I brought some papers home from work recently and when they came back into the office, this scrap of paper floated on to the desk:
It was written to emphasise that the writer did not want to miss out.
I sent an email reply as follows:
From: Me
To: HerselfSubject: Yes
The cat is constantly starving. I do feel for her. As my sister pointed out, just because she is fat, doesn’t mean she isn’t hungry. But the vet says she has to have a waist and we have to limit her food intake. We are conscious that she is already supplementing her diet with random rodent snacks so are trying to feed her relatively limited amounts. She does not find that pleasing and she prowls around the kitchen whenever we are eating or preparing food in the hope of leaping up and stealing something from the table. It’s a constant battle and despite our vigilance she often gets away with stuff; scurrying off delightedly with a leftover chicken bone or the ham from one of the children’s sandwiches or some other delicacy.
Recently, we inadvertently and, I confess, foolishly left the fridge open. Quick as a flash, the cat got in and grabbed the cold roast beef left over from Sunday dinner. It was an enormous piece and she scooted under the armchair set aside for her use with it clutched between her jaws which were stretched to maximum capacity. She stayed under the chair making the most extraordinary growling noise at all comers. I picked up the chair and the Princess bravely picked the cat up. Then, I began to attempt to wrestle the roast beef from the cat’s jaws of death but to no avail. She clutched it firmly growling the while and struggling against the Princess’s iron hold. I was afraid to pull too hard as I really thought that she would let her teeth be pulled out rather than yield her piece of beef.
The Princess eventually managed to prise it from her and like the lion in Jim, “she slunk reluctant to her cage/snarling with disappointed rage” or, in her case, the armchair in front of the fire. She had the last laugh, of course, for what could we do but feed her roast beef until it was all gone.
As though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Herself, upon being required with her brothers to unload the dishwasher in her grandparents’ house having just done so in the house we were staying in in East Cork: “I was not put on this earth to unload the dishwasher.”
Me [painting bauble for reasons which are too dull to go into]: I wish I had more colours in this paint set.
Her: Like what?
Me: Well, purple. You can’t make purple from other colours. [Under my breath: Richard of York gained battles in vain]
Her: Is it possible that you are mixing up rainbow colours and primary colours?
Me: Um.
Her: Try mixing red and blue there and see what happens.
On Saturday night I coughed and I coughed. As I went upstairs, the boys came rushing from their bedrooms to hug me and say, “Mama, are you alright?” Herself emerged to say, “I hope that this isn’t contagious.” Sometime later I went upstairs again. She emerged from her room and said, “Look, stay upstairs or stay downstairs but this ominous approaching coughing is really disturbing.”
On Sunday morning, I had to leave the church to cough in the porch. One of the neighbours came out and asked me was I alright and would she go to the shop and get me cough medicine. The mortification. Herself told me that all that could be heard in the quiet contemplation after communion was me hacking away in the porch.
So, you know, I’m improving.
Herself was off school today. Her cousin who lives across town was in a school play. The Princess decided to go and see her little cousin star in Matilda. My first born, therefore, spent two hours today criss-crossing the city on Dublin Bus. She is still alive. I am very proud. She tells me Matilda was pretty good as was the post-play lunch with the relatives. Who’s a big girl then?
Unrelated: I’m still sick, thank you for asking.
