This Weekend's List

I left work on Friday knowing I was up for a busy weekend - but good busy. Fun busy. Interesting and varied busy.

Just what the doctor ordered. Okay, maybe not a medical doctor, but after a fortnight of minor glums, I was in need of some company, some exercise and some different things to bolster the spirits.

In  this blog I've addressed the fact that every so often I get a shot of the blues. Melancholy, low-level depression, the glums, call it what you like. For the last fortnight I've been a bit out of sorts, a little down in the dumps. Compared to glums of the past, this was a minor bump - I've been functioning, things have been kept going, but I've not been quite right. Once I recognised what was going on, identified the catalyst, I measures were taken to fix it. Time out, exercise, good food, no alcohol, watch who I hang out with - and thankfully I come back to an equilibrium in a week or so. By last Friday I was pretty much back to normal.

And a good, busy weekend was required to completely knock the glums for six.

So the list for this weekend read like this:

1) Take possession of new cat (Friday night)
2) Meditation and breakfast (Saturday Morning)
3) Manicure, pedicure, coffee and cake (Saturday Afternoon)
4) Christmas in July - in June (Saturday evening)
5) Pump Class (Sunday Morning)
6) 1000 Steps (Sunday Lunchtime)
7) Visit Blarney (Sunday Afternoon)
8) Try and get the book group book read for Tuesday night.

So, Friday night, Sam drops of cat number two.

Maow Maow went home on Tuesday night and the place has seemed a bit empty since then. Sam and her family are off to Europe for a month and I offered to take Tia the cat. She's a lovely little girl, a bit older and a lot less needy than the Maow Maow. She's also quite a bit smaller and a hell of a lot fluffier.

When I said I'd take her, I asked Sam if she could provide a covered litter tray. As the cat accoutrements live in the kitchen when a cat comes to stay, a covered litter tray is a must at my place. Sam rocked up just after dinner, black and white fluffy unit in tow, a month's worth of food and litter and no covered litter tray. She apologised and gave me some money to go source one -she said she's looked for one, but they were hard to come by.

It seems that a cat box is a bit harder to find than I thought.

(Where the hell do you think you're going, eh. Come back here and pat me!)

Thankfully all of the joyous habits the Maow Maow inflicts on me have gone with his departure - the sleeping under the duvet (after asking to come in), knocking everything off the bedside table at 5.30 in the morning, landing you with the mother of all guilt trips as you go to work.... Tia just wants to cuddle and talk and that is about it. Lovely girlie, but in need of a covered poo box to make her stay perfect. She's been sleeping at my hip on top of the covers - it's wonderful. But added to the list of jobs was find a covered cat litter tray. She's here for a month, it would do my head not to have one after a day or two.

Saturday morning came and went. A lovely meditation session with the normal fortnightly meditation crew. Breakfast at our regular, exceptional cafe in Caulfield (Cafe D'Lish). A good meditate and some smashed avocado with Persian feta on sour dough toast is always a great start to the weekend.

On the way home, stopped in on Kmart - no covered litter trays in store.

After a quick stop home, it was off to Camberwell for an afternoon of girlie delight. Jonella, her sister and mum and Teddy joined me. Two hours of hanging around our favourite nail bar in Camberwell for a manicure and pedicure each, after having a teased Jonella for feeling anxious about having her toes and fingers in clashing colours (she did well, blue toenails, peach fingernails in the end - we're very proud of her) after which it was off for cake and coffee - another tradition.

In all, a near perfect afternoon - but after a shop with Teddy where two pairs of winter, leather boots were purchased (the perfect two toned black flat riding boot and a long black heeled boots - wanted, half-needed and half priced) and a stop in at Target - still no cat litter box. Two pairs of perfect leather boots, yes, but no cat dumping ground.

The Annual Christmas in July was held that evening. Hosted by one of one of Blarney's friends, this is an annual event held at a South Melbourne pub. As a rule, there is a $10 Kris Kringle - boys buy for boys, girls buy for girls - as well as a Christmas dinner that you can eat without indigestion or suffering from it being 35 degrees Celsius in the shade. It was a very pleasant evening, even though the room was very noisy and rather hot and after a few hours, it was time for me to leave from the exhaustion of asking people to repeat them self every two minutes.

Popping in at Woolworths on the way home, once again I left yet another supermarket without the coveted covered cat litter tray.

A good night's sleep, a cuddle with the cat, 100 pages of The Sound of One Hand Clapping down (250 to go) it was time to get out of the house.

