Long time no type …ah how I missed you

Greetings fellow humans ūüôā

I’ve had a rest from blogging for a few weeks or so, but and up and ready for round two if you are?!

Well its official, there’s just no getting away from it or pussy-footing around the issue any more (all puns fully intended). My Tomcat, affectionately known as FFS has made a major life decision – he’s now having a trial period having identified himself as trans; that is trans-species, as he has decided that he is now a dog, more specifically a sheepdog. It may be a teenage phase, it may not, but whichever way he chooses I will of course support him wholeheartedly.

I’ve had an inkling for a while that he is no ordinary feline, and now its staring me right in the face (I do wish he wouldn’t get his tail quite so intimately acquainted with my nose – ewww). Did I encourage him to play fetch just a little too much?¬† Last week, just confirmed beyond all doubt his undeniable doggy traits.

The tomcat (otherwise know as FFS) has now learned how to herd sheep. As occasionally happens in this tiny piece of paradise, a Flock of Jacobs (lovely dark brown sheep) appeared in the garden.  I was just driving them towards the gate, when FFS suddenly rounds the corner of the driveway, and running full pelt he chased them in the opposite direction, resulting in the whole flock stampeding  through the garden, over the stream and out under the fencing into the field beyond. Hey ho, they obviously thought he was a small sheepdog; well he is black and white and was running directly at them. Sigh.

This was a defining moment for him – he tried it, and boy did he like it. He wishes for this trial period to be known only as Fido.

Best go buy a leash then eh?

Much love

Pedwar xx

Life, the Universe and Everything

Well, what a fabulous night of girlie catch-ups I had in Cardiff last night. 4 old friends together once again – food, drink and laughter flowing – such a great feeling! As talk turned to general health topics, and the old battered bladder syndrome reared its head (many times, lol), pea-bladder was officially re-christened Urethra Franklin! I laughed so loud I nearly baptized her myself there and then!

The conversation flowed effortlessly, as it does with old friends, there was laughter, and briefly sobering moments, which rose and fell with a natural rhythm. We opened our hearts and souls last night, and for a moment, something quite magical happened. We don’t meet very often, but when we do, its like it was only yesterday, and time has no place or meaning in our world.

With talk ranging from ancient civilizations, long-lost knowledge, polar ice caps, UFOs, love, death, dying and spirituality, I think we covered just about EVERYTHING right there. With smiles on our faces, and sometimes tears in our eyes, we’d condensed much lost time into one magical evening together.

To quote our host “this is our time” and how right she is. It is our time, and we need to grab it tight with both hands and experience every single second that life gives to us and those around us. Our bodies may be showing the first signs of wear and tear, but damn it, between us at the table our total age (4 of us as friends and ex colleagues, plus one daughter and mother-law) was 327 years lived!! Crikey there’s a whole host of life experiences rolled up into a ball right there. So 2 vaguely dodgy bladders between us all is not at all bad in my book!

To beloved friends both here and departed, Urethra Franklin and I salute you all!

Pedwar xx

 

 

 

 

 

Extended warranty

Heavens I am feeling older than my years these days. If something new isn’t creaking or leaking on a daily basis, then it’s a bonus!

If I count up all my moans and groans (steady!) this past month, they have mounted up to more than I can count on one hand – but being a stubborn old moo I hadn’t until this week thought about have a waddle on down to the local quack’s office.

Had my fill of medical staff with 10 years service in the NHS, so I don’t actually like to take up their valuable time with random ailments, but now that this gaggle of malfunctions has reached epic proportions, I think its time I dragged my stubborn mule arse into town.

The moment you take your seat, and doc says “how are you today?”, and years of social conditioning sees your mouth opening with the obligatory “oh, I’m fine!” doh! I am tumbling the varying degrees of dodgy decrepitness around in my head, trying to fathom some logical order to relay my rag-bag of ailments without sounding like a raving hypochondriac looking for a dose of Dr Philomena Potamuss’ Magical Pygmy Potion.

All I want is a general MOT and a tune-up. Feeling TAT (tired all the time) and not being able to wake up properly is starting to be a pain in the proverbial, and having a bladder that goes into overdrive when one should be sleeping is a delight.¬† Trust me, I’m under no illusions that I’ll ever be able to cough or laugh loudly again without first crossing my legs, or dropping to my knees! The manic tom cat hasn’t managed to trip me up (yet) this week, so the arm is slowly gaining strength (touch wood/fingers crossed – and legs), I’ve only choked severely twice this week so far, and haven’t yet hit the floor when coming over ‘all woozy like’. Hacking like a life-long chain-smoker (have never smoked), and trying to keep legs crossed to stem the flood-gates at the same time is quite an art in itself!

