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Monday, October 26, 2015

Cat nip

I guess, all in all, it had been a rough weekend for Monty Cat. We are currently awaiting installation of a catflap, so currently he is dependent on us to let him in and out of our house.

On Friday lunchtime, we let him out... and didn't see him again. Now, Monty Cat is not the sort of cat who will willingly skip a meal. In fact, if he thinks he can get away with it, he is fairly likely to try and con us into a second breakfast by vocally pretending he hasn't been fed that morning. We've even fallen for it a couple of times. He also tries to scam visitors in a similar way.

So we were worried that he hadn't come home, not least because we've just moved house onto a new-build estate, and there are a lot of building sites and potential cat-squashing machines all around.

We walked the fields in the area, calling him, with the toddler bellowing, "MONTY WHERE ARE YOU" at a volume that would have scared off a medium-sized shire horse.

It was over 48 hours before TheBloke (TM) found him; the not-too-bright cat had managed to get himself shut in an unused garage next door.. He was hungry when he came out. But he is generally hungry anyway, so he didn't seem to have suffered any ill effects.

The toddler was very sweet with him when he came back. She stroked him gently and told him she had missed him so much.

And today, he snuggled up with me on the sofa and let me take a cute selfie with him. He tipped his head back so I could stroke his furry chin. He purred and wiggled cuddlingly into my hugely-pregnant tummy.

Then he turned round and bit me. On the nipple. Right on the fucking nipple. It really hurt.

The ginger cunt. Anyone want a cat?

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Toilet talk

It is a truth universally acknowledged that once you have given birth and shown multiple strangers all of your bits, several times over, any coyness you had about your own body pretty much disappears. This became apparent to me two days after getting out of hospital with my first child. The midwife came over to our house to weigh the baby (it turns out). I thought that she was there to check on me and how I was doing, and before she even managed to sit down on our sofa, I'd whipped out my arse to show her a funny rash I was a bit worried about. The curtains were open. To this day, I'm surprised she didn't report me for sexual harassment.

I thought I was totally beyond any type of embarrassment. I had had a midwife "sweep" pre-labour (medicalised fingering). I had had two midwives simultaneously pop their hands up to "have a feel". I had had at least six different midwives show me how to breastfeed by squeezing my tits. There was no way I could be further embarrassed. I had disconnected totally from my body.

Until this pregnancy.

To put it bluntly, I have always had something of a sensitive digestive system. This is not helped by iron tablets, needed for anaemia. While most people apparently get a bit constipated on iron tablets, they have the opposite effect on me.

Picture this. TheBloke (TM) and I take advantage of a rare afternoon that's free, and head into Romford for a nice meal. After our nice meal, we take a wander (OK, waddle, in my case) around HomeSense. Suddenly I need the loo. There are no loos.

I go to the front desk and ask if they have a toilet I can use. Whilst this is clearly not normal procedure, they take one look at my massive comedy tummy and two members of staff take me through the stockroom, where they have - presumably - a staff toilet. I am in no position to take my time and thank them. I lock the door and proceed to complete what can only reasonably be described as Very Noisy Shitting, punctuated with stomach cramps and religious expulsions. ("Jesus Christ! Oh God!")

Fifteen minutes or so later, with newly-formed haemorrhoids the size of small dogs, I wash my hands and stumble blindly back into their stockroom area. It's at this point it turns out that HomeSense clearly has a policy of not allowing customers unattended in the stockroom, which I guess is fair from a shoplifting perspective. There are three worried/amused-looking members of staff standing right outside the toilet door.

"We were beginning to wonder if you were OK," says the area manager. "You were in there a long time, and making some worrying noises. We thought you'd gone into labour."

"No. Just... you know... iron tablets plus irritable bowel syndrome," I stuttered.

I was led back through to the main store. TheBloke (TM) had found some nice children's books that the toddler might like. But now I knew everyone in store far better than I wanted to, the only option was to get out, stay out and move house in case anyone ever recognised me ever again.

So we don't live in London anymore. And we do most of our shopping online. Where no-one need know that you sometimes have to poo.