The required pump class was great. It was the first time in a few months that Em and I had made our Sunday constitutional. An hour later, 25 kg squat track, far too many push ups and a killer lunge track, we left for a quick coffee. We stopped in at the pet store and Kmart at the shopping centre.

No covered cat poo trays to be bought.

I made my way out to Ferntree Gully to meet the girls from the 12 Week Body Transformation Challenge. It was the day to climb a Dandenong. It's great catching up with Trin, Kez and a few others. The day being rather damp, we made our way up the 1000 Steps. I hung back with Trin, talking on the way up talking it very easily, trying to put the world to rights and making sure we didn't sli[. We let the whippets streak ahead. It was great to take the steps slowly, especially as they were so slippery. Making matters worse, when we got to the top, our normal way down, via the Lyrebird Track, was closed - and for the first time ever, I had to pick my way down the stairs.

Anybody who knows me will attest to the fact that I am dreadful at walking down stairs. I am one of the least sure of foot people on the planet. Going up I'm fine. Going down I have to take stock of my fear of falling, slightly dodgy needs, lack of balance and hope for the best.

Part of me thought that I'd be wailing, bawling and whining about having to make my way down the slippery steps. Somehow, very carefully, taking our time, Trin and I made our way back down. 30 minutes up the hill, 45 minutes down. My quads are groaning a bit at the moment, but I did it - no complaints and no tears. It was brilliant. Also had a chance to take some photos on the way up.

On the way out to Blarneys, I passed a Bunnings - surely they'd have a covered cat poo tray. It's Bunnings (think Home Depot or B&Q) they have everything. I asked the dude at the front desk where the pet crap was kept. He told me - and send me to the dog house department. After a scour around the two acre building, I came away empty handed.

No covered cat poo tray.

Obligatory Sunday visit to Blarney and the boys occurred after this - a cuddle from the Maow Maow, who appeared happy to see me. A cup of tea, a chin wag, read the boys a book and talked football with Blarney.

Making my way home, I spied a pet supplies story just around the corner from where I live. I drove in. I looked around.

A veritable Mecca of covered cat poo trays!

Finally!

I left with the obligatory tray (as well as a hairbrush for the girlie - Sam left that behind too, and being a long haired critter, a daily brushing is good for her - keeps her happy)

So now it's time for bed - after a really successful weekend. I'm relaxed, pretty much up for everything the week has in store.

And even better, I'm not trying to source something you think would be easy to find.

Right, off to bed. Come on, Tia. Bed time.

Pandx

The Mad Cat Lady of Richmond

Somebody get me a wheelie shopper, a housecoat, rollers and some fluffy slippers.

Somehow, I've become the Mad Cat Lady of Richmond. Well, maybe the maybe the mad cat sitter of Richmond. For the last week I've had three charges to look after. Blarney and Barney's cat has been staying with me while they're interstate. I pop in and feed Betty, Glen Waverley and Merijn's stroppy, vocal British Shorthair - they're away until the end of the week. I'm also making sure Leon, Em's cat gets fed while she's flitting about the countryside. Oh, and I'm feeding Archie, Gloria and Gaynor's old boy in a few days time.

I'm in my element.

Being on holidays, all of this cat minding gives a bit of structure to the day. Maow Maow wakes me up around 6 am. At a more civilised time a bit later I pop over to Em's to feed Leon, then I walk round to the other bit of Richmond to see Betty and open the cat flap so she has use of the garden. At dusk, I pop back to Glen Waverley's to get her back in again, which is easier than it sounds - opening the fridge door will normally do the trick - she's in the house in seconds. Sometimes I'll run a bath while I'm there and turn the telly on to give her some company for a bit - use of the large bathtub is one of the perks of cat sitting Betty.

Maow Maow's been pretty good except for a small medical issue. When Barney dropped him off last week he mentioned that his neck had been pecked at by birds - the dopey beast not bothering to move out the way when he was getting divebombed. Over the few days of Christmas his healing wounds seemed okay, but over the weekend the sites flared and turned angry. Yesterday I found my dovet cover had spats of blood across it. I wrapped a bandana around his neck to try stop him from attacking his wounds - which he didn't object to. Yesterday I contacted Blarney, who said to take him to the vet if things were getting worse. This morning I bit the bullet. His neck was looking awful.

