Tuesday, October 12, 2021
Of Breads and Beds
The Kid went back up to Sunderland last Friday, leaving me feeling somewhat bereft - there have been too many goodbyes this year. At least I sent him home fully stocked with casseroles, train snacks, carrot cake and my flask with coffee in it. I can't fix his relationship or make the government properly fund his work or change the housing market so there's the slightest possibility he won't be at the mercy of shitty landlords all his life, but I can make sure he's nourished while he copes with it all.
While he was here, we played at tourists in our own city for a day. We took a long walk along the canal, all the way to where it opens out into the river, pausing to watch a barge navigate a lock, which I like watching but which also gives me the weirdies.
From there, we wandered up to the cathedral to look at Arthur's tomb, the tiny carved fantastical creatures on the misericords and incredible ceilings. Then to lunch where I had the nicest lightest gluten free focaccia I have ever had. Bit of a treat and makes me wonder why so much gluten-free bread is so bloody awful. I once ordered some from a company that claimed they had been developing their recipe for their own gluten-free needs.
All I can say is that their needs must have been of the battering-thine-enemy-with-baked-goods kind. Not a heavier bread have I ever lifted or attempted to chew my way through. Never mind avoiding swimming after eating, I was avoiding puddles.
Today is the day I phone the vet for the Great Boo's test results. A week before we went down south, he went missing. Having owned many cats over my lifetime, I didn't think we'd ever see him again but N was more determined and through the concerted use of Facebook Lost & Found pet pages and the Next Door app (no, me neither), he was found 3 miles away, about 100 yards from the M5.
THREE miles away? This is a cat we had to cut a hole in the fence for because he couldn't manage to jump over it and we were tired of our neighbours ringing the front door bell to tell us he was sat outside the gate waiting to be let in. He did not travel 3 miles under his own steam.
Regardless of means (and I have dark suspicions), he was found safe and well after an hour of scouring the streets yelling "Boo! Come on Boo!" like idiots (thanks to Dylan and Emily for joining in the shouting with gusto and providing a cat box at short notice). A little thinner, he generally seemed fine.
But he is not fine. Patches of bald skin are appearing in his fur, his pupils are dilated 80% of the time (the time he's awake anyway) and he's clearly on high alert all the time. The vet thinks stress ("Hello! I'm here to diagnose the bleeding obvious and then take £90 from you!") but ordered some tests anyway. Results are overdue.
Also overdue is a response from a company I'm now referring to as The Worst Bed Company in the World. Their name begins with B and ends with S, which is ironic as that's the same as the word I've been shouting every time their crappy, over-hard, completely unyielding mattress has woken me with cramp, pins and needles and general discomfort so great that at 4am, all hope of sleep is lost. I've pretty much given up sleeping on it and moved into the spare room.
If anyone likes mattresses that feel like it's punishing you for a misdemeanour in a past life, let me know. It's yours for £600 and an incantation of evil directed at B_____S
'At sunrise, hope; at dusk, peace" - unless your mattress
comes from B_____S, in which case, no.
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