The cat was unhappy with this from the beginning. The suitcases are stored atop of the large
wardrobe, there nested within each other and one on top. They had been there for some months since
last disturbed by human activity. They had, however, been the focus of considerable arachnid activity.
The first case brought down a streamer of cobweb and dust which floated, an elegant dragons tail
across the bed and inevitably across the sleeping cat. Being a cat requires sufficient pride to always
look as if what is happening is exactly what you planned. See a cat slip from a warm window cill and it
will sit there trying not to look surprised - fate has not the temerity to challenge a cat's conceit.
Whiskers transformed into a passable likeness of Fu Manchu the cat sat resolutely trying to exude
dignity. It was the second pair of cases that forced the issue. We always forget how heavy the items are
that we store in a suitcase. That is we forget until the moment that the case has passed over the point
of balance and begins a barely controlled plummet. "Oh yes, now I recall - that's where those box files
went." The cat was not impressed by this moment of recall a leapt out of the way only to be reminded
that his vision was obscured by his extended whiskers. Clever though he is, leaping and washing his
face are not within his multi-tasking range. The result was a rather undignified nose-dive into a pair of
neatly arranged shoes - his attempts to recover his dignity merely served to prove that cats should
never try to wear shoes.
Exhausted, it was time to sit and consult the list of things to pack. The iPad was booted and "Notes" opened. There in the list of notes was the title "Cruise - Boudicca - things to remember". A gentle touch opened the note and revealed that the first thing that should have been remembered was to make a list. The note consisted of the one phrase beneath the title - "Dust off cases".
In past times Nick had been known to pack in minutes - it couldn't be difficult so why did it seem to be an almost insurmountable problem. Intellectually it was a simple problem to solve - if you are going to be away for five weeks you need to take pretty much every shirt your possess, all trousers that are not moleskin (probably a little warm for the jungle), at least five ties and matching silks, DJ and evening trousers . . . It was easy, just tip the wardrobe into the first case, fill a second case with socks, pants, appropriate shoes, polish and toiletries and then wander around the house picking up things that look useful and chuck them into a third case. So why was it so difficult to engage with the action?
From the armchair one part of the answer was visible: the European ironing mountain. Once upon a time ironing had been a bit of an obsession. The thorough application of proper starch, the meticulous folding of shirts into packet-ready symmetrical perfection and even the pressing and folding of all underwear had been a matter of OCD pride. He had happily done her ironing and then, again their ironing had been a pleasant chore. When they were away, stuck behind that volcanic cloud there had always been the boy's laundry to press. Maybe it was the European irony mountain that he had to face.
To pack in a satisfactory way meant pressing on with the task and reviving the noble art of shirt folding. The cat had always been suspicious of the ironing board and now departed through the cat- flap pausing only to gaze hopefully at the disappointingly empty bowl.
The ship, if he were to board, would have laundry and dry-cleaning facilities so it would have been possible to pack the minimum and rely on the swift turnaround of this service. Eight ironed shirts later, added to the careful re-folding of a further ten, including three dress shirts was a good start.
An hour later two packed cases sat on the living room floor with a rather smug cat sitting on top. That had been easy, really, but not as rewarding as the occasion two years ago when they had filled the back of the Doblo with everything from ball gowns to newly acquired shorts!
The third case was a tougher prospect. There was no restriction on the quantity of baggage allowed aboard but the transport firm demanded a premium for every bag over three cases and one piece of hand luggage. The problem was the hand luggage. The large camera bag, a Lowepro that would take the laptop, iPad, cameras, lenses, chargers et al would be the hand luggage but was too unwieldy for
Exhausted, it was time to sit and consult the list of things to pack. The iPad was booted and "Notes" opened. There in the list of notes was the title "Cruise - Boudicca - things to remember". A gentle touch opened the note and revealed that the first thing that should have been remembered was to make a list. The note consisted of the one phrase beneath the title - "Dust off cases".