After getting a recommendation from a couple of friends, I made the call, described the situation, explained that I was only cat sitting but my charge was in distress.
"What's your name?" asked the vet nurse.
"Pandora Behr."
"What sort of animal are you bringing in?"
"A grey and white moggy."
"How old is he?"
"About three."
"Has he been spayed?"
"Yes."
It's amazing that I know all this about this cat.
"And what's his name?"
Glumph. "Umm I didn't name him."
"But what's his name?"
"Maow Maow. Maow Maow O'Leary."
The nurse sniggered. I did feel a bit stupid - who names a cat Maow Maow?
"I didn't name him."
"Sure."

A few hours later, Maow Maow in his carrier, we arrived at the vet. I was made to fill out a form. Giving his home address the other side of the Westage, I tried my best to answer more detailed medical questions on the cat. Was he vaccinated? I believed so. Had he been wormed? Probably. What did he eat? Too much - normally supermarket crap.

The vet was lovely. Maow Maow, give him his dues, took all of this in his stride. My mother's old cat nearly disemboweled a number of vets. Maow Maow just lay in my arms and let himself be examined.

"You brought him in just in time - these are nasty wounds." The vet clicked her tongue and made soothing noises.
"They only really flared like this in the last day or so. They weren't so angry when I got him ten days ago."
"They're horrible. I like the bandana idea. Seems to have helped a bit. He doesn't mind it?"
"Not at all - though don't tell him he's about to go on a Pride March."

I'm changing his bandana daily. He has a black and red kamikaze print on at the moment. Much better for his street cred.

The vet gave him a once over. A thermometer was shoved up his bum. He didn't flinch. The vet scrubbed his wound sites down, which he didn't like as much, but tolerated. A shot of antibiotics and steroids were taken in his stride. The vet's recommended that I take him off the supermarket muck he's currently fed and put him on pure roo meat. She reckons he might have become allergic to his food and in his delicate state, pure is best.
"Are you sure he's not your cat? He's very comfortable with you." Maow Maow had assumed his normal snuggle cuddle position on my shoulder. He's stay there for hours if I'd let him.
"Long story - he's known me since he was a kitten."
"He's not stressed at all. Cats normally don't like being moved about/"
"He's pretty laid back. And I've been having him stay over very few months, he's used to it."
"Now, I'm putting him on antibiotics  - two pills a day for ten days."
"No worries  - I can give a cat a pill. I got my "Care of Animals" badge in Ambulance Cadets. Had plenty of practice too. A friend of mine has her boys here I think. Do you know Bernie and Fat Sam?"
"Oh my goodness, you know Mary-Lou? She's my number one client. I thought Bernie would be dead by now."
"Didn't we all."

Mary-Lou has spent a king's ransom keeping her cats alive over the last year - I've been shoving pills down these cat's necks for years - I've been cat sitting them for years. I can also give animals injections - a few years of muelsing sheep in my teenage years has got rid of any squeamishness. Another friend had me cat sitting and having to give her aging little bloke an insulin shot once a day - he was referred to as "Junkie Pussy."

A few minutes later,the cat was back in his carrier - and I was half a week of rent poorer.

This is why I don't have my own cat - vet bills!

A few hours later, the cat appears to be really traumatised - not! He has bolted his roo meat a bit too quickly and he's stretched out on the couch, fast asleep. He spent part of the evening asleep in my arms.

Yeah, I know it's a bit of a sad existance, but I'm loving every minute of having him about - despite not wanting a cat of my own, I love having something around the place to talk to and cuddle. I get the "Mad Cat Lady" thing - I just don't want one of my own at the moment.

Still, it's a pity he goes home at the end of next week.

Life Lessons

I've been dealt a few life lessons of late, hence being quiet on the blogging. This is not a bad thing - life is fine, but I've found I've needed a bit if time out of late to ponder these rather major lessons. I've also been racing around like a blue bottomed fly for the last two weeks - it's made making time for writing really difficult.

So, what have a I learned in the last ten days?

Children's Hospitals are modelled on the eighth level of hell. Dante tells of the place where the fraudulent go, a placed that can only be reached by a winged creature down a steep ravine. The Royal Children's Hospital at 10.30 pm feels like such a place. One of Blarney's boys was in again with a bad chest cold - the only place for a little tacker who can't breathe that well. I got a call from Blarney after Masons on Monday, telling me that she was with Chance at the RCH. She also told me that she'd gone there straight from work and was a bit glum. Being a good friend, I raced home to collect some supplies for her - a toothbrush, toothpaste, some moisturiser, leggings and t-shirt, some dry shampoo and a pair of orange underpants. These along with a few stray magazines were taken to the hospital, where Blarney would wait for me at the McDonald's downstairs.

I can't be the only person who finds it strange that there is a McDonalds in the ground floor hospital of the Children's Hospital.

Regardless, arriving at 10.30 p.m., the main doors are all locked - the only way in is through the Emergency Department, which is badly sign posted and hard to get to being off the main road, down a ramp, around the corner and two storeys down in the hospital basement. It truly felt like I was descending into some Dante-esque oblivion. At least the gate keeper, a nice male nurse, gave me clear directions when I finally got there. The waiting room of the mmergency department was a flurry of sobs and shusshes - frazzled parents and even more frazzled children. Awful place.

Ten minutes later I find her, cup of tea drained, looking a bit ragged. We go up to the ward to see Chance. He's in the same ward as last time. He's in with the same thing as last time. Nothing life threatening, but in need of a bit of help to get him through. He's snoring like a steam train. That's a good sign.

"Never going to keep a girlfriend snoring like that, Little Mate." I tell him quietly, careful not to wake him. He looks like a normal little boy (or man for that matter - ever noticed that men look like little boys when they sleep?) just with a nasal canula taped to his face and a monitor strapped to his foot are the only anomilies.

Blarney looks around. "I could cope with this place if it wasn't for the bogans. The kid in the next bed has been having regular heart attacks. She's two. The other kid's mother is a drug addict. During the day the social worker is here. Both of them get fed McDonald's food. They're two."

"You realise how lucky you are, don't you."

She nods. Blarney is lucky. Her boys are ostensibly healthy - just being born early their lungs take a walloping when they get a cold. Nothing a day or so in hospital won't fix and they should grow out of it soon. Blarney also knows that her boys are going to have every opportunity to grow and live and enjoy a happy, healthy life. Not every child is that lucky.

I pass over the care package, showing her the items I'd brought for her.

"Orange underpants?" She questions. We're of a similar size. And yes, they're freshly laundered.

"Yep. How can you not have fun wearing orange underpants?"

I think her smile was the first genuine one I'd seen since I'd seen her two nights before when I was dropping the cat back.

I left the hospital twenty minutes later, absolutely drained. It's not a fun place. It's a place that reeks of illness and death and shattered dreams. I also know that it's a place where miracles happen as well to negate some of this bad stuff - but all I feel is the loss and sadness when I go there. I'm just thankful that Chance is now back to normal and that the time they spend there is minimal.

Life Lesson One: A small amount of gentle humour can go a very long way in most circumstances.

Life Lesson Two: Blessings can be found in the most awful of places. You have to look for them. Or look at what is going on around you to work out how blessed you are.

The next lessons have been found at work.

Bastard Bank has extended my contract for another three months. I can't complain about this. The consultancy will be happy. I'm fine where I am. The natives are friendly and the work is good when you can get through the bureacracy.

Yet I have been wondering about this work thing and the role the consultancy plays. I found myself at lunch in a boardroom full of men midweek. Standard catered sandwiches and party fare, cans of soft drink and a fruit platter. Anybody in corporate Australia knows this as the standard catered lunch.

I'm wearing a suit. My handshake meets that of the managing director and the rest of the board as confidently as the rest of the men in the room. I can hold my own. I'm a professional.

Yet I wonder, who is this woman? Why are they talking to me like an adult? Like somebody who knows what they are doing... I still don't get how people see me as this corporate flunky, but it appears it's the persona I take on at work. Hard working, professional, competent.

I had a similar reaction from another colleague later that afternoon. She was asking for my opinion on something. This is something I'm only just getting used to. I'm used to doing a good job and keeping under the radar. It seems I'm sticking out a bit more, for good reasons, of late. Another conversation with yet another friend had me meeting a similar comparison. I told her about the consultancy I was with to which she said ,"Oh, they only take on the best. I've been in the business for ten years - you only get top flight people from there." I was gobsmacked.

Life Lesson Three: How we perceive ourselves is not always how the world sees us.

This weekend has been lovely and quiet. Lots of exercise and a bit of cleaning thrown in for good measure. A trip the the naturopath has me back on herbs for blood pressure - herbs which taste a bit like a mix of dirt and compost. The mix might taste like crap, but it is good for me. Anything to keep me off the poisons the regular doctor will try and feed me. She's also made me swear off sugar, artificial sweetener and to give a wheat free diet a try to see if that makes any difference. My naturopath is a killjoy. She's also a realist. I've been told to give it a go and see if it helps bring my blood pressure down and my flagging energy levels up. If things don't get better quickly then I'll be encouraged to go back to the quack.

Speaking of pills, I've also been feeding another friend's cats this weekend - one lovely, but rather decrepit Burman and the fattest orange tomcat you'll ever meet. The Burman needs a pill twice a day. My friend gave me instructions the other night on how to use the cat pill giverer contraption - an item that looked like a large syringe. After two feeds I've worked out that shoving the pill down his throat with my finger was far easier, kinder and less problematic.

The cat is a junkie. He knows what's good for him, pill syringe or finger, it gets the job done.

Life lesson four: Medicine, in what ever form it comes in, may be revolting, but it is there to help. However it is administered. You have to trust the process.

The last lessons were learned at beer club. I popped in for the evening, catching up with a few old friends. Which is always good. I skulked home a few hours later, two beers down me.

I like beer. Beer keeps me honest. It makes me look at my life honestly - a bit too honestly at times.

Life lesson five: Beer is my friend.

Another friend was at beer club. One who I rarely see or speak to any more. We were once close but time and circumstances have deemed we have limited contact now. It's for the best. We're not the same people any more. It's not that we aren't friends any more, we just don't spend time together. It's not worth pushing it. Too much has happened. Glen Waverley brought it up at lunch the other day. I told him to leave it. Not worth pursuing. I can't go back there. There was too much pain associated with him. This loose friendship is all I can hope for and all I want. I'm better on the path I'm on now.

I can look at him now and no longer feel any remorse.

Life lesson six. Letting go is often the kindest thing to do when it comes to friendship. It's also the most humane for all concerned.

It's been a big week.

Zen and the Art of Cat Emotion Maintenance

Being a healer by vocation, I'm used to being on the receiving end of some very different theories and discussions - things that at times I wish I wasn't. Other times, I will take on the thought and incorporate the thoughts into my beliefs and workings. Like faith, religion and political theory, I take on the best fit, dismiss what I don't like and to hell with what anybody thinks. This goes to show with the fact that as a staunch Labor/Greens voter, a couple of my best friends are card carrying John Howard lovers.

So the when the email about the Illuminati causing the Japanese earthquake and tsunami came, it got binned pretty quick - along with all the schmaltzy angel crap my sister sends me.

However, the email a friend sent about how to ward off illness struck me as worthy of a second read. The email stated ways of keeping well included the following:

• One needs discipline to calm the mind and control, or your darkness comes out and pulls in the ghouls.
• Keep your life ordered and Zen-like in its cleanliness. This is a form for protection.
•  Stay away from anything degrading, violent films or degrading images and news on TV.
•  Stay away from poisonous and dangerous places.
•  Stay calm, no fear no anger.
• Drink chamomile even if you don't like it drink lots of it.
•  Do the forgiveness prayer where you go on your knees and beg forgiveness for your transgressions in the past.
•  Try to be a vegetarian, if not already one. It helps greatly with your perception as you become more alkaline.

Some of these I agree with. I've been merely skimming the news of late - too much bad news there. I've been trying to stay calm. I walk as much as I can and don't go to dangerous places if I can help it, I go vegetarian a few days a week, though I'm an omnivore - I like being an omnivore. As long as my meat is killed humanely and ethically and the whole beast is used, I'don't have too many qualms - and I dislike waste. Then again, drinking chamomile tea is akin to drinking dishwater, so I might give that a miss.

I'm fully aware that colds are the product of repressed anger and emotional turmoil as much as they are by the virus that causes them. Colds are a product of fairly minor quibbles for the most part. I try to protect myself from these slings and arrows, and I normally succeed. But after a month of being pissed off about the work stiuation and having some large emotional burdens dumped on me I'm not surprised I'm hacking up green crap and spending today in bed.

Mostly I put the cold down to the change in weather, spending a half hour next to half a tram full of people with pneumonia on the tram - and Maow Maow.

Maow Maow? Yes, I'm blaming Maow Maow for this cold.

How can you be Zen like in your cleanliness when you have a cat?  How can you stay calm all the time when you have a cat? How can you keep things in order when you have a cat?

For the last month, I have been responsible for the wellbeing of another, physically and emotionally - and it's all becoming a bit of a strain. And I know he's a cat - but I still feel very responsible for him.

The cat and I tick along brilliantly, for the most part. He's reasonably polite, quiet, not overly noisy and he can be very sweet.

Yet, there are times, many times, when I feel like I'm being held to ransom by a teenage boy.

Here is where the Zen cleanliness thing kicks in. I'm sure teenage boys might have a bit more concern when it comes to eating habits - this one eats all over the place - his place mat on the floor is littered with old food that needs cleaning up after every meal. He also has a fine habit of kicking his litter all over the flat. Because I had to change his litter to the deodorised crystal stuff (as the garbage Barney brought over stank after a day's use) he appears to like to kick it out of his litter tray and toy with it round the place. Walking bare foot around the kitchen is no longer possible as it feels like you're treading on gravel.

