What are you, some sort of catist?

I can't remember the last time -- if ever -- I spent any real time in a vet's surgery.

It sounds strange, considering we always had pets growing up, but I guess it was always my parents responisbility to take the cat to the vet and to bear the cost of it. Maybe I subconsiously developed a fear of it, since that's the place where animals can go and not return -- you don't hear of people going to the doctor and not returning.

These days, the cat lives with my parents. I uphold he is still my cat, and when I can offer him somewhere to live that is equal to what they have (a big garden, backing onto woods and fields and a farm), then I intend to take him to live with me. I sometimes threaten to do it anyway now, simply because I miss having a cat.

My parents went on holiday last week, and as usual left instructions with my neighbour for feeding him. I thought everything was normal. When the girl and I turned up at the weekend to visit the cat, my neighbour came out to see us to tell me that the cat still wasn't eating, that he also seemed arthritic, and did I want her to take him to the vet. I told her I was sure he'd be fine, but I'd keep an eye on him and take him myself if necessary.

I told the girl I was willing to bet the neighbour hadn't been giving the cat his arthritis medicine, since when he doesn't take it he goes off his food and is noticeably arthritic. Sure enough, she hadn't. But it seems the issue is perhaps more serious. Mum's written instructions for the neighbour next door included my mobile number for if she was worried about the cat, and his vet's details. Clearly, he wasn't well before they went on holiday. I also got text messages on Sunday asking if I had seen the cat, and how he was. I reported that he wasn't eating, that he hadn't been taking his medicine, but that he seemed happy enough. I was told not to worry about his medicine if he seemed happy.

Just the same, I gave him more medicine on Sunday, and called the vet on Monday morning to make an appointment. I got one for that evening.

It was easy to catch the cat and put him in his carrying basket (which looks almost like a picnic hamper, it's a big wicker thing) and on my way out my neighbour again appeared, asking questions how he was and asking me to let her know. She was waiting for me when I returned from the vet over an hour later.

The vet's surgery is a sad place if you ask me, sadder than a doctor's waiting room. Somehow, the thought of all these animals sad and unwell was more upsetting to me than the doctor's has ever been, and even though he's deaf, I'd whisper words of comfort to the cat whenever he started to yowl. It was interesting to hear how different cats had different voices. Because I was sat next to the animal scales in the waiting room, I put the cat on them (carrier and all). It came to about 5kg. It struck me then how small is. One of the first things the vet did was take him away to be weighed -- when she came back she told me he had lost more weight. "More weight" because Dad took the cat to the vet perhaps a month or more ago because I was concerned he was getting too skinny, when we used to tease him for being a fat cat and having to squeeze through the cat flap. At the time, the vet said he seemed OK and to just try to encourage him to eat more.

This hasn't happened, and the vet was concerned about his weight lose -- she said he was now losing muscle, with no fat left. Something clearly isn't right. She felt him carefully and thoroughly and announced she couldn't feel anything abnormal, like tumours, but also said that some don't form in such a way that you are able to feel them. And she wished that a test existed to determine whether one is present in a form you can't tell, even if you can't know where it is.

She took the cat away for a long time for blood tests. She apologised on returning that she'd taken so long because she couldn't find a vein, but that the cat had been very good and very patient. I hugged him gently and stroked his back as he stood on the examination table, and the vet explained she'd taken enough blood to send for external tests if the initial ones didn't yield any results. It could be a thyroid problem, she said, in which case she'd be looking for raised levels in the liver. But she said if the tests didn't show anything she wouldn't advise at his age what sounded like exploratory surgery.

The cat is nearly 20 years old, I remember I was still in primary school and he was a "birthday present" -- and came to live with us on May Day, the first May bank holiday. Making it perhaps almost exactly 19 years ago. I have to face that he is an old cat now, that he has had a long and happy life, and that he can not be expected to last forever. My parents frequently say what a healthy cat he has been, how he has cost us the least of any animal "to run". Frequently he'd come back from check ups at the vet, and we'd say how he was the healthiest cat in the whole world.

I have to face this might not be true any more.