In past times Nick had been known to pack in minutes - it couldn't be difficult so why did it seem to be an almost insurmountable problem. Intellectually it was a simple problem to solve - if you are going to be away for five weeks you need to take pretty much every shirt your possess, all trousers that are not moleskin (probably a little warm for the jungle), at least five ties and matching silks, DJ and evening trousers . . . It was easy, just tip the wardrobe into the first case, fill a second case with socks, pants, appropriate shoes, polish and toiletries and then wander around the house picking up things that look useful and chuck them into a third case. So why was it so difficult to engage with the action?
From the armchair one part of the answer was visible: the European ironing mountain. Once upon a time ironing had been a bit of an obsession. The thorough application of proper starch, the meticulous folding of shirts into packet-ready symmetrical perfection and even the pressing and folding of all underwear had been a matter of OCD pride. He had happily done her ironing and then, again their ironing had been a pleasant chore. When they were away, stuck behind that volcanic cloud there had always been the boy's laundry to press. Maybe it was the European irony mountain that he had to face.
To pack in a satisfactory way meant pressing on with the task and reviving the noble art of shirt folding. The cat had always been suspicious of the ironing board and now departed through the cat- flap pausing only to gaze hopefully at the disappointingly empty bowl.
The ship, if he were to board, would have laundry and dry-cleaning facilities so it would have been possible to pack the minimum and rely on the swift turnaround of this service. Eight ironed shirts later, added to the careful re-folding of a further ten, including three dress shirts was a good start.
An hour later two packed cases sat on the living room floor with a rather smug cat sitting on top. That had been easy, really, but not as rewarding as the occasion two years ago when they had filled the back of the Doblo with everything from ball gowns to newly acquired shorts!
The third case was a tougher prospect. There was no restriction on the quantity of baggage allowed aboard but the transport firm demanded a premium for every bag over three cases and one piece of hand luggage. The problem was the hand luggage. The large camera bag, a Lowepro that would take the laptop, iPad, cameras, lenses, chargers et al would be the hand luggage but was too unwieldy for
the adventures to come and so a second, still quite large, bag had to be carried within the third case.
This required a Matryoshka approach which, at that time defeated him.
The cat, sensing that the dreaded ironing board was away, returned to his defiant perch on the two, packed cases defying the whole notion of change. Perhaps he could pack the big camera bag and see what was left that still needed a passage. The cat stared imperiously and bushed his tail. Reaching for the 27-300mm lens and Canon body (a birthday gift three happy years ago) and placing it in the prepared area of the bag his hand lingered on the camera back and the cat leapt. One bound and the front paws locked through the fleece and shirt bracing the shoulders for the jawed assault. Fourteen years he had fed that cat, fourteen years he had paid its vets bills and all it could do was puncture his arm in fourteen places! At least the victim appreciated the irony. Eight years ago Felix non-domesticus had done the same thing to the same arm. This was not a first offence. He had regularly bitten his mistress who greeted the assaults with unconditional love.
As an aside V had been devoted to the cat who treated her as an aperitif each morning! When the time came for V to move to a nursing home she was concerned about the cat. Finally, reconciled to the inevitable she set about a plan. Walking into the sitting room (odd name - there were no chairs, they had been smashed by the electric wheelchair) she was found with yellow pages open at "Taxi Companies".
"Why do you want a taxi? We have two 'wheelchair cars' outside." "Not taxi."
"Sorry, I don't understand."
"Taxidermist."
"Taxidermist?"
"Yes."
The awful truth dawned - she had found a way of taking the cat!
"Vet. Take him."
At least this extreme plan was resulting in more than single word commands.
"You won't look after him."
The longest sentence for five or six years.
The lateral thought was to go ahead and then carry out the taxidermy at home as then an articulated cat could be produced to replicate (is that a Blade Runner reference?) his favoured actions. The surreal plan, as opposed to the real plan, was to articulate the jaw and connect it, through a series of levers to the erect tail. It would then be possible for V to insert her right, and uncontrolled arm into the open jaws and then, using the inevitable spasm in the left arm, thump the tail and facilitate the regular bite from a dead cat!
