Would you rather…..

A very quick post from me tonight whilst my blogger’s block is still at bay.

Today at work a group of my colleagues and I mused over the following hard hitting issues affecting everyday life in society today….

Would you rather….

Be attacked by a dwarf wielding a big sword or a giant wielding a toothpick?

Have a quaver for a nose or wotsits for fingers?

Be a monkey with the brain of a human or a human with the brain of a monkey?

Pee yourself in public or poo yourself in public?

(There seems to be a split according to gender on the last one, with one of my male colleagues saying “I’d poo myself, contain it in my pants, drop it off at the toilet and be back on the dancefloor throwing some shapes while you were still drying your trousers”)

The usual productive day…

A family of cat philanthropists

From tattered Medieval rags, Tudor ruffs and codpieces, to Victorian corsets and parasols, the kindred blood of my ancestors all have one common trend…..  Beside them is a cat… Probably secretly planning their demise.

A lot of behavioural footprints left by parents are filled with the steps of their children.

Children who see their parents smoke are more likely to smoke themselves. Fact.

Children who see their parents acting as cat philanthropists are more likely to become cat philanthropists themselves. Also fact.

I’m a cat philanthropist, and you can blame my parents, parents, parents, parents, parents, parents, parents, parents, parents, parents for it…..

There is a saying that a home without a cat is just a house.

I don’t believe this to be true. I’ve been in plenty of cat free homes and they feel just as homely as those with cats.

The only difference is, in a cat free home, the wafer thin ham in the fridge is for human consumption, and there is no ’emergency’ tin of tuna in the cupboard.

I do believe though that a cat lovers home without a cat is just a house. My parents home, the home where I spent my childhood is testament to that. My first cat was called Jaffa. He was the first family pet if you ignore Adam & the Ants, the collection of goldfish won at a fairground… They weren’t really pets and Adam ate all the Ants after a few days anyway, so basically it was just Adam the goldfish. Not much fun.

Jaffa was a beefy ginger tom.  Strong, obstinate, belligerent, cantankerous and intimidating…. All the qualities of a good cat. Quite late in Jaffa’s life, not long after his retirement, after he’d hung up the chain of his professional duties as Mayor of the cat council on our street, we had an addition to the family. Sox. My Sox.

The story of how Sox came to live with us is a remarkable example of fate working at it’s best. Sox was mine. And I was hers. I loved Jaffa whole heartedly, but Sox was the first cat I formed a profound beautiful bond with. No better illustrated than what happened the day she passed away.

Jaffa had taught me the basics of understanding the complexities of the feline mind, but Sox polished my skills to a level of expertise.

I always got the impression that Jaffa just tolerated my brother and I most of the time because we just happened to be already living in the house before his arrival.  He could see my parents were quite fond of us, so trying to rid them of us was probably quite futile.

Sox on the other hand was genuinely affectionate. A lady. We could sense each other’s mood  instantly. We knew when a tickle under the chin or a rub against the legs would make it all better,  or whether to stay the hell out of each other’s way.  I could tell from her meiow, her brrrt and her purr exactly what she wanted and needed, and she could tell from my tone exactly what I wanted and needed.

Some advice… never laugh at a cat. Cats have the amazing ability of knowing exactly when you are talking about them and in what context. It’s usually when they are fake sleeping. One ear is tilted in your direction, one of their eyes is ever so slightly open and the tail is delicately swishing at the tip. Classic neuron receptor pose.

Don’t be fooled, as to the untrained eye, this looks like a normal sleeping cat. Behind the scenes though, there is a hive of activity. Their brain is processing everything you are saying and filtering anything they can use at any given date in the future into a long-term memory bank. It’s the part of a cats brain called the “Infinite recall lobe”.

Think twice before you regale the amusing story of when the cat stretched and fell off the back of the chair.. If it’s in earshot, it will know you’ve told. By earshot, I mean if your cat is within a ten mile radius of you, it will know you’ve told.

This is why a content purring cat will suddenly lunge at your unsuspecting hand as if someone has just screamed “Chaaaaarge” in it’s ear.. She’s just remembered that November last year you stepped on her tail accidentally when you went to the toilet in the middle of the night. She saw it as no accident.

A cat wouldn’t tell you if your skirt was tucked in your knickers, or you had toilet paper stuck to your shoe, but would surprise you with a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine when you’ve had a bad day.

A cat won’t text or return your calls for weeks, but will then turn up at your house unannounced for a coffee and a gossip….. and not mention the 17 missed calls and 36 texts she’s ignored of yours.

A cat keeps you guessing.

A cat is the best pet in the world.

Everyone has a story to tell

Everyone has a story to tell. Telling it doesn’t start with the ability to, it starts with the willingness to. Every story needs a beginning, and every story begins the same way. With the desire to tell it.

That desire may be to entertain, to share, to educate, maybe to enlighten….. Sometimes just to make sense of it. To rationalise it. Understand it. See it. Feel it. Hear it.

That’s my desire.

For my story to exist somewhere other than just inside me. Somewhere where I can see it, rather than clumsily fumbling in the dark in my mind trying to identify the shapes of it.

Can you fill an empty page with a thousand words and still have an empty page?

Yes, I believe you can. If those words don’t come from the right place, I do believe you can.

Fill an empty page with a thousand words charged with emotion, and fuelled by desire, and you’ve got yourself a story. That makes every single word of your story important, and that’s the way it should be.

What happens to you in your life doesn’t define who you are, what you do about it does. That’s what makes each story different, unique, but still comparable in importance.

This brings me to a story I read yesterday. I was already familiar with this story.  I know the detail, I know the facts, I know a lot, but definitely not all the emotions of this story.

I know the people in this story because they are included in mine. Without this story, parts of mine wouldn’t exist.

Although I know this story, reading it still moved me, and humbled me. I’d never seen it written before. In full chronology. From the beginning. I felt the emotion and the honesty of every word, and I appreciate how difficult a story it must be to tell.

So, here is that story. Please click on it and read it.

http://www.birthtraumaptsd.com/experiences/placenta-accreta-and-haemorage/

Everyone has a story to tell.  Some just haven’t found the willingness or the voice to tell it yet. Lets hope some day that happens.