Our Cat’s In A Flap

For the first two years of our cat’s life, she had a cat flap.  For the next 7 years, and two houses, no cat flap.

Recently David installed a new front door so that was our opportunity to provide Chloe with her own little door again.  No more having to jump up and down every ten minutes to attend to her whims.

Now I know that cats have very little memory but I really thought she was a bit brighter than this.  Ten days of her own door and she just hasn’t got the hang of it.  I’ve “trained” cats in the use of cat flaps before but nothing seems to be working with her.  We’ve pushed and pulled,  put food on the other side etc but she still sits at the door and wails every time she wants to go in or out.

Is there a TAFE course or similar where she can enroll and be taught by the experts or do we just have to persevere . . . or get a new cat . . . or come to terms with the fact that she just isn’t as clever as we thought she was?

 

The Buck Stops Where?

Parliament of the World’s Religions – Melbourne 2009 – 5000 attendees from around the world- $4.5 million grant from the Victorian Government.

Global Atheist Convention – Melbourne 2010 – 2000 attendees from around the world - Zilch, zero, nothing from the Victorian Government.  (Story here)

What is this Government obsession with throwing money at religious organisations, most of whom are not really short of a bob or two?

After the fiasco of World Youth Day (a Catholic Church event) in Sydney, which cost the Australian people something in the region of $160 million, and the disclosure this week that two ‘Church’ of Scientology schools, with fewer than 100 pupils between them, are to receive $1.6 million in Federal Government subsidies, I wouldn’t blame the rest of the world thinking that Australia is a country rolling in cash and desperate to dole it out to anyone who asks. 

But they draw the line at atheists, apparently.

 

 

 

Everything’s Coming Up Tatty

Lots of work and two weeks with a dial-up internet connection has rather shut me up.  It isn’t as though there aren’t loads of things for me to rant about at the moment,  The papers are full every day with subjects that would normally make me rush to the keyboard.

Then there’s knitting of course.  I started what I hope will be my entry for the Sydney Easter Show next year – I started it, I ripped it, I started it again, 2 weeks later I ripped it again, and last night I gave it a 3rd go.  Will it ever make it to the cabinets?  Who knows?  But if there were prizes for the yarn used this one would win.  Knitabulous 2ply (laceweight) silk.   A delight to work with. 

And today I was introduced to a new skill.  A friend is an excellent tatter so I persuaded her to try to teach me – nothing wrong with her teaching skills but I’m not sure my learning ones are up to much.  I was going to post a picture of what I’d achieved so far but decided that the sound of laughter across the nation would put me off.    I’ll keep practising then reveal all.  Can tatting look tatty?

Me (And My Head) Are Still Here

Pressure of work after a month’s holiday PLUS a downgrade of my internet connection to dial-up while we change ISP’s has kept me away from my blog.

I promise (threaten?) I’ll return with a vengeance when both problems are sorted.

In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a bit of personal information that I’ve never shared with you all before. My mother tells me that a recent episode of Doc Martin not yet shown in Oz (it’s a British drama also shown on Aussie television) touched on the subject of a disorder from which I suffer.

I’ve never heard mention of it before and I don’t normally go around talking about it for fear that people will think I’m mad (including some doctors I’ve spoken to).

Yes, I suffer from Exploding Head Syndrome. And yet, it’s a real disorder. The neurologist knew immediately what was wrong with me (as apparently did Doc Martin when faced with the same symptoms).

And before you laugh, do consider what the effect on someone (ie ME) is to feel and hear that you’ve been shot in the head as you drift off to sleep. There are peiods of weeks when nothing happens, then it comes back regularly and I dread going to bed. But apparently nobody really knows what causes it, no harm is done to me and my head is still sitting on top of my shoulders.

It’s English, but not as we know it.

They say that travel broadens the mind.  Well it certainly introduces me to some beautiful uses of English.  Wherever I go I find English that is perfect in every way but just not quite right. 

On this trip, I came across a sign attached to the back of the driver’s seat on the airport bus in Hong Kong which said “Beware of your hands”.  I’ve lived with my hands for over 50 years and they’ve never done me any harm yet, but who knows?

Then on another airport bus, this time in Tokyo – “Please tell the driver if you see a suspicious thing”.    I’m not sure what a suspicious thing looks like, but I’ll be sure to inform someone should I come across one.

And the Finnair pre-flight safety video tells me “If you wish to sleep during the flight, please remain seated”.  As opposed to?  Curling up in the aisle?  Climbing into the overhead lockers?

Maybe I’m just a pedant.  OK, I admit it.  I’m a pedant.  But I’m a well-travelled one.

A Hefty Dose of Doctors

My first weekend in England, I drove down to Bristol to see Sue and Dudley, very old friends of David’s (ie he’s known them a long time. They’re NOT very old). And whose parents live just close by? Emily’s of course.

So I persuaded Emily and Claire to make a parental visit while I was there. Funnily enough, Claire wasn’t mad keen on visiting Get Knitted but Emily and I had a great time. Sue also kindly invited E & C, together with E’s parents, over for dinner.

Sue’s a retired doctor, Emily’s mother’s a retired doctor, E & C are doctors. And a lovelier groups of medics you couldn’t hope to meet.

Emily misses you all I think. With a new job and a new house requiring lots of work, she hasn’t had much time to make lots of friends yet. And now she actually has to go out and work for a living is rather missing spending her days drifting from knitting group to knitting group, with the odd lunch thrown in.

It was great to see you both. I’m hoping that on my next visit I’ll be able to take up your offer of a bed in your new home.

A Pilgrim’s Tale

On Thursday I’m going on my annual pilgrimage to England to visit my mother, who’s now 89.  A couple of days in Hong Kong, plus a night in Helsinki, on the way there, and 3 days in Tokyo on the way back.

