Calliope and the Friar's Oak
Calliope to the vet to be snipped. Normally she is cheerful in Lorraine's car and looks out of the windows at people. Today, sensing something was up, she was on the floor giving throaty yowls of affront.
Lorraine kindly then dropped me home again, and I worked on Skeletons for a couple of hours, but mainly attended to a variety of non-skeletal tasks: paying contributions, doing some business writing and calls, having lengthy conversations with Alf the philosophical plumber about how my shower unit is doomed. Also made time to start my scrapbook, by sticking in some images I had been collecting, while thinking about the Skelton Yawngrave story: a photo of girl with hair tangled in branches, two postcards of Snowshill Manor, whose mazy wooden rooms are full of eclectic objects such as antique musical instruments, clocks, and assorted oriental treasures, a picture of the Norns dowloaded from the Internet, as well as steampunk computers.
Collected a chastened Calliope in the afternoon, the operation having been a success. Told to give her light food this evening. Calliope had other ideas and gorged more food in a couple of hours than I have ever seen her eat. She was also tugging vigorously at her two stitches, which was a bit alarming.
On the way back from the vets, diverted by an emergency call from Beth. Lord Ripples the male guppy had gone to his long home on the gravel, and we stopped at Lorraine's house and pronounced it dead, and looked at the two baby guppies that still live among the thick plants.
As the Kitten in the Twitten dozed, Lorraine and I went off to meet some of her old work colleagues for a meal in country pub. Collected her pal Jess and Andrew and drove off towards Hassocks to the Friar's Oak and a slightly toe curling evening of ex colleagues and their taciturn partners mostly called Andrew. Food grimmer than the Brothers Grimm. I pity the poor grilled sparrow that gave up its life to cover a few square centimetres of my plate.
Lorraine with a bad cold soldiers on in an uncomplaining fashion. Is nothing of me rubbing off on her? We watched some late night TV with Calliope being very clingy, and rubbing her wound in my face several times, which is a mixed experience.
Calliope to the vet to be snipped. Normally she is cheerful in Lorraine's car and looks out of the windows at people. Today, sensing something was up, she was on the floor giving throaty yowls of affront.
Lorraine kindly then dropped me home again, and I worked on Skeletons for a couple of hours, but mainly attended to a variety of non-skeletal tasks: paying contributions, doing some business writing and calls, having lengthy conversations with Alf the philosophical plumber about how my shower unit is doomed. Also made time to start my scrapbook, by sticking in some images I had been collecting, while thinking about the Skelton Yawngrave story: a photo of girl with hair tangled in branches, two postcards of Snowshill Manor, whose mazy wooden rooms are full of eclectic objects such as antique musical instruments, clocks, and assorted oriental treasures, a picture of the Norns dowloaded from the Internet, as well as steampunk computers.
Collected a chastened Calliope in the afternoon, the operation having been a success. Told to give her light food this evening. Calliope had other ideas and gorged more food in a couple of hours than I have ever seen her eat. She was also tugging vigorously at her two stitches, which was a bit alarming.
On the way back from the vets, diverted by an emergency call from Beth. Lord Ripples the male guppy had gone to his long home on the gravel, and we stopped at Lorraine's house and pronounced it dead, and looked at the two baby guppies that still live among the thick plants.
As the Kitten in the Twitten dozed, Lorraine and I went off to meet some of her old work colleagues for a meal in country pub. Collected her pal Jess and Andrew and drove off towards Hassocks to the Friar's Oak and a slightly toe curling evening of ex colleagues and their taciturn partners mostly called Andrew. Food grimmer than the Brothers Grimm. I pity the poor grilled sparrow that gave up its life to cover a few square centimetres of my plate.
Lorraine with a bad cold soldiers on in an uncomplaining fashion. Is nothing of me rubbing off on her? We watched some late night TV with Calliope being very clingy, and rubbing her wound in my face several times, which is a mixed experience.
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