So, let’s hope I pass my MOT and get an extended warranty on this old rust-bucket that is my body. It’s got a fair few miles on the clock, but a good engine despite the knocking tappits, and leaky valves. Here’s to a pass with maybe a few advisories, but no major works or certificate of destruction!

Oh … bladder time!!

Pedwar xx

 

Aging Bladders and night-time naggers

The morning started abruptly when I was rudely awaken at stupid o’clock by my nagging bladder. With another few hours to go until my alarm was due to disturb my weird dream world, even in my semi-comatose state I realised that my bladder, ravaged by the effects of 4 pregnancies and the aging process, would most likely explode magnificently should I dare to ignore the danger signs.¬† So, with little other option, I gingerly traversed the blackness of the bedroom, with my ancient mobile shedding just enough light not to stub my toes on the heavy furniture randomly dotted around the room.

If I could just coax my unwilling frame to the bathroom, without putting on the lights, I may just persuade the rest of my body and mind, that there was no need to wake entirely, just barely enough to carry out the necessary deflation of the over-extended bladder. The process was straightforward enough, no dramas, no drips (too much information??), no phone dropped down the loo. Brilliant.  The reverse traverse across the landing, through the bedroom was worthy of an Olympic Medal. Squeezing my ample bottom between the bed and chimney breast, avoiding the threat of my bum and the very cold wall making contact, avoiding the distinct possibility of the chunky wooden bed-frame ruthlessly invading my lady garden on the way through.  Felt like a proper Ninja!

Laying down gently into the bed, snuggling into the still warm crater left moments before, brain barely registering, but smugly knowing that there was another hour plus of sleep to come.¬† Then it started. I swear that my brain actually houses an entire tower block of apartments, as no sooner had I laid my head on the pillow, when part of my brain sparked sending messages hurtling backwards and forwards, stomping around like a herd of fairy elephants with hobnail boots. “Shut up!” I hear another section shout, then it’s like that drunken neighbour, staggering around at 3am trying (without success) not to wake the whole neighbourhood.¬† I swear, that cell by cell, the noisy neighbour from hell woke them all!

Whizz, bang, wallop, noisy head neighbour falls over waking all the sleeping dogs in headspace towers. This in turn wakes the babies, who are now screaming at full pelt, and shouts of “Ssssshhhh”, “Shut up”, “Go to sleep you twonk!” are bouncing mercilessly off the interior walls of the noggin. So much noise!! A pillow on the head doesn’t work as the noises are on the inside – stupid, stupid synapses, curse you all!¬† Should I go and have a cup of tea then try to sleep again — just stop thinking damn you!!

Eventually the swirling noise drowns out all rational thought, and I hear the brain gremlins laughing saying “Get up, you may as well get up, you can forget getting back to sleep, you must be dreaming if you think that is ever going to happen lady”.¬† Bugger it, still an hour to go before I HAVE to get up, but the whispering thoughts are unrelenting.¬† What a shit start to the day – I am seriously considering a home-made catheter to see me through tonight without incident (I have a few long party straws and plenty of plastic bottles).

So that’s me sorted, half a bottle of wine and a mug of horlicks before bed, restraining order filed on the trouble-makers in headspace towers, make-shift catheter inserted, 5 gallon drum attached,¬† snuggle down with some hypnotic music in the background, and relax (not you bladder, not you damn you!).

Sweet Dreams All

Pedwar xx

 

 

Twisted Lyrics and other linguistic laughs

I’m known to be a trifle deaf at the best of times, frequently mishearing the most innocent remarks and translating them in the twisted sewers of my mind to something that would be more fitting to be launched from the blistered lips of a bunch of drunken navvies brawling in a backstreet alley.

I famously (or is that infamously?) misheard a specific comment at the pub I owned, and was frequently taunted with said word hastily crammed into a relatively normal sentence to see if I picked it up. Any visitors to the area, who inadvertently witnessed these sporadic and random episodes from my regulars, must have thought that the Welsh generally speaking have their own unique way of asking for service at the bar.For the uninitiated, the insertion of¬† “Butt-plug” (figuratively, not literally speaking, although come to think of it neither are socially acceptable in a public bar)¬† into your request for a pint of beer or a cheeky vimto is not generally recommended!