Last year I had a dreadful time with internet connections – all my friends seemed to have computer problems simultaneously and on the day I went to a public library, even their connection was down.  Better luck this time.  And I’ve now got a netbook so if I can find a WiFi cafe, I’m all set up.   

One of the highlights this visit is that I’m spending a weekend with good friends in Bristol PLUS meeting up with Emily whose family lives just around the corner from them.  Should be a lovely weekend.  Also spending a weekend with my sister and her family and hoping to visit good friends and the rest of my family in London. 

I’ll try to keep in touch!

Three Shawls

I’ve just finished knitting three shawls.  Unfortunately, I only have one to show for all that work!

I’ve no idea what the problem was but I knitted many rows more than once, some 3 or 4 times.  I just couldn’t stop myself from going wrong.

I recently made an Ishbel shawl and liked the idea of stocking stitch with a lace edge.  But I didn’t like having to do increases on the wrong side (I kept forgetting).  So I decided I’d knit something similar with increases only on the right side and then add some lace stitches from a wonderful book  – Knitting Lace Triangles by Evelyn A Clark. 

I made sure the stitch count was perfect before I started the lace but at one point had to rip back 12 rows.  Maybe my concentration levels are just shot to pieces at the moment.  I wanted to make it bigger but as I was on a winning streak (ie I managed to knit four rows without mistakes) I decided to cross the finishing line early.  It’s worked out at 158 x 78mm  after blocking.

The yarn is Morris & Son 2 ply merino (chosen because it’s the exact colour of a dress I want to wear with it – a slate grey/blue), knitted with Claudia Handpainted 2 ply silk (silver grey).  I’m fairly new to this lace knitting lark and this isn’t perfect but I’m not expecting anyone to peer too closely!

Edited To Add: My clever friend, Emily, has suggested that 15.8cm x 7.8cm is a TAD small. OK, you’re right. It’s 158cm x 78cm NOT mm.

Things Your Mother Says

Well, my mother says them, anyway.

I’m going back to spend time with her in a couple of weeks (she lives about 50 miles north of London) and I know I will be constantly told “Mind the oven; it’s hot” and “Be careful with that knife; it’s sharp”. As though I could have managed to reach my ripe old age without understanding that ovens get hot and that knives that aren’t sharp aren’t much use.  I’ve lived away from home since I was 18 without too many burns and haven’t stabbed anyone yet.

When we were children, she often accused us of “treating the place like a hotel”.  Nothing unusual in that, you may think.  All parents have said it at some time or other to their teenage children.  But it WAS a hotel!  When we pointed this out to her, of course we were told not to answer back.

And now whenever we speak on the phone, she says “You sound miles away”.  Failing a move to the Outer Hebrides by my mother and my decamping to Antarctica, we really couldn’t be much further apart.   

Mothers tell me that they always told themselves that they wouldn’t say THAT to their children, then find themselves churning out the same cliches their mothers did.  I’ve no children but I’ve found myself saying to young women I work with who are complaining about the cold “Well, you’d be a bit warmer if you wore more clothes”.   I cringe when I realise what it must sound like. 

Maybe it’s in our genes. 

It Makes You Weep

Everyone knows I’m a hard bitch – people who don’t know me well think that anyway.  I’m deliberately barren for a start.  No maternal instinct; must hate children.  I even believe it myself sometimes.

But last night I watched a TV documentary and cried.  That was after I’d practically had to be restrained from throwing something at the screen.

The programme was about the adoption of Ethiopian children by American families.  I have severe concerns about international adoption anyway but that’s another story.  I can understand that a loving family, anywhere in the world, is better than NO family.  But the children in this story DID have families.  They had mothers.

An American Christian “charity” goes to Ethiopia apparently to ask the local people whether they’d like their children to be sent to the USA for a better way of life and education.  Ethiopian mothers, like their counterparts everywhere in the world, want the best for their children and when they’re at rock bottom, homeless and with little money for food they can see this as a way to give their children previously undreamed of opportunities. 

One mother was deserted by her husband and homeless so she agreed to allow her 2 children to be adopted, assured by the agency that the children would be in regular contact.  Two years later and not a word from them.  She doesn’t even know where they are.

Another woman, a widow, was having difficulty bringing up 3 children.  Along came Mr and Mrs Gooley, whose name caused the only light relief in this film as the presenter constantly referred to them as the Goolies (maybe that’s only funny in British English?).  The Goolies are a middle-aged couple with grown-up children.  So off they went to Ethiopia to fill their empty nest.  Before they took the children off to America, they presented the mother with a framed photograph.  She handed over 3 children and in return got a framed photo.  When she came to say goodbye to her children, I couldn’t help but cry along with her.

I know nothing about bringing up children.  But I DO know that mothers, or fathers, or at least a close member of the family, are the best people to do the job, other than in pretty exceptional circumstances.  Poverty shouldn’t be a factor. 

If the Goolies cared so much about children, why didn’t they offer financial help?  I would have thought that just a few dollars a month would probably cover the food/education/healthcare of this family.  If the Goolies cared so much about children, why didn’t they have any understanding that what they were doing was second only to killing someone’s child?

Maybe I’m imagining this but I also felt there were serious racist overtones to all this.  We take kittens away from their mothers, fairly safe in the knowledge that in a short space of time, the mother forgets.  The same belief once existed about American slaves.  Maybe these selfish, stupid women still believe this. 

If I, a hard-nosed barren woman, who really has no concept of maternal feelings, can cry over another woman’s children, how these mothers are going to get through the rest of their lives, I just can’t imagine.