Glo in the Dark

I don't believe in ghosts.
Nor ghouls.
Nor any kind of ectoplasmic manifestations.
But I am going to a Hallowe'en party tonight.

And here I am in, I have to say, rather safe yet dramatic garb.

The séance will be held at Henry's draughty castle where table-tapping will be in a struggle with the dark forces of popular music. But youngsters must have their fun too.
I will, no doubt, during the evening, take a peek into the cats' room where I hope to find the two witches familiars in good health. I loathe seeing creatures of any form in distress. A held out hand will be offered as comfort.

Henry's living room is ribbed with beams untimely ripped from a lonely spinster's cottage who joined the heavenly choir many generations ago. And as I drink a toast to the old lady of this parish I will imagine her tutting in the corner...

My London Day

As the red buses stormed past me I could see, from my position on the kerb, a little head peering from the balcony of the block of flats opposite. It was dad. And I knew that when the lift reached the sixth floor he would turn his face to me and call through to mum "She's here".
And he did.
And the day went as usual, with a microwaved Chicken meal for me and sausage and mash for the old dears. But they're not old dears, not really. My parents could never be old, they are the original young things who burn not only their own candles at both ends but everyone elses. And the light they have always given off has shone like the torch of a rescuer to many in distress. Including me.

Dad was heavy lidded and spoke incessantly about his ailments, mum however, wasn't heavy lidded, having just had an early morning nap. And never speaks of her many ailments.
And so after our munchies Mum and I hit the shops where we bought yet more make-up, her opting for 'Petal' nail polish and me choosing 'Rosebud' lipstick. But it wasn't just Boots the chemist which coveted our money, the Hospice charity shop got some too.
Mum buying yet another murder novel and I another blasted jacket.

Back home to Viennese fancies, tea and conversations about work related issues, EastEnders and the leaving of 'Peggy Mitchell', the World Cup and our part in it, back pain, heartache and the state of British politics with Gordo at the helm.

When it got dark it was time for me to leave, so dad went through his list of what I might have forgotten..."Got your stuff, got your sweets, got your scarf and don't forget your train ticket".
"Yes on all counts" I said obediently and went to the station, passing the red buses and leaving dad on the balcony.

I've caught the Halloween Bug so I hope to make people go yuk!, eeeeek!, and oh my God you must be mental!
Yes m'dears my terrifying Spider brooch will, today, clamp it's l-o-n-g legs onto my right booby:)

And so as I crawl off to London I wish you all a very furry legged day..ha, ha, ha, ha....ha!

Just A Post To Soothe My Brittle Nerves

Feeling like my nerves were on the outside I did what I had to do and left Henry's early...

I've left some Italian style pork chops braising in the Slow-Cooker and a lengthy note telling Henry about: The wonky hoover. The wrong size duvet. A dejected uneaten salad and how not to wear his hair.

I fed and watered the cats and left their door open as arranged with Henry. And as I laid the table for tea little Miss Ginger made a much welcomed appearance in the living room. She held her nimble body low, her taut youthful tummy almost brushing the Titian red and old gold carpet. And then she spotted me, did a quick-as-lightning turn, and sped away, back to her sanctuary. The black boy was not available.
I adore them already.

As I write this this my ears are filled with Tamla Motown, my collar is crooked and a half-eaten strawberry yoghurt sits unloved amongst the pens and papers of a sad old writer.

Chops and Cats

I'm wallowing in a few silent minutes before the day known as "Fat Chop Wednesday" blasts off. How sweet it is just to sit here with my hair sticking up and Monty scratching my legs. What joy there is in the sight of a a bleeding calf.
Bless.

Ok, so today it's Italian style Pork Chops for King Henry and I dare say I'll whip up something dead glam with a tin of fruit salad and banana. But oh dear does he need to lose some blubber or what? The poor darling panted over the stool on Monday with droplets of sweat falling all over me best straw placemats. Horrible. If that had been me, I'd have nipped to one of the sparkling bathrooms and dunked me head in the sink instead of perching on a red velvet stool guzzling Merlot just before six.
I think he's a bonkers man with a death wish.

Today the new additions to the family should be free to roam the halls, so I will be stressed beyond belief on account of worrying about the gorgeous fur balls sneaking out through the dog flap in the utility room and out into the space known as the garden.
Why couldn't he get a hamster like everyone else.?
Bugger.

Jottings

After yesterday's tremendous Liver excitement I feel the need to calm down with a Fairy cake.
So a dozen Currant fancies are being baked.

An eclectic mix of clothes are strewn across the bed on account of me being invited to a Halloween party. Do I do glittery frock and risk looking like a frantic flickering tea light or do I wear black boots, black hot pants and a glow stick around my neck?

The weather is really good for late October, it being so mild I'm typing with bare legs.

Mouths To Feed

Henry has taken in two cats.
A ginger girl and a black boy. Both of course are divine. Both of course will be spoilt.

He needs to keep them isolated for a couple of days so at the moment they're in a tiny back bedroom.

I crept in there this morning and straight away little Miss Ginger made for my held out hands. As I patted her head I looked into her small blue eyes and wanted to put her up my jumper. So skinny is she that I wanted to warm the creature by nestling her amongst my sagging bosoms. But not wishing to frighten her I offered her some chicken biscuits instead...

Meanwhile black boy sat under the bed not moving a muscle or whisker. I think he has an attitude. But that's alright because I love cats especially one's with severe emotional difficulties.

Then after just a few moments in the cat's room I decided it would be best if I left them, so I did and got on with my tasks, which I have to say, where dead easy.
The morning flew by and by 12 all I had to do was say cheerio to the cats.
"Bye bye babies" I said crouching down with my head under the bed.
"What a lovely twit" They thought
"I'll be back later to cook your dad some liver, so I'll pop in then"
And with those mad words ringing in my ears I drove home.

Later that day I was indeed back at Henry's on account of me wanting to cook him and Walter a nice liver tea. My duties as of last week have changed. I now cook three hot meals for the men, but nothing for the kid. "She'll get her own darling" Henry said
So because liver turns into leather if you slow-cook it, I decided to fry it fresh and serve it up just before 6.
Henry and Walter were delirious. And you know what? So was I. Because I loved cooking this simple meal and making a bloody fuss over Henry's ten minute lateness.
I suppose I just like being surrounded by hot pans and warm men. But whatever it was, I glowed.

So the meal was fantastic and after I declined the offer of a glass of wine I made my way home. Again.
A little while ago Henry texted saying "Please don't leave us, I'll slip a little something in your hand in gratitude".
I don't think he meant money.
And that's why I like working for the tight arse, he makes me laugh and likes cats...