This coupled with the mischievous antics of the well respected head of the local Welsh language school, I am sure, has resulted in some very bizarre conversations. Imagine the poor non-Welsh speaker, being chuffed to bits to have been schooled by a headmaster no less, in the basics of culturally acceptable greetings during their holidays in Wales. Eager to try out their new found linguistic skills, I have imagined many a black eye received in the process!

When I had my pub, twisted lyrics was one of my favourite pastimes; you know belting out alternative lyrics that once heard, you can never un-hear! I have talented gigging musician friends who can no longer sing ‘Ain’t no sunshine’, for fear of drifting recklessly into the oh so rude version of the lyrics manufactured in the cesspool that lurks in the corner of the gelatinous mass rattling round in my bony head. It cannot be unheard!!

Just don’t ask me to sing …. you may seriously regret it!

Pedwar xx

 

 

 

Hot Fuzz?

Did I blink? Was I in the loo when Summer appeared? It seems that one or two dry days now constitutes the traditional British Summer.¬† Spare a thought for all those ladies who diligently stocked up on razor blades, hair removal creams, sun-screen, and skimpy shorts, and suffered the joys of the aptly named ‘Insanity’ exercise regime, poised and ready to launch their bikini buff bodies onto the unsuspecting World. (I should add, that I was not one of them!)

To shave or not to shave – sun, rain, rain, rain, sun, rain, s … oh no more rain!¬† Gentleman don’t have to go through this major dilemma at the changing of the seasons, except maybe in debating whether to invest in a little beard gloss or glitter now and again as the mood takes them.

You see, there’s an art to getting the timing of your bikini trim just right, do it too soon and you’ll have to redo, do it too often and those blasted bumps will raise up and irritate the knicker line; leave too long and you’ll have to sharpen the garden shears or worse still get out the electric hedge cutters. You could get caught in-between and be scrabbling for your ‘hot-fuzz’ wax, or your second best razor (that’s if his is out sight of course), scraping and scratching in a hurry to scramble to the hot tub with your pink Martini at the first glimmer of the golden globe.

Well, I don’t fall for it anymore ladies, I don’t expect a Summer, and to be frank, with the damp walls in our cottage I need to keep as much bodily insulation as possible these days. So I say, don’t prep daily, you’re just setting yourself up for a fall. Let the fuzz run free, until you feel in your bones, then grab the hover mower and go for it in one fell swoop, seize the moment, and have your day in the sun (tram marks and all).

Hot fuzz and a plunger to sort out the bath, G&T or a bottle of bud, obligatory selfie in the hot tub, a sausage on the BBQ, and there is your summer on a plate ladies – enjoy it, you earned it.

Pedwar xx

 

 

Tosspot does it again

Well, no sooner had I finished talking about my charming tomcat’s not so charming antics, he manages to do it again!

Hearing scratching and crying at the window, I stood up from the computer forgetting I had a headset on, stumbling over said cat and promptly re-injure my writing arm. (ok so not entirely the cat’s fault this time admittedly).

I am sure he is on a mission you know. Earlier he was purring around the base of the computer where the microphone headset is plugged in, and now strangely ‘microphone not detected’… hmmm.¬† Do you think he is trying to tell me that he does not want me to sing today, as I had planned to duet with a friend online??

I think despite having 2 siblings, Mr T is demanding my fullest attention and is looking to cut down my time at the computer, one way or another! (Perhaps the man of the house put him up to it?).

Well Mr T (affectionately known a FFS), you may have won the battle today, but you have not won the war!  Time for some TV now, and no doubt that his highness will use his hypnotic skills to force me to change into my PJs and that ooh so fluffy dressing gown, planting himself on my lap like a baby hippo (him, not me Рbut then again..).  He will only relent his reign of tyranny once he realises it is supper time, then I will make my move, remaining upstanding for the rest of the evening no doubt.

He still remembers that cat’s were worshipped as Gods in ancient Egypt, and boy does he hanker back to his ancestoral roots, and wishes I would know my place!

Yes, I am a mug, I love the stupid, loving, adorable moggy, despite his solid displays of daily one-upmanship designed ultimately to test my nerves and train my body for a possible ninja attack at any time (or place).

Well, here’s to a night of truce in the household – I hear and obey you my Feline nemesis!

Pedwar xx