I've spent all day waiting for the vet to call and tell me about the blood test results. I gave up waiting about 4pm and called the surgery. I was told they did have the results, but just like with going to see the doctor, they wouldn't tell me what they were. Instead I have to wait until after 6.30 for the vet to finish examinations, at which time she will call me.

She might call and say good news, the cat just needs some antibiotics, bring him in and I'll give him a shot. Then he'll live for another 10 years, still as happy as ever. Or she might say it's his thyroid, here's a special diet. Or she might not know, and I'll mention how maybe it's his mouth, I could be looking too much into things too much but he seemed to be having trouble when he was eating. Or maybe he'll just need to be taking his arthritis medicine regularly, and I'll give the neighbour instructions... Or she might say "I'm sorry."

I had a physiotherapist appointment this morning before work, and since I had an errand to run out of the office first thing, decided I'd go to it from my parents house -- that way I could bug the cat for a while, wake him up, see how he was feeling, try and get him to eat something. The neighbour told me yesterday he'd just been spending all day sleeping. Although he was sleeping today, I woke him up and bugged him and carried him around and said nice things to him, so by the time I had to leave again I got the impression he didn't want me to go any more. But obviously work has to come first. So I just told him what a good cat he is, how we all love him and he's my best friend, and how the girl and I will visit him again on Thursday night.

Now I just have to wait for the vet to call. And try and stop myself imagining every possible scenario for what she might say.

In case this is all too depressing, I leave you with this: catface. I probably should have tried to pay the vet bill with half a moth as well...

Update: The vet called about 8.30, and said all tests came back normal -- which in this instance wasn't good news, she said, as it made it more likely the cat had a tumour. She said we could do more tests, there are always more tests that can be done, but she wasn't sure it would be in the cat's best interests. Instead the cat could be treated symptomatically, giving him steroids and vitamins. I called my neighbour, eventually, to tell her an amended version of the results, but was surprised when she told me how much better the cat was doing today -- that he'd been eating more, and more sociable.

It could still be his arthritis. This doesn't to my mind explain his worrying weight loss -- he has been losing weight for some time, and while recently he wasn't eating I don't know if it was long enough to be what is responsible. For now I guess we have to monitor his weight a little more closely and make sure he always gets his medicine.....and take it from there.

Croc-wrestling wife-lob dancefloor kingpin's plea

I stumbled onto a story today. I wish I could say I literally stumbled upon, because I think SU is one of the coolest things since English muffins, but instead it was on my Google homepage.

Since my work got all nasty and/or clever and restricted access to a heap of sites, I can no longer access my Gmail in work. It used to be all I had to do was sign into my Google account, go into settings and then click on my email settings. There it would be, my email, looking all pretty and shiny and full of spam emails and very little else. I got so bored the other day I considered setting up a hotmail account just to reply to a spam email about helping them recover the fortune of the deceased president of Papua New Guinea, but I lost interest. I have a very short attention span, I remember one time -- oh look, wrestling...

Anyway, either because I got tech support to upgrade my machine to XP or because I updated Internet Explorer to the latest version (our company webpages don't work in Firefox, so I end up using IE for almost everything) I can't access Gmail at all now. BUT! I can log in to my Google account, which means I can see the snapshot of my inbox and know there is nothing to read in it. I can also see google reader and read the posts in it, so long as I don't try to visit Blogger or Wordpress. I have actually suggested that across the company marketers such as myself should have access to these sites, as well as access to online streaming radio, for media monitoring purposes. I don't think they bought it.

All of this is a very long-winded way of saying Google showed me this story: 'Let me use poo-flinging Roman siege engine against burglars'.

The story is about a man in Nottinghamshire who has been told by police he's not allowed to use his full-size medieval catipult to fire chicken shit at would-be burglars. And as a result of not using it, he got burgled.

The story has so many levels and angles, it's fantastic. On one hand, it's the heart-warming story of a man who has done many, many crazy things -- from firing his wife out of canons and over rivers, to accosting crocodiles who refuse to wrestle on cue. On another it's the classic British right-wing tabloid story of political correctness gone mad -- the man is under attack from criminals, but society is on the side of the crooks. The Daily Mail would have a field day with the story, or at least it would if it could somehow also blame the gays, single mothers and immigrants. If the man was being robbed by single, lesbian immigrants so much the better.

