Cats are different beings from an alien race. They have some kind of temporal displacement machine they keep well hidden from us mere tin openers. This can be proved by a simple experiment. fficeffice" />

1. Wait until your cat has left on his usual round of the neighbourhood/has gone to bed/or is otherwise completely absent


2. Go into your kitchen and open a tin of tuna


3. A cat suddenly appears.

  Now what actually happens is that at some time later in the day, your cat has passed through the kitchen or is possibly just having a rummage around in the waste bin to see  if that juicy blackbird he was hiding behind the sofa has been found and misfiled, and finds the empty tin of tuna. Your cat (sorry, your owner) is highly indignant about this and merely goes to his temporal displacement machine and sets the controls   to browse through the times he was absent from the kitchen. Once the exact moment is found, he gets out and  arrives  on your  worktop at the exact time necessary to have a little something.

 Some of these machines have an emergency re-call button which  makes a cat able to de-materialise from say, the inside of a cat box you are attempting to batten down, but sadly (for them that is) the emergency range  is only powerful enough to teleport them ten  seconds away and into the nearest place of safety. It also has the effect of briefly  reducing them to their usual life-form, which is something akin to a pair of  razor tipped octopi with the lung capacity of a bull elephant – the better to  broadcast their distress call – instead of the cute furry ball of fluff one is used to.

So that was why, doing the usual oven gloves/parents/brute force attempt to get Big Ron to the V.E.T yesterday he suddenly disappeared from the cat box we were attempting to put the lid on, and appeared under the table yowling on all wavelengths.

Oh yes, Big Ron has going to the V.E.T down to a fine art now………..

Next week in this new and exciting science  column: Why The Fridge Hides Things!

Now that Phase One of the Great DIY Project has been finished with no loss of life or limb (and only ears have been bruised by the un-delicate language of The Husband) we move onto Phase Two. fficeffice" />

You see we only have three bedrooms at MissMish Towers. Small and bijoux it may be, but bursting at the seams may be the more honest description.  We have our bedroom (containing his clothes) a small bedroom that I have annexed as a dressing room and then the  third bedroom, which became his office. And also has a large sofa bed for overnight guests . But… well, it’s been a while since our marriage (six years ago this weekend) and so the office alcoves have been ‘borrowed’ by me for the hanging of evening frocks,  the storage of hat boxes and an overflow of handbags. So Phase Two consists of The Husband fitting a lot more shelves all around the walls of my dressing room for  these things.

 But to do that, we have to move the things out of my room and store them in the office while he swears in there for a day or two. Which we can’t do until we move all the things round in the office (where he fitted the shelves last weekend)  to fit in the new furniture which we bought (smaller and more fitting). But we’ve still got the old stuff in there. Because we  can’t get rid of the old computer desk  (actually an Ikea dining table) until we’ve got the new one ( frosted glass and bloody heavy) in there. And obviously we can’t get rid of the old  office chair until we’ve got the new one ( black leather and looking like a Star Trek High Command chair) set up and installed. And the office now has twice the furniture it needs in there and we’re all a bit crowded.  And because we have to take things out onto the landing or into the bathroom  to get the new boxes up the stairs and all the packaging out to build the items,  frankly, there’s stuff everywhere. Consequently The Husband and I are spending the evening carrying stuff around into various rooms and up and down stairs and they’re all upside down and perched sideways on the landing or piled on the sofa and we appear to be playing some kind of Human Tetris game with household furniture.  We’ve got stuck twice so far and I was barricaded in the bathroom for twenty minutes while I saw a procession of hatboxes go by. 

Game Over.

Do you want to play again?

Y/N?

It appears that those two Alpha males of Hollywood, Russell Crowe and George Clooney are having a bit of a spat. fficeffice" />

George has said that Russell’s band is “a waste of celebrity”.

 Russell has said that George “can’t act and just plays himself in every movie” and there have been a few more pertinent commesnt fired over the gunwhales to keep the quarrel fresh.

 I’m afraid  that gone are the days when Randolph Scott would stroll over to John Wayne and  tell him to ‘put ‘em up’, Clark Gable and Nelson Eddy would be brawling in a car park or  Bette Davis would ‘accidentally’ trip Marlene Dietrich up in El Morocco.  No,  these two stars are  gearing themselves up for a full on  War of The Publicists which is the movie star equivalent of girlie-bitch slapping.

 But I have another solution.

 I suggest that I take these two men aside and take them out  to the country where they  can fight it out like real men  in the middle of a  deserted lane, in the wet and the mud and where their shirts would get torn and come off and they may fall over and sprawl around on top of each other  and I’d have to try and get between them and stop them before they really hurt each other  and……and… and……

Obviously I’d have to video it too.

 It’s exciting news chaps. fficeffice" />

 Not enough reality programmes in your life?  Need something else to obsess over?  Wondering how  to  spice up all your jaded random blog-surfing?

 Fear not, help is at hand!

 Welcome to Big Blogger 2005.   Fifteen bloggers ensconced in a  virtual house  for the next few weeks. All of them no doubt particularly chosen to get on each other’s nerves and I confidently predict will prove to be THE most disparate and ineffectual group to band together since the Donner party in 1846.

  It’s here, it starts today and it’s coming to a pc near you. Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid....

 My Mummy and Jane Fonda yesterday

  Two OAPs. A 67 and 72 year old  having a chat. I was not privy to all of their conversation but no doubt they disccussed families. their children, the menopause, how fun the 50s were and wasn't Robert Redford really good-looking in his youth?

  Mother said Jane was very brave and strong for telling all in her book. Jane said  women of  their age  were strong because of the times they'd lived through.  Jane said  she hoped it meant that elder women weren't ignored. Mummy said she often felt invisible.   Mother said she'd often resented her Mummy before she died. Jane said she tried not nto hate her father.  Mummy said Jane looked 'marvellous darling'. Jane asked if Mother had any work done.

Mother asked after the family and Jane got out the photographs so Mother got hers out and they both shook their jewellry at each other in admiration.  I had to dissuade Mother from pulling up a chair, making a pot of tea, pouring it out and reaching for the tin of Huntley and Palmers while  they Got To Know Each Other.

 And meanwhile,  told to be quiet and stuck in the corner like the child I was, I was jumping up and down and wandering off, only coming back to tug on  her sleeve and say  "Can we go now Mummy? Can we go now? Can we? Can we?"........ 

 Oh and I've just done my first task  for Big Blogger over in the house. I'm not entirely sure I'm doing the right thing here....

Do you all remember the Great Easter Cellar Disaster?   I’ve been tearing my hair out over the last few weeks attempting to get the insurance claim settled, but as ever, these things do not run smoothly. fficeffice" />

First of all it appears that I did not save the contents of my cellar, take photographs and wait for the loss adjusters to get in touch. This may be because I’m a little picky but I don’t think that keeping a cellar full of wet rotting things is normally a good idea.

Secondly,  it seems   that I didn’t keep the receipts  for all the  books, wedding china, glasses, spare curtains and bookshelves that were  broken and/or damaged. And this is A Bad Thing.

 Thirdly, it appears that the woman who is in charge of my claim only works between ten and two every day and fourthly, when she does ring me, she rings the home number and leaves messages.  Or talks to The Husband who hasn’t filled in the claim AND WASN’T EVEN THERE FOR THE WHOLE BLOODY WEEKEND IT TOOK ME TO SORT IT OUT!

 So when I rang the claims line on Friday to try and move things on or to find out if I can  help in anyway, I was rather annoyed to find that there was NO-ONE whom I could talk to about this problem. And the child on the end of the line could only say that  I should  have contacted the emergency line who would have told me the right way to go about things. So I gritted my teeth and explained that it happened on Good Friday and  the ‘hotline’ number I rang had no access to my policy, or my claim - normal office hours being over – and there wouldn’t have been anyone  even vaguely helpful until the following Tuesday and  - silly me  -  I preferred not to have gushing water and things floating around  down there until I could get proper advice.

 So you can imagine what state my  nerves were in yesterday  when I descended to the cellar  and  found yet another burst pipe……..

1. You look forward to the Observer’s glossy food monthly supplement.fficeffice" />


2.  A ‘quick look around the shops’ takes in two book shops, Muji and Habitat


3.  You actively hunt down a decent plumber.


4. A weekend away consits of finding a nice  four star hotel within handy reach of Ryanair/BMIbaby/Easyjet coinciding with an art exhibition.


5. You can no longer stomach wine for under £5 a bottle.


6. You can no longer find MTV on the cable box but the History channel is on your favourites list.


7. A nice stiff letter of complaint takes the edge off your anger with bureauocracy.


8.  You have people round for drinks in the garden and apologise for the stae of the blooms.


9. You plan your guest list for said drinks party.


10. Olives, ciabatta, cheese and mineral water are always in your fridge. Along with a bottle or two of bubbly 'just in case'

Look,  I really shouldn't complain about this. I know it's ungrateful and Mother is really, really just trying to help and honestly only has my best interests at heart.  fficeffice" />

She rings up today to tell me that... well, she's sorry to bring it up but there was this young girl  on Richard & Judy or Good Morning or whatever awful, daytime cosy  don't-wake-up-your-brain programme is on. It appears this woman has had 11 miscarriages , one after another , and now she's got a baby and it turned out that  it was one little test for oxygen imbalance in the womb/placenta and once they'd done that test and found out her problem  then everything was fixed and hunky-dory. So I should go get that test done.

 I thank Mother and say I've had the test and that's not my problem.  She seems a little putout that she  hasn't been told. And I sort of grit my teeth and  hold myself back from saying that it's difficult enough to have these awful invasive things done without having a post-mortem afterwards  with your nearest and dearest who’ll tell all and sundry over the kaffe klatch meetings.   And also that  some people  don't exactly understand all these things they're looking for and also can't understand how they can tell things from a simple sample test or scans. And that also  Mother thinks they're not doing a proper job if  haven't whipped you in, sliced you open and had a good paw around inside you. It's not quite   checking the entrails  of a chicken for signs and auguries but it's not far off.

 So I say thank you and  also, just in case she goes looking for anything else, tell her that I’m not allergic to my husbands’ antibodies and yes his,  er …sample… was fine and  I’ve not got anything wrong with me in that sense. It’s just one of those things.

