Hex My Pets

This post was reputedly going to be written by Mr Parsnip, considering he was the one who flew into high dudgeon over the event, but as per usual, he is all mouth and no trousers and his photography priorities come high above such quality literature as you read on HexMyEx.

As our regular reader may know, we have taken possession of a black and white, male kitten. I have had cats (as befits a witch of my calibre) since I was knee-high to a grasshopper but unfortunately, over the last 20-odd years, haven't had much luck with them.

'Tom #1' snuffed it of a heart attack just shy of his first birthday, so along came 'Lucky', a rescue cat whose fate wasn't that lucky if you care to read the link. Lucky was the last cat I owned at my parents' house and upon moving in with the ex, I obtained 'Scroff', short for Scrofulous, meaning TB-ridden. She was lovely. She got knocked down by a car within eight months of us owning her. 'Poirot' came along to replace her and we later had to donate him to the mother-in-law upon our expatriation to Oman. 'Sid' (short for Sidr, which was the Garden Court upon which we lived - and I thought 'she' was a 'he') adopted us from a bin when we lived in Muscat. She was a scraggy stray who wobbled from the bin into our house, ate my sausages and didn't leave. She was then taken on by another family upon my departure. Repatriation brought 'Tom #2' who now resides with the ex and is the size of a small pouffe upon which you can rest your weary feet; 'Holly', in my own house, was donated to a friend whose daughter longed for a pet and since I was living alone and out at work 12 hours each day it was deemed kinder; then 'Ollie' and 'Norman' have been here and since done a runner, having found that living on the other side of the main road, where there are many foxy Tabbies is infinitely preferable to living on this side of the road where there is little but Carling Black Label cans, smelly old dogs and too many curious children for their liking.

After a short gap and a resolution NEVER to get another cat, I got all starry-eyed for a kitten one afternoon in the local hostelry having read the Mid-Cheshire Buy-Sell free paper in which there were plenty of scrawny runts for sale at exorbitant prices.

-Mr P? Can I have a kitten, please?

-Err...Yes. I guess so. If you want.

-OK!

Ten minutes later, I have a postcode, a time to collect the remaining male of the litter and suddenly, Mr P is more excitable than a bag full of monkeys. I learned that he had never had a pet from scratch, never named anything (apart from his City of Heroes' villains) and thus, I decided to 'give' the kitten to him, to love, cherish, feed, clean out its litter tray and leave the kicking and abuse to me.

'Oscar' came to our abode at the end of August, when #1 and #2 daughters holidayed in Spain. He was pampered, fussed over, molly-coddled and generally treated like a piece of precious porcelain by Mr Parsnip who even, at one point, suggested that he slept in our bedroom with us!

No bloody chance!

I have had one infestation of cat fleas in the house, many, many years ago and it was nightmarish waking up itching all over and as spotty as if I was suffering with Rubella...it wasn't even my fault for being a tardy pet-owner - the ex refused to give me any money to get some Bob Martin's; Tom #2 went a-wandering; obviously got in with a dirty woman cat and brought back his own version of VD to infect the manky carpets in the ex's house. Despite my constant complaining of flea bites, he refused to allow me to do anything other than scrub everything with bleach. It was only when #1 threw the Mount Etna of temper tantrums at the bites bedecking her legs, arms, hands and torso that he submitted and I was allowed to bring the disinfestation guys in. But only downstairs...

I had to use all my feminine guiles to get that disinfestation bloke into my bedroom...and I shall leave the rest to your imagination...!

So, while Oscar is a very cute kitten, with a gregarious nature, he seems to prefer to crap inside the house than outside. He has a vast expanse of garden, including a soft, squishy compost heap but, no, he will go outside, pretend he is 'hard' in front of rabbits Lambert and Butler, and then yowl to come back in for a dump. It is tedious. There were a number of accidents at one point, after we had gradually edged the litter tray outside and Mr P would frequently be seen with his head resting on the kitchen floor, spreading his hands out, doing a reccy for cat pee. With the dim lights in the kitchen, his hands would often slide right through Oscar's latest offering, smear it even further and then an outburst of filthy, filthy language would colour the air blue, offend my sensitive nature and the cat would suddenly learn how to fly. Invariably, I end up cleaning the mess.