I also like the story because it raises interesting points about defending your property. It is within the law to use "reasonable force" to defend your property if you are, say, being burgled -- but the law also says this has to be proportionate. If you are being attacked by lunatic ninjas (real ones, not injured kangaroos) with samurai swords, does that mean you are legally within your right to grab your own Hattori Hanzo sword and take them on? If you were to hit an intruder with a frying pan, would you have to prove in court that you believed they might also have a large, blunt instrument? And of course, the timeless argument of what about guns.

The UK gun lobby claim that Government hysteria after tragedies such as Dunblane have meant that responsible gun owners are gun owners no more, but that illegal guns are now more plentiful on the UK streets than ever before. The criminal underworld is flooded with cheap weapons (funny, I wrote cheap women at first) from former Soviet countries and apparently it doesn't take much to find one of your own. If you were so inclined.

You could argue that it is entirely likely a burglar or robber on your property in the dead of night could have a gun -- so should you have a gun yourself? I remember back when I lived in Salt Lake City hearing about the town of Virgin, Utah, where it was illegal not to own a gun, with which to defend your property.

So what exactly is proportionate, then? One could argue this man wasn't hurling rocks or dead cows at people, only piles of crap -- but given his background, neither would be surprising. Perhaps it is more the booby-trapping of your poperty that is frowned upon -- would it be different if old Grumpy Joe had to run to his catapult in his dressing gown and manually load it?

What does this all mean? Is your home your castle, and do you have the right to defend it? Or is that what the police are for, tackling criminals and illegal activity, while you have the protection of locks and contents insurance? And aside from any of that, would you ever let someone fire you out of a canon?

Be kind to your knees, you'll miss them when they're gone

In an effort to get some training in for Peru, I joined two fellow trekkers for a walk in the Chilterns, an area of "outstanding natural beauty". It was rated as seven out of 10 in difficulty, about 20km and 5 hours of walking. No problem, I thought.

First the good news: I was not noticeably less fit than either of my counterparts. In parts after steep uphill climbs where I'd be feeling a little warm and out of breath, they seemed to mirror my own reactions -- and most importantly, it didn't take me long to recover. Heart and lungs seem to be in excellent working order.

Continuing the good news theme, my hiking boots are incredibly comfortable and there was not even a hint of a blister or rubbing all day. An excellent buy there, and I think we can safely say they are broken in.

The bad news is I am in incredible pain. Somewhere along the way the steep downhill descents must have proved too much for my knees -- and if you hadn't guessed by the fact I am updating in the middle of the day, I am home from work sick today as I can barely stand up. Completing the walk yesterday was very difficult and painful as my knee became stiffer and more unyielding. The doctor has told me today I have strained the ligaments, and I need to rest it. I can also put an ice pack on it twice a day and take anti-inflammatory drugs three times a day. It's a good job I have a stash of the latter in the cupboard.

My research on the internet tells me this kind of thing is quite common, and unsurprisingly associated with steep downhill descents. I was probably going too quickly. For Peru, if not before, I will need walking poles and a knee support -- and I think a small supply of medication in my luggage.

It's frustrating, I want to be out walking and training in the gym, and right now I can't do either. But I'll crawl the Inca trail on my hands and knees if I have to.

Luckily, Jay...

I stole this idea from Non-Blondie, who has more recently started blogging again, and whose wit is equalled only by her charm. Seriously, go visit her blog. I'll wait here.

It's simple enough, put luckily, and your name into google and then list the results. It helps if you are easily amused, or bored. Or both.

Luckily Jay took our advice early on in the planning stages, which left him free to make the best position choices of his tailpipes.
luckily Jay and Bern had a bit of respite from me.
Luckily, Jay’s wife Pat brought out the Brandy and a fine selection of miniatures they’d collected
Luckily, Jay is not only a successful comedian, television personality and accomplished car collector - he's also one heckuva nice guy
Luckily, Jay has had the foresight to recognize this.
Luckily, Jay took over as the national coach just then and I could systematically plan my comeback.
Luckily Jay didn't have a class that afternoon so I called him and told him what happened.
Luckily, Jay's lyrics lend more griminess to a track that has echoes of futurism and will be on the upcoming Notorious soundtrack
Luckily, Jay's problems with the electric got fixed MUCH faster than at the Lounge Ax show
Luckily, Jay, Barry and Mike were equally as dance-worthy

Carol Brown just took a bus out of town -- but I'm hoping that you'll stick around

Since we heard about the imminent merger, things haven't been the same in work. It's the constant topic of conversation -- who will keep their jobs, where will the new company be based, how rubbish the company is that is being merged with ours, how the new MD isn't like the old one, and on and on and on.