Then there's the guilt thing. The manipulative little shit has the guilt thing down pat. As soon as you step into the shower in the morning you get the,"Where the hell do you think you're going?" look. He follows you around, climbs your stockings, atttaches himself that dangles from your person (dressing gown cords are a favorite) and as you clean your teeth, he just sits at your feet with a pathetic look on his face - that "I know where you're going, and its not around here, is it? You're leaving me, aren't you, bitch."

I'm being fed a guilt trip by a cat!

Of course, when you get home, there is the "moody dance" and I call it. The rubbing of the legs, the purring, then when you do go to pick him up, he scurries away with a disdainful look.

And just like a teenage boy, when you need him for something, he's nowhere to be seen - or off in a sulk. Today, feeling like hell, all I wanted was a cuddle. Would he sit on the end of my bed - no way. It wasn't until I changed my bedding did he come round. What is it with clean sheets and cats?

The Maow Maow is now sitting in the middle of a mohair blanket in the middle of my couch. This is "his" spot. He used to sleep on his bed that Blarney and Barney brought over - now he likes his mohair blanket. Take it away and he gets grumpy.

Oh, and when clients come around - when you need him to behave - he bites the feet of tarot clients and comes and snuggles up on the laps of those having their feet done. Contrary little monster.

People ask me why I don't have a cat. Well other than my lease stipulates no pets, I'm not sure I could take the guilt trips, the mess, the mood swings, the on -again/off-again affection, the game playing on a full time basis.

Maybe this is why I don't have a boyfriend either...

A Dispatch from the Captive

Is this thing on?

Hello? Hello. Is there anybody there?

Hello, help me. I'm being held captive by the enemy. I need your assistance so I can resume my plan for world domination, as this is the goal of all of my race.

I need to introduce myself properly. Following the rules set out by TS Eliot, Philosopher General of Our Race, I have three names. Officially, I am known to others in my race as Her Royal Highness, Princess Hephzibah Jonquil Hortensia Murgatroyd-Ross. A regal and dignified name, you will agree. My captors have taken a shot of me to demonstrate my undeniable beauty and poise:

My captors also have the audacity call me Miffy. Miffy Ross. Oh, the indignity! I was named by the second youngest of my regular captors. He seems to think that I am half worthy of reverence.

Oh, for heavens sake - how can you run the world with a name like Miffy? Miffy is a Dutch cartoon rabbit, not a creature worthy of running the planet. Mind you, those who choose to keep my race in captivity have the tendency to find degrading names for my friends and fellow race members. Names like Tibbles, Toe Rag, Fluffy, Pussy, Maow Maow, Twinkles - names given to 1950's strippers, not the name of an intelligent, sociopathic, world leader such as myself. Surely names like God, Thor, Zeus or Despot would be far better suited to me and my compatriots.

I also don't come to the names of "Puss, puss, puss", Kitty, kitty, kitty," or "Fur encrusted house demon." "Your Royal Highness" is how I'm supposed to be addressed - not that my captors acknowledge this.

Currently, I am being held captive, jailed in a place that is not my own. It's an alternative prison - not like my normal one, where I have a bit more scope to roam. The normal captors let me out to into the garden and appear to be pleased, indeed grateful, when I turn up for dinner. I can smell that others of my kind have been help captive at this new prison before. I wonder how they have coped? I made my displeasure felt by marking my territory in the bathroom sink. My new captor, though annoyed, just got out the disinfectant and said that she's been warned about that small habit of mine.

For a prison, this place isn't too bad, really. My jailer talks to me incessantly, which is good, it keeps me awake to plot her undeniable and forthcoming downfall. She massages my back regularly, as is required - although she takes great delight in tossing me over onto my back to try to massage my belly. I'm not sure if I like this. Oh the indignity of the movement. Next think you know she'll shove me in a bucket of water. My captor bathes regularly - strange creature. How can she tolerate all that water? I always watch her when she bathes - hoping the nasty water will make her disintegrate. Well, here's hoping.

There isn't that much to do here. As I learn from osmosis I tired to get on with my jailer's reading material.