It is Mr P's duty to empty the litter tray. If he complains, the girls and I chorus to him: He's YOUR cat! I suspect he has now sussed that the small matter of the naming ceremony, and presenting the kitten to him, as his very own, had a few hidden agendas on my part...

Anyway, on Saturday night, there we were, dressed in all our finery, ready for a night out from which we blobbed and decided to cook at home instead and Mr Parsnip hears the plaintive meowing of his darling kitten from the outhouse passageway, raises his voice an octave and gently coos, Oscar! Ozzie, Come on, Come on inside out of the cold. Aaah. Look at you, you're all soggy like a drowned rat...

Oscar stalks in, looking most disgruntled from his bath to which I subjected him after he came down from the loft with blue legs, belly and face; skinny and matted, scowls as only a cat can, and sniffs in the corner of the kitchen, six inches from his litter tray. 

There was then a moment of intense concentration. It was as if time stood still as Mr Parsnip stared at the cat; the cat stared back and suddenly, Mr P squawked, Is he having a sh*t? Another moment of stillness and then Mr P launched himself at the moggy, picked him up by the scruff of his neck, revealing a steaming, curled turd on the floor and suddenly had to arch himself backwards. The cat, all four limbs stuck out at odd angles had decided that his bowels weren't quite empty and continued to evacuate them mid-air. Cat poo splattered across the skirting board, the kitchen floor and the door mat.

The air became quite blue, the door was flung open and the kitten was flung out.

Dirty little F*cker! Dirty, Dirty Little F*cker!! That's just disgusting! Dirty, dirty Sod! Six inches from his litter tray. Six Inches!! 

While this tirade continued to rage, I did the practical thing: got some toilet paper from the bathroom, started picking up the mess in between gipping sessions, and then disinfected the areas. It was all sorted out within a few minutes and Oscar suddenly had a much cleaner litter tray to use after Mr P galvanised himself to pitch the used kitty-lit.

Later in bed, the tirade resumed.

MY kitten. Oh yes. MY BLOODY KITTEN, isn't he? 'Here you are, YOU can name him. He's yours now'. Oh I fell for that one, didn't I? I'm never listening to you get all starry-eyed in the pub again. Never. It was a bloody trap.

But I clean up his accidents, I responded, mildly. And I feed him.

We ALL bloody feed him. That's why he sh*ts so bloody much. He never stops eating. I have to clean his bloody litter tray out. He goes outside, and then comes back in TO SH*T!!

And then I got hysterical. Mr P, when in high dudgeon, is one of the funniest sights known to man. It took me about 20 minutes to contain myself. I laughed so hard, I didn't need to remove my make-up as the tears had done it for me. Upon my return from the toilet, Mr P levelled a scowl so hard at me, that if looks could kill, I'd now be six feet under the clay.

What's that look for?

I'm writing my blog, he said, ominously...

Obviously not...

Naughty but Nice...

Another meme crosses my path, this time from Karen

Here are the rules:
1. Describe your earliest memory where this memory is clear, where clear means you can depict at least 3 details.
2. Give an estimate of how old you were at this age.
3. Tag 5 other bloggers with this meme.

My earliest, vivid memory revolves around a day off play school when I was about 3-4 years old due to being sick. I seemed to suffer with tonsilitis on a permanent basis as a youngster, and only got better once the rotten things were removed when I was 14.

This particular day, I was well on the road to recovery and thus, exceptionally bored. Play school was boring, too, but at least they served really nice blackcurrant juice there which my mother refused to purchase. I had retired to my bedroom upstairs armed with my dolls and simply couldn't be fagged making Tiny Tears wee so I could change her nappy again. As my brother had also shaved her head and drawn tattoos on her backside, it was difficult to feel much love for her any more - I am rather fickle with my love...

