Mellors and the 'Wets'

I am writing this quietly because I don't want Mellors to be upset again this week.
Now I am not saying Ingrid wasn't lovely. She was from 'Sveden' and I think this may have led to a few communication problems, but, to be fair, she did her best.
For example, when she asked if we had 'done the vermin', Mellors stopped shaking for a minute to look at me with disgust. "Yes," I said proudly, to ensure his self esteem remained intact, "Mellors takes care of any mice."
Then I realised she was asking me if he had been wormed. Not the most dignified of procedures at the best of times - the nightmare administration of the tablet (pre Marmite idea), followed by the flying leap through the cat flap a couple of hours later, and a lot of frantic digging, soil scattering everywhere, to cover up the embarrassing...
Well, I am sure that's probably enough detail, you get the idea?
So, we left the 'Wets' about an hour later, Mellors having got back in to his transporter basket a damn sight quicker than it took me to get him in it earlier that morning. We both cried all the way home. Mellors, because of injections, thermometers and and the general trauma of the whole experience, me because I was wondering how I was going to pay the bill - not so different from the size of a small mortgage.
Suffice to say, Mellors and the 'Wets' has never been a match made in heaven.
On top of all this, he is now on a special diet, the cost of which probably exceeds Gordon Ramsay's finest menu selection. I can tell you, the 'F' word was not far from my lips either.
It did cross my mind on our way home that there might be an alternative to funding this diet. Well to be really honest there was more than one alternative, but you may think me heartless if I told you my initial thoughts.
We passed a butchers shop in Great Yarmouth with a big sign outside advertising 'Chitterlings and jot.'
For the offally unaware of you out there, chitterlings are pigs intestines, and there are 4 types of cows stomach called reed, weasand, honeycomb and jot. Now I prefer the outsides of animals if I eat them at all, but you never know, Mellors might enjoy. I mean, if he can eat mice with such relish, who knows?
I was going to attach a picture of the offending innards but I thought I would spare you and offer instead a picture of Mellors relaxing and carefree, all thoughts of needles far from his mind.
While he recovers I thought I would share with you that the receptionist at the 'Wets' (Broke patient confidentiality) and told me they have another cat on their books called Mellors! I think he may have a relapse if he finds out, so can you keep it quiet for now?
P.S. According to an article in The Independent, Great Yarmouth is one of the few places left where you can buy such delicacies as Chitterlings, which are becoming more popular in these difficult financial times. Think I'll stick with the fish and chips and donuts!

Never mind the Quality...

It wasn't long before the seasonal peace was shattered.
The familiar low growl, the simultaneous opening of back doors and the threatening cries of "Get in here now!" rang out across the village.
For me, this was quickly followed by a feeling of smugness. A bit like the feeling you get when you see your child on stage for the first time in the school concert, even if they only have a non speaking role as a plant stand or something. This maternal glow came about because it suddenly dawned on me that Mellors was standing right behind me in the kitchen and looking a little startled at my accusatory outburst. This could only mean one thing - there is another cat around. It sounded, from the safety of my kitchen as if Sally's cat next door had put up a good defence. Mellors looked up at me, in true manly style while glancing nervously at the door, as if to say, "You know I would be out there like a shot, but it sounds like it has been dealt with."
I think he is losing his touch.
I think I might be losing my grip on reality too since I have been back. I have always loved Alice in Wonderland (the story that is), However I did not think that when I put on the DVD for Abigail over Christmas, she would want to watch it continually. I counted at least six showings. Very strange film, it seems now, although as a child it seemed perfectly acceptable to me. I am so glad she has such good taste, like Grandma.
So when everyone had gone home after a lovely family Christmas and New Year, I thought I would do a bit of tidying up and home making.
On my boat this involved no more than a quick wipe of the sink with a damp cloth, lifting Mellors from the bed, brushing it down, brushing him down and putting him back again.
A house, it seems, takes a little longer, and costs more. So I thought I would summon all my creativity, and save money at the same time.
Not for me the expensive artwork from Ikea. No, I decided to buy some frames and pop in my own photos of the local area.
Now I know this is unusual for me but I got distracted.
I opened the cupboard to get out the hammer to put up the pictures and came across the bag with the orange and strawberry creams from the Quality Street tin. Do you remember, the tin of Quality Street that I had to buy to get a tin to put the mince pies in that I had made?
Well of course, I managed to eat most of the chocolates, but I never have been able to stomach the fruit creams.
I had lost the bit of paper with the different flavours on, long ago, so all the soft centres now have thumb prints in, just to make sure no hard centres escape my ingestion.
Would you believe I went to the village post office the other day and had a long and heated discussion about this very issue. Even harder to believe - they actually like the soft centres! So I am off to donate my left overs to show my appreciation for this valuable village facility. They do have some strange tastes in Norfolk.
On my wal;k there I had another idea for creative decor - a floral display. Now all I need is some sand. Any ideas where I can get some from?

