Welding Gloves

I did well this birthday - not that it was wanted, warranted or expected. 

Jonella took me to see a film today, and paid for my choctop and lemonade - I love receiving gifts like this - they don't take up space and we both get the enjoyment out of the experience. We had a marvellous afternoon. 

And last night, unexpectedly, I received a lovely bunch of native flowers from Gloria and Gaynor. Stunning flowers. Also gratefully received, especially as I can't remember the last time I received flowers. They're sitting in a vase on the bookcase in front of me and I'm admiring the proteas. I'll get a lot of enjoyment out of these. 

There were some other small gifts. And insulated take away coffee mug - that will never go astray. 

But the strangest gift I received was from Blarney and Barney. A pair of blue, suede, armpit length welding gloves.

Welding gloves?

Yes, welding gloves.

Am I about to take up metal sculputure?

No.

Am I about to retrain as a mechanic, electrician or panel beater?

No.

The use of these rather dashing gauntlets are to assist when catching Lucifer. 

Yep. If you're going to deal with a hissing, snarling, six kilo moggie, apparently you need welding gloves, apparently. 

I got a good laugh over receiving these. 

The thing is I can pick up my cat. He doesn't like it much for the most part, but he lets me pick him up before dinner.  He's not the snuggliest of cats. He's not like Maow Maow, who loved a cuddle. Also, if I sneak up on him I can get him in the carrier to go to the vet, or to Blarney's place when I go away for a few days. Sometimes he catches on and evades capture by diving under the bed. I always give myself half an hour to catch him on these occassions. After ten or so minutes he comes out and does the cat equivalent of thumbing his nose at me before I try again. He's a bit of a prick like that. 

But get the vet, or anybody else try to snatch him up and he turns into the Tasmanian Devil. 

The vet has said he's not too bad as cantankerous moggies go. He doesn't go for the eyes, more he's just a snarling, hissing ball of fluff. He's just letting the world know he's monumentally pissed off. He's a sweetheart. 

Blarney and Barney think he's the devil incarnate, even though he's never really hurt them. He likes to hiss at them when they come into the room. I call that a sign of affection. 

Ah well. 

He's not a bad boy. He's just a bit misunderstood. 

And the welding gloves are now sitting in his carrier waiting the next time I have to take him out of the flat. 

As presents go, this was one of the best of all. 

Today's song: