So, we have a group chat for our building complex. We're a chatty mob - nice people who keep an on each other. This morning, the call came up to send a photo of your cat. The ABC were doing something about cat photos.
There are lots of cats in our block. From Dill and Pickle, the Devon Rexes who terrorise the car park, to Irene, who loves her dad, to Kay's four, Fitzgerald, Marcel, Breda and Fish. There's Saroo - who escaped a few weeks ago, and Oslo and Helsinki, the Russian Blues.
And my boy.
Seems the neighbour had a friend in production at the ABC. And this is what happened...
All rights held by the ABC for the video.
Lucifer was on the telly.
Yes, it's a terrible photo of him, but he was on the telly.
I'm a proud Mum.
Also, this is on the day, where horror of all horrors, he was taken to the vet for his annual check up. After running around the room for a bit, having a needle and some horrible flea and tick stuff put on his neck (better the vet do it than me - let him hate the vet) and being told that he would like him at 5.5 kgs, where he's sits at six kilos, and he's weighed the same for the six years I've had him, I said there was nothing I could do. He doesn't overeat, he's not food driven unless you're chopping up raw chicken and at 6 kilos, he's six kilos of muscle. Lucifer walked away with a clean bill of health, and I was $150 poorer.
The vet said that I was a very good cat mum.
And yes, I did show the vet the video. You can't be a good cat mum if you're not proud of your children.
I am so over this. The ear infection, which travelled down to the sinuses, is abating, but as it's leaving, I'm left with a pain in my nose and jaw that's hideous. It feels like somebody's stuck a marble up my right nostril.
WILL THIS GO AWAY ALREADY.
Anyway, it's a big week.
Tomorrow, before book group, I'm taking Lucifer to the vet for his annual check up. I've got his flea and worm treatment, which the vet can put on him. May as well have him put it on him - he can hate Chris the vet, and not me.
The book group book is Catherine Chidgey's The Book of Guilt, which was very good. Not disimilar to Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go (although I rate the latter far higher - it's one of my most favourite books). Thankfully book group is online well after we will have returned from the vet appointment.
Wednesday, it's off to a PT session with Chuck.
Thursday, it's another PT session, making up for the one I cried off tonight, thanks to the face ache. (My eyes were streaming, couldn't see where I was going.)
After that, I'm supposed to be going to a gig at The Corner to see somebody called Irish Mythen. They won't be coming on until later, so there's plenty of time. No idea what they're like, but they looked good on spec.
And Friday - off to a play at the MTC. We're seeing something called West Gate - about the West Gate Bridge disaster in the 70s. Cheerful.
The face ache will subside, if other colds are anything to go by. At least most of the snot has abated.
Still, I wish this would all go away already so I can get on with enjoying life.
No. Was too much of a swat for that. Skipping classes at university was a different matter.
2) Lettered in a school sport?
I'm sure this is an American term - but was I good at sport? Absolutely not. I never played team, sports. Did the bare minimum to get through P.E in years 8 and 9. We could give it up after that.
3) Made a prank phone call?
No. Never saw the point in that.
4) Paid for a meal with coins?
Unless it was something like a pasty or sausage roll, when you could get then for a dollar, then no.
5) Laughed until some sort of beverage came out of your nose?
Okay, something I have done - and done too many times.
It was six years ago that I saw your Tinder profile.
It was love at first sight, for me anyway.
I mean, other than your daggy name, how could I not love you? I mean, how could I love you? Look at those eyes, that nose. I called up the secondhand cat shop (also known as the Animal Aid shelter in Coldstream) and put a hold on you.
The first photo of you says a lot. Ears up. Curious. Not stressed. You didn't seem to mind me. After spending a bit of time with you, I took you home for a trial adoption. If you hated me, you could find somebody else.
Needless to say, that first night you slept behind my knees - and you never went back to Coldstream.
First, we changed your name. My grandfather was named Reg. You couldn't be a Reg. You were about to become a witch's familiar, a fitting name was required. Lucifer seemed fitting. Lucifer Reginald Morningstar. Though at home you're referred to as Boy-Boy, Goose, Goose-Boy, Hay You and Get-Your-Arse-Out-Of-The-Camera!-I'm-Talking-to-My-Boss,"
I'm looking at you now, six years on, lying on your back on the yoga mat. If the belly is out, it will get rubbed.
You do the best derp faces. You're a bit of a dick head. And an arsehole. And a pain in the neck.
You're very aloof at times, but a bit friendlier to strangers when I'm about.
You're a good boy in that you don't jump on the kitchen benches, nor tear up the furniture. You're pretty clean and you make use of your scratching post. Your only antisocial behaviour is when you take yourself off for a wank, but hey, you're a boy. That's what boys do.
You're also very good in the car on long car trips (even if you insist on making your presence felt when I'm talking to people on the phone. You're also great at eating other people's pot plants. Nanny has lots of great pot plants. Nanny also has that ginger tyrant - but it's mutual dislike.