Home for Christmas

...Well I never thought I would be, and it feels good!
The village is looking lovely with Christmas tree aglow on the green. Houses using a years supply of electricity in two days on displays of lights that would put Disneyworld to shame. Hundreds of people with vacant expressions and long lists walkng aimlessly around the supermarket in search of more of anything that might possibly run out in the one day that the shops are closed. And I love it.
Mellors is getting excited too.
The trauma of getting him off the boat, into the cat basket and across the lock, far behind him now as he smells the ham cooking and awaits the inevitable spillage of food during my, often failed attempts to emulate the goddess that is Delia. It doesn't seem to matter what food, anything goes as it is even more attractive to him when stolen from under my nose.
He has settled in very quickly and has not yet stopped purring. He has taken up his place in the window, watching and waiting for his old enemy, the cat next door to appear. Their relationship, as with most of Mellor's relationships was always a little troubled. They would take it in turns to sit in the middle of each others back garden paths, preventing the other from entering the house.
All has been reasonably quiet so far, but hoses are primed and at the ready on both sides of the fence, in preparation for the inevitable battle.
I have had a few comments about my remark in the last blog, re the village chip shop. I have to say, I take it all back and offer my apologies. I treated myself to a very delicious skate and chips the other evening, one of the best meals I have tasted in a long time.
So, snow on the ground, a full fridge (And drinks cupboard), family and friends around - all is well with the world.
I wish you all a peaceful and happy time and look forward to an even better 2010.

p.s. the picture is the sand dunes not the Alps.

x Tillie x

On Dry Land

Surprisingly, I have had many requests to continue 'blogging' even though I am now a land lubber. I guess this may mean I will lose some of my canal dweller followers, although I hope not as I would like to keep in touch with what is happening on the water. You can take the girl out of the Grand Union, but you can't take the Grand Union etc etc.
I moved Argy to his final (for the moment) resting place and, true to form, he put up a fight to the last.
It was a very windy day, but that does not come close to explaining, how, when I untied the ropes, Argy did an extremely swift turn around and headed off in the opposite direction, leaving me, hanging on for dear life, my feet getting nearer and nearer the edge of the cut, sliding rapidly through the mud as if in a losing tug o'war team.
I managed to hang on however, it is surprising what strength you can muster in a crisis. After a few choice words, (not for publication) I leapt on his rear end like a seasoned rodeo rider, took control of the tiller for the last time and promptly burst into tears.
These last few weeks have really taken their toll on my emotions and I don't think I realised, quite how much I will miss the canal life.
I soon had to pull myself together however to narrowly avoid hitting a group of canoeists who had also decided to venture out in the force nine gale, and were managing with slightly more difficulty than I was,to travel in a straight line that day.
I am now wondering if there is a collective name for canoeists - a scull maybe?
I digress, unusual for me I know.
Anyway, it was back to the car, or rather two cars, as both Kerry's and mine were loaded up to the roof with what seemed,to have expanded overnight, from a few possessions into a houseful.
We set off for Norfolk with the beautiful Abigail in her child seat looking nervously at the massive towers of saucepans, clothes and books which surrounded her.
And where on earth did all those coat hangers come from? It is a well known fact that they breed in wardrobes and I think the canal must be a particularly fertile place as they seem to outnumber my clothes by at least two to one.
So, my tenant from hell hell is over and I am back in Nelson's country.
The people are still as welcoming, the skies still as big, the sunsets still as magnificent and they still haven't changed the fat at the village chip shop.
I am certain there will be many more tales to come.

An awfully big adventure

As I approached the lock on foot, windlass in hand and sweating profusely, I heard the two elderly ladies, one a wheelchair user, chattering excitedly.
"Are you bringing your boat through?" one of them asked.
I resisted the temptation to say something rude like, "Well, no actually, I spend most mornings walking along the towpath, opening lock gates,dressed in a coat that is much too warm, just for the fun of it." They would have been so disappointed and I realised, especially as we had been practising empathy skills at college the previous weekend, that they, like most Gongoozlers*, were fascinated by what they were about to see.
So I forced a smile and just said "Yes."
"Oh good, then we'll wait." the upright one said, getting out a flask and sandwiches.
I felt obliged then to hurry, but knowing from past painful experiences (remember my little swim?) that it is never a good idea, I decided to take my time to ensure no accidents occurred.
I had seven locks to go, not so easy on your own. I wanted to savour this journey which was the start of my planned cruise to move Argy to where he is to be sold. The fresh smell of the water swirling rapidly around the base of the lock gates always reminds me of the smell of newly laundered clothes. I wonder how they re- create that perfume in washing powder?
It has not been an easy decision to sell my boat and there are many reasons that have led me here.
It could have started when I took a shower in a hotel recently, my first for a couple of weeks, and as I undressed, a huge dead spider fell out of my hair. I had no idea how long it had been there.
Or it may be that the 'tenant from hell' is definitely on the move very soon and I need to reclaim my house for a while.
Perhaps it is the thought of the canal freezing again this year and the long walks to carry water and shopping back to the boat.
It is of course more complex than any of the above, as those of you that know me, well understand.
These last few years have been amazing and although I feel sad about losing the shell that has protected and comforted me so well on many occasions, I hope Argy will find a new owner who will firmly take charge of him and his quirky ways.
It has been an awfully big adventure, and I can't wait for the next one.
So, it's goodbye for a while from Tillie Baker's Canal Tales - but I will keep you posted.
Watch out Norfolk - who knows I may be writing about a village not too far from you very soon.

*A gongoozler is a person who enjoys watching activity on the canals but do not actively participate.

Which Way Now?

Even I would find it difficult to get lost on the canal. Now the road - that's a different matter. I have always needed a little help in that department as my family will, I am sure, confirm after having passed the Eiffel Tower several times on a Sunday afternoon drive.
Some of you out there on dry land may remember the sad passing of 'Roada', the satellite navigation device I did not always get on with.
I always thought of her as being a bit of a girl about town, with very little interest in the job in hand, which was trying to keep me on the straight and narrow as it were. I often imagined that she was doing her nails or carrying out some other titivation, especially on a Friday night when there was a definite delay in her responses to my inputting a request for directions.
Her insistence on my constantly performing U turns was at best irritating, and I sometimes felt she was completely unbalanced. This became more apparent one day, when I pressed her buttons during a short journey to Hounslow, only to hear her say, I had 1,675 miles to go to reach my destination. I knew then,that she was not long for this world, and sure enough, shortly after this, she passed away and I returned her to her final resting place, the waste bin at Curry’s,Uxbridge.
All was not lost however. I replaced her with the super efficient ‘Maggie' - a lady who is definitely not for turning. Maggie is different altogether and, like me at the moment, does not have the distraction of a social life on a Friday night. As yet, she has not let me down, but I will keep you informed.

Jumpers - What in this weather?

We have fleas!
Well, strictly speaking Mellors does, although I realised if I did not do something quickly, things may develop into a more serious problem and I may have to jump ship. Having done this before and not wanting to repeat my involuntary swim, I set off for the local pet shop to see what I could find to treat our little visitors with.
Remembering a past infestation, when I lived in a rented house, (I won't say where, as I am not entirely sure I conquered the problem before I moved out), I know that Mellors is not entirely keen on taking flea altering drugs, or even my using any topical applications on him. In fact, as you have probably gathered from my previous ramblings, Mellors is not keen on very much at all, apart from hunting, terrorising dogs, eating and sleeping.
I returned from the shop, my purse a lot lighter than when I set out, with tablets and a brush. I took a little longer than intended, having had a lengthy, and for my part unwanted conversation with the pet shop owner about her cat's constipation problem. I just don't understand people's eagerness to talk about thir pets most intimate bodily functions with such enthusiasm and detail.
Now I swear, as soon as I got back onto my boat Mellors sensed what I had in my bag.
I took a tablet out of the pack and crushed it between a folded piece of paper. He made a bolt for the door, but I was quicker. I then got out my secret weapon. Well, they say you either love it or you hate it - Marmite!
I squeezed some on my finger (yes it comes in squeezy jars now - what is the world coming too?) and pressed it down to pick up the crushed tablet.
Mellors looked suspiciously firstly at me, then at the closed door and finally at my finger. Sniffing at it, he could resist no longer. He licked enthusiastically as if his life depended on it, until my finger was clean - job done! And for those Buddhists among you, don't worry, no fleas or cats were harmed during the writing of this blog. The tablets don't kill the fleas, they just jump off and go in search of another host.
If only I could find the little devils. Now where did I put my specs?