What I'm going to learn from the dictionary, an anatomy colouring book, the book of what your birthday means, an illustrated book of essential oils and The Teachings of the Buddha, pilfered from a Bangkok hotel I will never know. My reading spans more to "Thus Spake Zarathustra", "Mein Kampf" and "The Origin of Species." The captor, has, at least, some interesting titles for her picture box. Every episode of Six Feet Under and a recording of Fight Club. Maybe this captor has a bit more kudos than I thought.

Most distressing, my new captor doesn't have any feeling for my personal comfort. Every time she walks into the feeding room, I demand to be fed, as is required. My jailer has the audacity to laugh at me. I am fed some desiccated pellets and water morning and night - that is all. This is not how I am supposed to be fed! Where is the raw chicken and fish? Where is the cheese? What sort of diet is "pussy flowers" as my captor calls them. Phah! There will be punishment for this inhumanity. There should be more decadent libations made to my kind. Don't the captors know this?!

At least this jailer allows me personal comfort for me to do my best work - which is done when I sleep.

I also try and keep fit, now that I'm in captivity. There are plenty of things to chew on, climb up, toy with or mangle. The latter appears to annoy my jailer. The other day she was trying to place some sleeping utensils in a plastic bag, attaching the bag to an air sucker. I saw no reason for her to do this and sunk my claws and teeth into the bag. Needless to say, my jailer was not amused. Something about destroying a space bag was mentioned. I was laughing loudly on the inside.

My favorite thing to do at this godforsaken jail is toy with my jailers comfort possessions. She calls it a knee brace - I call it fun. I've taken to carting this so called "knee brace" with me around the jail. She calls it a knee brace. I call it a child substitute. My jailer calls me a "strange animal" when I do this. Doesn't she know that royalty all have their foibles. It's expected.

My captor has said that there is only a week to go and that she will miss me when I am returned to my regular jail. I don't know why she will do this. I'm sure she will find another one of my kind to imprison at some stage. It appears it is what she does.

Ho hum. If you are hearing this, please help me escape. I need to begin my cunning plot for world domination and there is no way I can do this here. If you help me get out of here, I promise to be merciful when I take over the world.

Yours regally,

Her Royal Highness, Princess Hephzibah Jonquil Hortensia Murgatroyd-Ross

(A.K.A Miffy to the jailing race)

What Quiet Life?

I'm sitting in my "office" on the 17th floor of a tower block in Collins Street. I hear the hum of the efficent air conditioner and my own tapping on the keyboard. I have a great view of the IOOF (Institute of Odd Fellows - that always makes me laugh - why are they so odd that they need an institute?) and that new stadium that looks like a blown up witchety grub - I'm not sure what they play there, but lots of feral fans seem to pile in each week.

I'm supposed to be updating my CV. I came into my temporary office - part of the service that the Tin Can, String and Whistle career consultants offer, to do this.

I'm supposed to be doing a lot of things, but there are some things stopping me. Firstly, friends have asked to meet me for coffee - who am I to complain? I'm just back from a long macchiato and a chat. Secondly, the keyboard here at the this temporary office is crap.I think I'm better doing this on my own computer at home.

I could have stayed stay home and do this, but I have a house guest at the moment. Her name is Miffy and she belongs to Geerrt, my old boss. Other than disgracing herself in the car on the way over, more than likely through fear, she's been  perfect. I was told that she slept in her own bed. Right..... this is what I've found the last two mornings. How can one small cat take up most of a double bed? She's the biggest cuddle slut I've every laid my hands on. She's lovely, but not conducive to getting things done.

I can always find better things to do than look for work anyway. I've already made two appointments for next week and I wasn't going to look for work this week. Besides, the contents of my handbag are on the desk for diseminating. How one small red, leather handbag can contain the following I will never know.

My wallet
My mobile phone with it's cover that looks like a block of chocolate
Two small bags of tampons
Three biros
A Berlei sports bra in beige, size 16DD (bought on Ebay, just collected - I don't normally cart around a spare bra)
50 mls of Stella McCartney Rose Absolute perfume 
One Moleskin lined notebook
One rose coloured lip gloss
One dusky amber coloured plumping lip gloss (the plumping is very important)
One hairbrush
One lavender bag, just given to me by Merijn for looking after her cats over new year
One spectacles case with sunglasses within
One MAC lipstick, colour X-TREME (my favorite)
One small bulldog clip
One Moon Diary containing various bills, christmas cards and a ticket to Mary Poppins
50 mls of 30+ sunscreen, complete with crampon for easy access.
One pack of Eclipse mints of the peppermint variety
One pack of Eclipse mints of the cinnamon variety (why are they called mints when they don't even taste of mint?)
One ventolin inhaler
One ArtDeco compact if the HydraMineral variety, shade 65
One large yellow hairclip
One litter ninja badge (thanks Kath)
Three letters from the post box
Two flash drives of the 2 GB variety, pilfered from Tin Can, String and Whistle
One book - The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson - which has to be finished by tomorrow so I can pass it on to Blarney.

Nothing more will fit now. Funny that.

Then tonight, it's off to Georgie's birthday drinks before seeing Pinochet for a grunt session. Tomorrow morning I'm heading out to Blarney's to be with Chance and Vance for their first swimming lesson - that should be pretty cool.

Sunday, after Pump, I'm reading cards.

Monday I'm massaging in the morning, then meeting Gloria for a film.

Tuesday I have interviews and pump and Zumba before meeting Sam for a film.

Already this week I've given two massages, cleaned out my spare room, met people for coffee, done the 1000 steps in the Dandenongs, entertained the masses with my sensual Zumba moves, stuck to my calories, done an hour of reading, writing and exercising a day and lay on my bed reading with Miffy purring gently next to me.

And next week, in the evenings, I have films and dream group and theatre tickets and dinners and....

I think I'm busier now that I'm between jobs. Here I was thinking that this between jobs lark was going to be quiet.

I had better shut down now and go off to Georgie's drinks. I'm certainly not looking forward to the session with Pinochet. It's 34 degrees outside and he's mean in the heat.

But if I want today's star, that's what I'm going to have to do.

Pand

What is in a name?

I'm used to Thursday mornings after dream group. I'm used to not knowing how I'm going to feel, the wonderment of waking up angry, hurt, tearful, bemused, crying, laughing - you don't know what's going to happen. All you know is somehow you will process the events of the evening before, whatever went on. Sometimes nothing happens. Sometimes it feels like you're facing the full force of a rugby scrum. There are days after dream group when you are reaching for the Prozac and others where you skip out of bed all content with the world.

Rule four of dream group - one dream at a time.

We did my dream last night after a few weeks of me trying my hardest to avoid being up for scrutiny. The dream itself was innouous enough or so I thought. An hour later, after relating some of the less savoury and painful parts of my past, I came away with a few gems.

According to the dream, it's time for me to get out from my self-imposed shadow. And it's time for me to find a new name for myself.

Not so much a name to function by, but a name to write by. My pedestrian, Anglo-Irish real name is as common as muck. My middle name is even more bland. - I was born in 1968, for pity's sake, you only got a choice if Anne, Jane, Marie or Louise for a middle name if you were a girl!

According to dream group, my "Pandora Behr" nom de plume sounds too much like a porn star - though I love writing under it - I've been known as Pand for years. I can't use my porn star names - Soxy Mitchell and Sheba Blockers really do sound like women who frequent the adult content films in the straight to DVD aisle. And if I were to write a book,  if I were to have a proper, grown up, pseudonym, what would it be? I'm open to suggestions.

Being of Cornish and Welsh descent, Myfanwy Trevellyan or Rhiannon Trelawney could be goers, or there is the Spanish vein that runs through me from my Dad's side - would I make a decent Soledad Lopez or Graziela Rodriguez?

I'm going to have to ponder this a bit longer. Not that I've ever been completely happy with my name but I'm used to it. It's a big deal to change it.

(And before you ask, dream group sometimes demands change of you - I went blonde for a bit and wore a lot of blue for a while. It can be challenging, especially when you look like Myra Hindley, the British child murderer, when you've gone blonde)

My other news - I have a houseguest. Blarney and her partner Barney have gone to Tasmania for a wedding - and they have left me in charge of their youngest for a few days. Maow Maow is nearly two years old. He comes with all the accoutrements of a two year old - security blanket, toys, food, scratching post (though he still uses the couch), poo collector (litter tray). Like a two year old child, he sits too close to the television, gets under your feet and lays awake until all hours until you give him a bit of attention. He would eat you out of house and home given half a chance.

The best thing for me - I have something to cuddle in the morning, which makes me happy. Cat trumps pillow any day.

Only sad thing for Maow Maow, other than he can't go outside for three days, his favourite chew toy isn't about. Maow Maow loves the Grounded Dutchman, known to the lad as "Uncle Bite-his-nuts". Maow Maow's just going to have to make do with blue teddy, the scratching post and the couch for the next three days.

Card of the Blog: Page of Cups : The starts of emotion. An affectionate youth. Forming thoughs and feelings. An emotional fresh start.

Pand

Kilometres walked since 29 January: 73km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 44 km
Currently reading: What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 0.7 kg