I go from hopeless despair to reassuring myself that a decision such as this would have enormous marketing and PR applications, which the one employee in the other company would surely be unable to handle on their own -- meaning there would surely be a need for me, and my mad media skillz.

But the truth is you really can't tell. At first I was wondering if it was my punishment for leaving the purchasing department -- since purchasing was responsible for three counties instead of just ours it wasn't going to be affected. Then this week they were all told of the cost cutting measures and streamlining initiatives for efficiency that would be affecting them. More departments being merged into larger bodies, meaning job losses for them, too. My own risk of redundancy is a scary one, since I wouldn't get a redundancy payout -- having only started the job six months ago, they need only give me a month's notice.

The latter revelation has the girl really worried. I think it's shown how unstable everything is for me -- which makes our whole home situation very precarious. Her thinking goes along the lines of if I lose my job, we won't be able to pay the rent, and if we can't pay the rent then we'll have to end our tenancy agreement in May when it's up for renewal. From there, with no place to call our own anymore, the girl would have to find a share house in London and I'd end up back with my parents again. So, back to square one -- or really, worse than square one.

The girl's worries aren't helped by a heap of other things playing on her mind -- long work hours, being tired of commuting from Essex to London, and missing Australia. Living together has been a new experience for us both, and you can't help but wonder if she might sometimes imagine the grass to be greener on the other side of the fence -- having nobody to answer to, and not having your own living situation risked by someone else. The girl sometimes seems disillusioned with life in England, and I occasionally worry that it's partly because of me -- living in Essex means she misses out on the London life and seeing her London friends. She is working on it though -- trying to get out more, make plans to see friends more and socialise more with work colleagues when she gets the chance. She is also making interesting plans for when I'm gallavanting up Andean mountains.

Last Autumn, the economic downturn didn't much concern me. For the first time in my life I felt I had got a "real" job on a contract, the girl and I got ourselves a house to rent, and if anything VAT cuts and falling fuel prices were welcome. It didn't take the universe long to rob me of my smugness. Christmas was almost cancelled when it looked like my brother was going to have to declare bankruptcy and fold his business, threatening to leave him and his family homeless. Everyone was feeling the pinch, and were putting off paying their bills until the New Year -- but this meant he wasn't getting what he was owed, and relied on. Luckily, a client who owed him a large sum of money did pay up in time. But it showed me how close to home these things can get.

It's only a few months on, and though he didn't have to go bankrupt, my brother had to sell his business to his wife's uncle -- which saved any job losses for him and his own employees. My sister in law is now being made redundant, putting them again on the edge.

The recession is biting in other areas, too. While the girl is assured she is safe in her job, that her company won't be making any redundancies at her level at least, the British government have decided to tighten up on immigration. Gone is the option of a Skilled Migrant visa for the girl, since they now require a Master's Degree, and there is rumours on the wind that sponsored work visas are being refused, also. We're hoping that the girl's position there is a more secure one -- she will have been working for the company for a year already, and they have a team of lawyers for this kind of thing, so it isn't like she is coming fresh to these shores and hoping for a sponsored work visa.

The worst case scenario for the latter is the girl returns to Perth, and I apply for a working holiday visa down under. We'd be eligible to apply for spousal visas if we lived together for another year, then we wouldn't need to worry about governments tearing us apart.

We hope for now I don't get made redundant, or get offered a job elsewhere in the country -- the purchasing team were offered alternate positions in Glasgow and Oldham, if they were also willing to take a paycut of a third with the positions. And if I can manage to not only keep my job, but keep it where we are living, then we just have to cross our fingers that the men in Whitehall (or whoever decides these things) don't clamp down too much on work visas for cute Aussie girls.

And just to lighten the tone, today's title comes from this song: