And Phoebe has, too. Mind you, at eighteen years old and being unable now to get herself down from high places because her arthritic legs might snap beneath the weight of her watermelon figure, she now yells for assistance at the top of her cat voice until a human lift arrives, at which point she scowls as if to say, 'What took you so long?' and then stalks off for more food, a poo and retirement to her basket to spend ten hours solid a-sleeping.
And, oddly, Tybalt has been especially loud. Tybalt is not, and never has been, a loud cat. He has uttered, oh, about 23 words in his ten years, and 18 of those were yesterday. He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs complaining about something. We fed him, cleaned out the litter trays, followed him about a bit when he looked like he was walking purposefully to show us something of high importance, but no. Nothing would placate him. He is ok this morning. I am fully expecting at some point today to find a kangaroo called Skippy stuck down a well we didn't know we had.
So, all loudness, and thus I shall join in with a rant or two...
My first rant (it is more a mini-rant, really) is regarding my blog. It is called 'Denise's Blog' because I write it. Yes, me. Denise. And not Andy, as some folks who hang around Facebook think. Andy has his blog, called 'Andy's Blog' and I have mine. Good grief, I have been writing a blog for almost 6 years now, man and boy. I can be funny, too, you know. I can be witty and entertaining, despite being a girl. And so, in a paraphrase of words of the marvellous Kenneth Williams, I thusly say, 'Never mind THEM! Look at ME! I'm the star! Yes, ME!'
(I'm not really the star - Andy and I are very much a partnership in all aspects of our lives, aside from politics and religion where he is a woolly-minded liberal atheist and I am the polar opposite, whatever that is, probably the love child of Ann Widdecombe and the Pope. But in the ways of Much Malarkey Manor, we are equal. Except I am the only one who knows how to put recycling in the recycling bin and he is the only one who knows how to get the cats' water fountain motor going again when it becomes stuck. But mostly we are equal. You dig? I have no idea why I wrote that...oh, shut up Denise...)
Next - I am becoming increasingly irritated by the use of the word, 'Look' as an aggressive imperative. (Imperatives being words of command and not pre-dinner drinks at an elf and goblin party. Ye Gods, that was laboured...sigh....). Tony 'I'm Really A Used Car Salesman' Blair started it when he was king and its usage is spreading like an unpleasant rash amongst politicians and radio presenters like 4's Jon Humphreys and Julia George on Radio Kent, and Sarah Boundy, who is the spokesperson for South Eastern Trains and sounds, as the years go by, increasingly like a woman on the edge who is very close to punching someone's lights out. I can't stand it. It sounds patronising when delivered alongside a weary sigh, and positively short-tempered at all other times. I say, 'LOOK - just STOP IT!' That's what I say.
And whilst we are on politics, our local newspapers and tv/radio stations have been getting rather overheated because Kent is an area where there was a sudden surge in UKIP support in the recent elections. And apparently, this is stuff of Apocalyptic proportions. Now, correct me if I am wrong, but I thought we lived in a democracy which means adults over the age of 18 have the right to vote for whomever they choose. And democracy, which treats all people as equal regardless of the fact that actually all people aren't, is how this country functions. Lots of political commentators down our way seem to think democracy comes with provisos, so yes, you ARE allowed to vote for whom you wish as long as it is the CORRECT person. Sigh...
(And just to support my 'people are not all equal' theory, this week I was chatting to a young person who, in four years' time will receive the right to vote, and he was telling me about the game of 'Wack-a-Mole' he and a friend had been playing. 'Oh, yes,' I said. 'I know 'Wack-a- Mole'. It's where the moles pop up through holes in the board and you have to hit them back down with a mallet as quick as possible.' The young person looked at me. 'No,' he said. 'We rolled up our sleeves and hit each other's arm moles with rulers.')
And what about the word 'tolerance'. It has been bandied around a lot this week, what with Mr Cameron's directive to Mr Gove that all schools should henceforth deliver teaching about 'British Values' and 'tolerance' is, apparently, one of them. Us Brits are good at tolerance. Now, tolerance to me means putting up with something that you find annoying and/or irritating. And yes, I think Brits are good at this because we are, generally, too polite to complain and possessors of the Stiff Upper Lipness. I think, generally, we shy away from boldness. Anything for a quiet life, and all that jazz. Or quiet lullaby in case we disturb anyone with our loud jazz trumpet playing. And so I think 'tolerance' is the wrong word to use. 'Acceptance' would be more appropriate, though. But probably more difficult to get our heads around. For example, there are a lot of things I will tolerate (like all this stupid football seeping into every aspect of daily life at the moment), but fewer I will accept (like bad manners and misuse of the phrase 'due to'). What do you think?
Right, off to get some shopping. We are out of milk. Bought some from Sainsbury's on Thursday and today it has gone off, despite the best-before date being 18th, which is next Wednesday, which is why you should trust you nose and NOT something written on a packet because some Health and Safety directive demands it because heaven forbid we should trust our own senses on these matters.
Byeee! (From Denise. Me. My Blog!)