My name is Ronnie Harrison apparently and, for a cat, I have a remarkably fine command of the English language. If you don't agree then please keep your opinions to yourself. I'm a cat. I don't engage in pointless argument. It's such a waste of energy and usually involves a loss of dignity, both of which I abhor.
So, last August I was born in Somerset and was happily enjoying life with my mum and siblings when SOMEONE decides it would be a good plan to put cute photos of us on facebook. The next thing I know I'm being stuffed in a box and driven all the way to a place called Norfolk. My new 'owner' (ha ha, that always makes me laugh - as if anyone could OWN a cat) had seen the aforementioned pictures of me and, after a few glasses of something called 'wine', had decided to adopt me as a pet.
Anyway, life here isn't too bad I suppose. There are three two-legged animals in the house; I think they're called humans or maybe slaves, I'm not sure. Two are fairly big and weary looking and the other one is small and quite frankly a bit too noisy at times. I don't do noise. I'm rather finely-tuned you understand, and also it interferes with my sleep. The small one always wants to cuddle me but his lap is too small and not awfully comfortable, and if you can't be comfortable what's the point? The older lady one has a nice squishy lap and a fluffy dressing gown so I tend to go to her most of the time. She is also the one who feeds me so I need to keep in her good books.
I normally start my day around 5 am when I go upstairs, meow a lot, scratch the carpet (works every time) and jump up on the lady's face. I can tell she's really pleased to see me because she always uses the same greeting, "Bugger off, Ronnie".
Once I've been fed I go outside to go to the loo. I'm a martyr to my bowels, I don't mind telling you, but find that a nice bit of grass from time to time helps keeps things regular in that department. The slaves tend to disappear during the day so I spend my time lying under bushes, annoying the hedgehog Rocket and catching flies. Our neighbours are nice too and one of them has even built a lovely little house up in a tree for me to sleep in. Nice touch guys!
Sometime during the day I go back inside and sit on the dining room table for a bit. I get a great view of the bird-table from here and also like to make sure that the rest of the family gets a fair crack at sharing my toxoplasma gondii. It's good to give something back I always think.
Later on, depending on the weather, I might come back in and see the humans and then it's time to think about settling down for a well-earned rest before the whole hectic business starts again the next day. It really is a cat's life.
If you enjoyed this post you might also like http://normalfornnorfolk.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/if-pets-could-talk.html or just click on the label 'Ronnie' below for more feline frolicks!
The Sleepover MUST have been conceived of, named, and the phenomenon perpetuated, by someone who isn't and never was the parent of a 6-16 year old. Having someone else's child to look after is a very different 'bouilloire de poisson' as the French like to say (it's true, I've heard them) to caring for your own offspring.
First comes behaviour and discipline. It's easy with your own child because you know what works (no sweets, no pocket money, having to watch 'Dickinson's Real Deal' on repeat), but what do you do if the guest is misbehaving? I have spent five hours every day, for 40 weeks each year, of the last 17 years of my life with classes of 30 teenagers in front of me, but two mutinous eight year olds can terrify the living daylights out of me.
Next we face the dilemma of feeding them. My son is the fussiest of eaters but at least I know what he WILL eat. I recall one young lad coming to ours for the first time so I thought I would play safe and give them pizza. As I served it up he informed me he didn't like cheese. So, I offered him a mushroom omelette. He said yes, so I made one and he didn't like it. Concerned that the poor boy was going to starve I found some burgers in the freezer and cooked one for him. He began to turn his nose up again when something inside me quietly snapped and I said in my best, calm, teacher voice "Eat it". He did. It turns out he was vegetarian. Not any more he isn't.
Finally we come to bed-time and sleeping. My tactic is normally to keep them up quite late in the hope that they will sleep once they go to bed. This sometimes works but not always. On a recent sleepover my husband and I were woken by two shadowy figures looming over our bed at 1am like two of the four horsemen of the apocalypse (Lord knows where the others were - probably installing the self-checkout machines at Sainsbury's) asking for a drink of water. Armageddon very nearly arrived early that night, but I kept my cool, lay back and thought of the day (or rather, night) when it would be some other parents' turn to return the favour.
So, once the evening meal was over came those fateful words 'We need to make the bed up'. Now, this had to wait until the evening meal was over for the simple reason that the table formed the main base of the afore-mentioned bed. The bedding was retrieved from the cupboards (which were underneath the seats), the table collapsed and the cushions arranged to make a nice, comfortable, King Size bed. Lovely, nothing wrong with that, until you remember that I have two brothers and all three of us had to sleep in this space.
OK, here's the thing. When we first got the caravan we were 7, 9 and 11 and this arrangement was fine. We were small, there was plenty of space, and it wasn't in direct contravention of any EU laws regarding right and proper sleeping arrangements. Fast forward several years and you are presented with a very different and altogether less satisfactory scenario. Now, we were not the kind of children who had cool parents who allowed you to go off on holiday with your friends once you reached your mid teens. Oh no, we were still doing this aged 13, 15 and 17. I kid you not. Whilst this kind of behaviour might be acceptable, dare I say practically obligatory in parts of Norfolk, it is probably more frowned upon in other more sophisticated sectors f society.
So it was that I would settle down for the night with one brother prone to talking in his sleep and the other singing along tunelessly to Buddy Holly (I told you we weren't cool) on his personal stereo.
We would be woken at some ungodly hour the following morning by Dad grinding coffee by hand for his breakfast. Remember last night and having to clear the table before you could make the bed? Well, in the morning we had to get up before breakfast could be served.
All you wanted to do, as a teenage girl, following a stuffy night spent in the warm embrace of her younger brother was to have a shower and make herself look presentable for all those gorgeous French boys who were also staying at 'Le Camping Merde de Cochon'.
Memories of what I am about to recount can, 25 years on, cause me to cry real tears of pain and embarrassment. I know I have a few Psychiatrist/Physchologist friends reading this blog. If any of you could come up with an effective form of therapy for dealing with trauma suffered as a result of holidays then I would gladly try it. You could call it S.H.I.T - Sian's Holiday Intensive Therapy. Boy, would it need to be intensive. You see, my dad had bought a caravan with its own toilet and shower cubicle and for this reason was loathe to go to a site with any 'facilities'. Unfortunately he was also loathe to let us use the shower in the caravan. End result - you were allowed to have a shower 2 or 3 times during a 2 week holiday. When I say a shower what I actually mean is a dribble of water, tepid at best, cold at worst standing in a space which is smaller than the surface area of an average TV. Everyone in the caravan knew if you were using the water as the pump made the most god-awful noise, akin to a cow going through a particularly difficult labour. If you ran the pump for more than a few seconds Dad would be shouting through the door for you to turn it off.
Needless to say I never did pull on any of those family trips to France.
I normally start my day around 5 am when I go upstairs, meow a lot, scratch the carpet (works every time) and jump up on the lady's face. I can tell she's really pleased to see me because she always uses the same greeting, "Bugger off, Ronnie".