I love you very much, my Darling Boy.
You've been my constant companion for six years - which makes you eight-years-old now. You still love playing with Manky Mouse. You haven't yet caught with the red laser dot. And you know that if you lie with your belly on display (common), your belly will be rubbed.
Everything will be reset on Monday, because Monday is a good day to start.
On Monday, I have six weeks left at mu current job. As the system is live in three weeks, then there's three weeks of hypercare, after that, I'm out of a job.
So, Monday, I start the job hunt in earnest. I've got my list of needs. I've got the course I'm taking about keeping yourself relevant. I know how to get a job - just have to go and get one. \
This is on top of my already crazy job. But it must be done.
On Monday, I got back on 'The Regime."
After a fortnight of being sick - ear infections, antibiotics, sinus infections, coughing and general misery, I need to do a complete body reset. So, it's out with the gluten, dairy, sugar and caffeine. I don't drink enough to count cutting that out. The Regime works for me, but as I'm away this weekend, there is no point starting until Monday.
Oh, and part of the regime is getting a half an hour walk in before work. I'm not moving enough. This job has me strapped to my desk from 8.30 until around 6 - I need to move. It will loosen more of the phlegm.
It all changes on Monday.
Can't wait (other than giving up caffeine again - I've grown dependent on Coke Zero and I don't want to give it up. )
I also wish the neighbour wouldn't smoke weed outside my window. I'm two floors up. Bah.
The message came just after lunch. My friend's mother had passed after a long illness. She was sitting beside her. Her passing was peaceful. It wasn't unexpected, in many ways, it can be seen as a relief.
I'm not going to go into details, as the story of my friend and her mother is not mine to tell.
We've been messaging over the last few days. Nothing big, just the odd, "How are you doing?' and "Yeah, okay. This is hard, but an honour," type notes. Little niblets every few days. Nothing intrusive, just gentle offers of support, providing her with the offer that there is a person on the other end of whichever platform there with an ear, if she so wished. She is away from her family, as she lives interstate from where her parents reside.
We haven't seen each other in years - but keep in touch over the web. Our parents also live in the same town, and I've been chancing a meet up for a few years, but it wasn't meant to be.
Today, a little after the news, I gently asked if she'd like me to pass the news to a few mutual friends. One less job to do for her - and more gentle support, albeit online. "Yes, please." Came the reply. The mutual friends were messaged.
I've had a few friends lose a parent in the last few months. Geetangeli's beloved father died a few weeks ago. At 91 and after a stroke, he went quietly, peacefully after a long and well-loved life. I've always admired the relationship Geetangeli had with her father. He was a lovely man.
And as many of my friends are in their 50s, this is the time that our parents start to ail and fail. Some quickly and with grace, others fight all the way. Some don't know what's happening at all. It's something we all have to face.
On my end, I'm not one to ignore friends whose parents are ailing. I'm not in their face, but I do try to drop the odd message. Or some friends get a cat or dog video to give a smile. (I did this for my sister when my niece was dying - it's like "Here's 10 seconds of joy - nothing will make this better, but this is a small reprieve.")
It's letting them know they're being thought about, while not going over the top.
It's a kind thing to do.
There's also a reason I do this.
My father died 29 years ago. I was in London, I couldn't go back for the funeral due to the circumstances I was in at the time.
My mother called once to let me know what had happened (again, not an unexpected death). A couple of friends called by once. I took a week off from work and painted out the lounge room because I couldn't be at work, but I needed something to do - and for me, keeping busy was the best thing. I'm not religious. I'm not cold. I was also single. My flatmate, bless him, was an absolute muppet.
The kindest thing a friend did for me was to come over with a couple of joints. She said, "Smoke them, don't smoke them. I'll come back in a week." She did. She got about half her stash back. I have never forgotten that kindness, the odd puff of weed took away some of the pain, if only for a little while.
It was the loneliest time in my life.
I don't want anybody to ever feel like that. Even if it is the odd virtual message. They are told they are not alone.
The grief will come. The ifs and whats and whens. The considerations. The reminiscences. The plans. The re-considerations. Once the shock passes, there's the processing. The feelings that will come lapping at your feet one minute, and with the force of a tsunami the next.
Regular unleaded petrol costs around $2.29 a litre where I live. If you shop around, you might find it a little cheaper. In the last few weeks I bought it in at $1.59 a litre, but that's what a war in the Middle East gets you. Deisel ins around $2.79 a litre. Hmm.
An interest rate rise came into effect yesterday.
I'm not sure how people are supposed to pay for all that.
Donald Trump is still alive. Take that how you wish.
I have about six more weeks in my current contract and have started looking for work.
I've been battling an ear infection for about two weeks. The stuff from the naturopath works far better than antibiotics. Still, I feel horrid. My temperature is 99.2 degrees fahrenheit - or 37.2 in the new scale - a touch warm but not badly so. The nurofen will kick in soon.