My bedroom furniture included a deep drawer dressing table. If I needed a boat or other form of transport for my dolls, the clothes would come out and a deep drawer fitted the bill perfectly. They were also watertight.

As I was sick, in my egocentric state, I assumed other things in my life weren't too chipper either. And that included the cat, Tibby. Tibby was one of the most vicious felines you could ever have the misfortune to cross, but that didn't stop me attempting to make her love me. Admittedly, I often went about it the wrong way, but my intentions were good.

So, I went on a Tibby hunt and to her great fear, found her, tucked her under my arm and manhandled her upstairs. There, she shot under my bed, hissing and growling and waiting for the next instalment in her own personal nightmare. It didn't take long...

I plodded downstairs, armed with the drawer, filled it with water and took it back upstairs. I then returned downstairs and got my medicine from the fridge and a teaspoon. If I was sick, Tibby was likely to be sick, too, and therefore required some medication.

Tibby was dragged from under the bed, bringing half the carpet with her as she embedded her claws into the pile and was unceremoniously plonked into a drawer of freezing cold water for her bath. Despite the raking she gave me, I held her down firm, and started to 'wash' her. She didn't like it, and my hands were getting a little bit sore from the gashes, bites and the blood dripping into the water. This confirmed it for me: she was definitely ill and required urgent medical treatment.

As I reached for the pseudoephedrine (great for making crystal meth, folks!) she returned to her own corner of hell under the bed and I undid the bottle cap. Back out she was dragged, clamped under my arm, and a teaspoon of bright pink medicine forced into her wailing mouth. Bad move, Tibby - keep your mouth shut around a bored child.

At this point, my mother burst in to the bedroom to spoil my fun, Tibby saw her chance of escape and a bottle of Sudafed went flying as I jumped out of my skin at the roar of, "WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING TO THAT BLOODY CAT?!". My insistence that Tibby had caught tonsilitis from me didn't wash with Mother, I got the hiding of my life and was forced to stay in my room until my father returned from work.

Not only did Mother inform my father, she also told my older brother who is a peaceable, tree-hugging, hippy animal lover if ever there was one, and he came in to give me a rare kicking. I retaliated by battering him with my vandalised Tiny Tears.

Tibby and I never saw eye to eye after this incident and to get her own back, she took to lying in wait for me as I walked past her and raking me with her claws. She was always too fast for me to catch again so I just hexed her in my head.

They say only the good die young. Tibby was 17 when she snuffed it...

I shan't tag anyone for this meme, but be my guest to continue it should you wish.

Summer Beauty Secrets for Girls...

It's that time of year again when the British and US media like us all to feel completely paranoid about the way we look, bombarding us with images of bronzed, plucked, toned bodies, which isn't far off the description of the roast chicken I am making for the kids' tea - Rastus likes to gnaw on the carcass, so I throw it into the outhouse for him to scuttle after.

Well, girls! If you're like me, and totally fed up with all the hype about how to look good to get your man, you've come to the right place! Here, I will let you in on all the little shortcuts to looking as good as me - and I'm 166!

Holiday Skin: OK, so the furthest you are going this year is Cleethorpes. And you want a tan. Never fear. You don't need to go out and buy the latest Elemis self-tanner which will cost enough to feed four families of Biafrans. Over the next few days, switch from your soothing cuppa tea to fresh ground coffee - and save the grounds. Don't put them on the rose bushes because your Dad says they make the flowers healthier - that's tosh! The flowers just want a caffeine rush, too. Keep those grounds - you're going to need them in a bit.

First you need to perform a bit of deforestation on the pins. Most people use a razor, some use waxing techniques (although my candles don't drip very much and it takes forever), but I always say, use a sharp potato peeler. Always does the trick and if you see any ingrowing hairs on the way, you can always gouge them out with that super-dooper handy eye scooper-outer!