 Mothers………

  Friday turns out to be a lovely day, a day where the sun shines  and I’m wearing a summer frock and bought a lovely pair of Grecian metallic sandals in the sale. So I clear my desk and ring Mr Butterfly to see if he’s up for those fatal words ‘a quick drink after work’. Six pm sees us deep in our second drink  discussing the state of the world so we ring darling Ms R to join us. Ms R appears to have a homing beacon installed and  despite the amount she’s drunk, she ALWAYS makes it home. She may be the first in the bar, the last to leave, may worry uncontrollably about  missing her round and who has paid the taxi fare, she may be found comatose with alcohol in the meanest, lowest dive in the furthest reaches of the county, but at ten minutes past closing time, she can be found purposely marching home, heading unerringly for the comfort of the duvet and her own front door. So we always invite her out , not only for the conversation but because, as we live near each other (a  short taxi drive or  a   twenty minute drunken stumble), we figure we can all link hands  with her and we’ll be on our doorstep  without too much hassle at the end of the night.fficeffice" />

 Ms R brings along our  beloved Moviebuff who she is  due to meet anyway in town later and as the Husband has been let off script duty with The Partner-In-law early we all enjoy the summer sun in the beer garden of The Gladstone.

I am feeling relaxed. The Parents in Law have been  holidaying near by t and we’ve been on duty for them all week, and after a dinner at our house yesterday, me feeling fraught with unsaid things and worrying about the myriad ways the conversation can take and the possibility of   conversational aggression and pointed remarks,  have been wound tighter than an old-fashioned watch spring. I need to relax. And so, with some of our finest, cleverest and amusing friends,  basking in their love, our friendship and the joy of companionship I DO relax. And think:  I shouldn’t complain.

We came home at 9pm and  I’ve left The Husband downstairs laughing at ‘Grumpy Old Men’ on the TV and  making comparisons between us and ours, me and mine, you and yours.. And I am thinking about  the weekend and a gentle lunch on the occasions of Father’s day with MY parents. I know The Husband will enjoy the gentle joshing, the fact that they just want him (and us!) to enjoy ourselves and will NEVER make a gathering an occasion to bring up old resentments or to score points off each other and I’m just happy in my life.

Well,  I have had four glasses of wine……….

 And life goes on apace in the Big Blogger House. Voting has begun for the first eviction and our very own Troubled Diva has a guarenteed  entry into the second round due to his  winning the first task.  Our latest task has been to write poetry and I like to think I’ve  covered all grounds with a set of Haiku and dirty limericks to cover  both low and highbrow. Let me know what you think.

The evening started off well. We  had a  few drinks in convivial company outside in the sun and I had a charming  (and  in-demand) gentleman on my arm to squire me around. fficeffice" />

The first sign of distress came at the  sight of fellow concertgoers.   There were not many men. There were acres of wobbling middle-aged flesh and there was a lot of polyester, too tight tee shirts and just plenty of tee-shirts. And plaid.

There were women –who should know better! – wearing deely boppers.

Did I mention it was  the first night of the Bay City Roller/The Osmonds/David Essex/David Cassidy tour?

 It started well. Les Mckeon gave it his best and really,  the old songs held up well. No doubt   helped along by a large dose of nostalgia. Or neuralgia, knowing the average age of the audience….   Companion and I boogied  in the aisle, got into the swing of it, told tales of school and   shrieked and sang along. A moment of confusion crossed both our faces when, half way through one song,   he launched into a Deep Purple number but we cared not.  This was obviously going to be a  cheesy school disco night out.   He finished  and we clapped and cheered and all the  plaid clad women  who had  dashed to the front to look longingly into his eyes and to re-live their youth,   wandered back to their seats.

Next were The Osmonds. A different set of women made the dash to the front of the stage. I was a little concerned to find that  one of them had turned into Kenny Rogers but they gave a thoroughly professional show, which –again – had us dancing and whooping and  singing along.  Obviously they’ve been continually touring,  singing the same old songs and  it  didn’t seem jaded or hollow. And if you took your glasses off  they still looked young and not too fleshy. In the interval, Troubled Diva (for it was him)  told me all the name of the songs they played and how the last one  was a top  5 hit in America but not over here, thus  explaining  why it didn’t go down too well. There’s only one person in the world that would know that, I remarked….

 After the interval cam David Essex, the man whom I’d been waiting for and  who stole the show.    Still looking good, still a superb showman and with a stage presence – no doubt honed by his theatre work – that simply shone through. He  whipped the audience up,  sang old and new songs and  I simply adored him.  Hearing ‘Imperial Wizard’ done live with all its threatening splendour   made me go all hormonal and I boogied like a 14-year-old girl. Unlike a 14-year-old girl however, I had to have a sit down and fan myself with  my hat to cool down afterwards. Now I can’t say he  really noticed me but  there was an awful lot of eye contact between us and at one point he waved right at me. I  reigned myself in and stopped myself from stage diving. Well, I didn’t have the best underwear on…..

 And then David Cassidy. Words fail me.  So we left.