Top cats, dead poets and a Mad dog
Taxi to the Top Cat vets at Patcham. The ride only became uncomfortable when the kitten decided that this was a good time to start pooing.
Nice Vets however, who discreetly took my carrier away and cleaned it. Calliope behaved well apart from pulling herself up by needly feet the woman Vet's bust before sitting on her shoulder, as is Calliope's wont. The kitten did have a respiratory infection, and also conjunctivitis. I was given eye drops, and two antibiotic tablets to quarter and told that she needed to be nursed. A bus home, and even the bus driver was charmed by the kitten.
A fast visit to London this afternoon. I lurked for a bit in the National Poetry Library in the South Bank, looking up a few bits and pieces and thumbing enjoyably through a few journals. The poetry library, however, makes me feel melancholy if I stay there too long: something about all those unread poetry books on the shelves, and the condensed lives they contain. And after sitting at a little study desk for half an hour, listening to someone dozing two seats away, I left for a stroll in the sun by South Bank which in contrast was buzzy and full of life.
Tubed up to meet Bob at Goodge Street. And we had a cheeky drink I have had few beers over the last few weeks, so an honest couple of pints with a good mate, was a curiously glorious thing. Then went to the average Indian restaurant The Palms of Goa, where the old Mad dog told me all about his move to Salisbury over the poppadoms. His daughter has begun school, and after a tricky start is settling in. As ever, exceedingly good to see him.
Back home and temporary cat nurse Lorraine sat cozied up with Calliope on the gold sofa. But the kitten still not eating much. On impulse I took her to her skeleton bowl, and lay on the kitchen floor and poked at her food with my finger. Suddenly the penny dropped and she began tucking in. Much to my relief.
Taxi to the Top Cat vets at Patcham. The ride only became uncomfortable when the kitten decided that this was a good time to start pooing.
Nice Vets however, who discreetly took my carrier away and cleaned it. Calliope behaved well apart from pulling herself up by needly feet the woman Vet's bust before sitting on her shoulder, as is Calliope's wont. The kitten did have a respiratory infection, and also conjunctivitis. I was given eye drops, and two antibiotic tablets to quarter and told that she needed to be nursed. A bus home, and even the bus driver was charmed by the kitten.
A fast visit to London this afternoon. I lurked for a bit in the National Poetry Library in the South Bank, looking up a few bits and pieces and thumbing enjoyably through a few journals. The poetry library, however, makes me feel melancholy if I stay there too long: something about all those unread poetry books on the shelves, and the condensed lives they contain. And after sitting at a little study desk for half an hour, listening to someone dozing two seats away, I left for a stroll in the sun by South Bank which in contrast was buzzy and full of life.
Tubed up to meet Bob at Goodge Street. And we had a cheeky drink I have had few beers over the last few weeks, so an honest couple of pints with a good mate, was a curiously glorious thing. Then went to the average Indian restaurant The Palms of Goa, where the old Mad dog told me all about his move to Salisbury over the poppadoms. His daughter has begun school, and after a tricky start is settling in. As ever, exceedingly good to see him.
Back home and temporary cat nurse Lorraine sat cozied up with Calliope on the gold sofa. But the kitten still not eating much. On impulse I took her to her skeleton bowl, and lay on the kitchen floor and poked at her food with my finger. Suddenly the penny dropped and she began tucking in. Much to my relief.
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