All the glossy mags tell you 'Exfoliate, exfoliate' as though they were flippin' daleks. Right. You don't need to buy those overly expensive 'scrubs' - and nor should you waste decent porridge oats such as the weird beardy types tell you. Get into the back garden, grab a few handfuls of sand and gravel and scour it over your rough, scaly bits. After a few minutes vigorous rubbing, you'll come out looking like a tumbled amethyst!


No expensive moisturisers needed now - for the most natural moisturiser, daub on some lard. Whale blubber is best, but that's illegal now, thanks to those horrible little foreign Jonnies killing all the poor things. For a great summer look, mix in those coffee grounds we prepared earlier and wait!

Next morning, if you rinse off, you should be left with a healthy glowing tan, so I've been told.

Hair: We all want long, glowing locks to show off in the hazy days of summer, so these are reputedly the best treatments money doesn't buy.

For the brunettes amongst us, I always recommend steeping my hair in Guinness. It pongs a bit, and leaves it sticky, but you can save the residue to have with your pie and chips for tea. Waste Not, Want Not, as Grandma Mildew always says!

If you are blonde, steep your hair in Carling Black Label - same technique as above.


If you are grey, why not try something a little different and dye your hair in diluted Quink ink (Royal Blue, of course, befitting your age!). This should give a very different take on the blue rinse. If it comes out a bit patchy, this is purely due to the porosity of your hair and I cannot help that.

If you are ginger, there's very little I can do to help, but you could think about colouring it?


Styling: For that 'just come out of the sea' look, you don't want to be paying £40 for a bottle of 'buffered salt water with added seaweed extracts' - what a load of claptrap that is. Answers on a postcard to what that is, really. Anyway, if you want to look like you have just walked out of the sea, get some used tampons, condoms, a bit of bladderwrack and an 0ld tyre and drape it all artistically around yourself. Tracey Emin will be impressed and probably want to meet you, but be careful she doesn't wee on you or anything, as she is scary.

Hold: If you have run out of hairspray, either use spray adhesive fixative, or my personal favourite, Vapona, as those pesky mosquitoes will stop bothering you at the same time.

Face: Keep using the lard for moisturiser, but if you need a bit of a face-lift, there's no other better method than smearing Anusol around your saggy bits. Make sure you have cleaned the nozzle since the last use, otherwise you may feel somewhat uncomfortable with the lingering smell. Use Anusol at night for four nights, and you will be tighter than my ex's wallet.

If you need a bit of foundation, I always recommend gently stroking used teabags over my face. The tannins work wonders for a colour uplift. Soak some talc in tea and when it has dried out, you have a marvellous matching face powder, too - Tea really IS the best drink of the day, isn't it?

Eye shadows: Vaseline, and a bit of metallic paint you can scrape off next door's new car. It looks a treat!
Mascara: There's a bit of black gloss in everybody's garage. If you can't find any, the builder left stacks in mine, so help yourself.
Blusher: Just smack yourself across the cheeks every hour.
Lipstick: I advise eating anything ready-made from Tesco. All their meals, no matter which part of the world they are supposed to represent, are red. Dyes your lips a treat...indelibly.

Matt Chingduvé made a very salient point as I was drafting out this article in the office, whingeing and complaining about his bikini line during the summer months. He advised me that he never bothers with waxing any more, he has simply shaved his cat and glued the fur onto the legs of his bikini bottom to make a furry bikini - no more unsightly spiders' legs - just a fluffy bundle of fun around your bits, which will make people stare! Don't worry about the cat - by the time winter comes, its coat will have returned, ready for next year's harvesting!

If you have any top tips to looking good this summer, please drop me a line - I'm always on the look out for kindling as we haven't had much of a summer, really and I am walking around in my sweaters, freezing to death.