cats since the beginning of time, but on the death of our darling Portia (at 17) four years ago we decided not to have another, which would likely outlive us. Lots of our neighbours have cats, and we've got to know them. Also, and known to Portia, there was a semi-feral ginger job, Archie. He was peripatetic but seemed not to belong; always hungry, spiteful and aggressive.

                   Archie. Notourcat. Mid scratch

In November 2016 there were some very cold nights. We took pity and made a makeshift bed consisting of a cardboard box and blankets, in our garage. Then one exceptionally cold night we allowed him in the house. Need I say more? For the last year he has slept on the bed, and anywhere else of his choosing, come in at night, taken to the occasional drink of milk, and chased string across the floor. We're now able to stroke him, check for parasites, and touch him while he sleeps. When did our compassion become his right? Interestingly his eating habits have modified. He no longer eats everything on the plate, nor does he crave food everytime he comes in.

But, beware! When his ears go back, or he swiftly moves his head towards, he's going to bite. His paws are definitely a no-go zone. One's own feet are not safe either, at any time, as he's quite likely to attack ankles

We know his owner, who acquired a dog which caused Archie to leave home and she's relaxed about him living here. She will also allow us to adopt (he seems already to have done his bit) if we move as she says that now he never goes home she at least knows he's being cared for. Soon I'm going to have to stop referring to him on Twitter as #Notourcat.

Fickle is what he is, definitely!

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