Back to the cat's ungrateful attack. His original act of savagery all those years ago had resulted in the removal of the left cufflink due to major swelling (and the watch). This was at a time when the victim had ceased to update the yet jab (no more horses and no more forestry work made this redundant). The rather special and speedy rate of infection resulted in a hasty visit to the surgery to see one of the few nurses that had had no dealings with V.
The time in the eating room was passed watching the scrolling display: "63 PATIENTS FAILED TO ATTEND NURSE APPOINTMENTS IN MAY . . . 63 PATIENTS . . . . "
"Come in," the nurse commanded, "you don't come here often do you?"
"No, I try to avoid the surgery on my behalf."
"Would you mind if we updated our records as you're here?"
He could a see the computer screen and the agenda from the patient's chair.
"Of course."
She made the obvious enquiries about name, address and date of birth and then the real agenda.
"Do you smoke?"
On the screen the answers were "Non-smoker", "Ex-smoker", "5/day", "10/day" 20/day". In those days he was known to smoke - now, of course, having briefly had a reason to live forever he no longer smoked.
The cat, sensing that the dreaded ironing board was away, returned to his defiant perch on the two, packed cases defying the whole notion of change. Perhaps he could pack the big camera bag and see what was left that still needed a passage. The cat stared imperiously and bushed his tail. Reaching for the 27-300mm lens and Canon body (a birthday gift three happy years ago) and placing it in the prepared area of the bag his hand lingered on the camera back and the cat leapt. One bound and the front paws locked through the fleece and shirt bracing the shoulders for the jawed assault. Fourteen years he had fed that cat, fourteen years he had paid its vets bills and all it could do was puncture his arm in fourteen places! At least the victim appreciated the irony. Eight years ago Felix non-domesticus had done the same thing to the same arm. This was not a first offence. He had regularly bitten his mistress who greeted the assaults with unconditional love.
As an aside V had been devoted to the cat who treated her as an aperitif each morning! When the time came for V to move to a nursing home she was concerned about the cat. Finally, reconciled to the inevitable she set about a plan. Walking into the sitting room (odd name - there were no chairs, they had been smashed by the electric wheelchair) she was found with yellow pages open at "Taxi Companies".
"Why do you want a taxi? We have two 'wheelchair cars' outside." "Not taxi."
"Sorry, I don't understand."
"Taxidermist."
"Taxidermist?"
"Yes."
The awful truth dawned - she had found a way of taking the cat!
"Vet. Take him."
At least this extreme plan was resulting in more than single word commands.
"You won't look after him."
The longest sentence for five or six years.
The lateral thought was to go ahead and then carry out the taxidermy at home as then an articulated cat could be produced to replicate (is that a Blade Runner reference?) his favoured actions. The surreal plan, as opposed to the real plan, was to articulate the jaw and connect it, through a series of levers to the erect tail. It would then be possible for V to insert her right, and uncontrolled arm into the open jaws and then, using the inevitable spasm in the left arm, thump the tail and facilitate the regular bite from a dead cat!
Back to the cat's ungrateful attack. His original act of savagery all those years ago had resulted in the removal of the left cufflink due to major swelling (and the watch). This was at a time when the victim had ceased to update the yet jab (no more horses and no more forestry work made this redundant). The rather special and speedy rate of infection resulted in a hasty visit to the surgery to see one of the few nurses that had had no dealings with V.
The time in the eating room was passed watching the scrolling display: "63 PATIENTS FAILED TO ATTEND NURSE APPOINTMENTS IN MAY . . . 63 PATIENTS . . . . "
"Come in," the nurse commanded, "you don't come here often do you?"
"No, I try to avoid the surgery on my behalf."
"Would you mind if we updated our records as you're here?"
He could a see the computer screen and the agenda from the patient's chair.
"Of course."
She made the obvious enquiries about name, address and date of birth and then the real agenda.
"Do you smoke?"
On the screen the answers were "Non-smoker", "Ex-smoker", "5/day", "10/day" 20/day". In those days he was known to smoke - now, of course, having briefly had a reason to live forever he no longer smoked.
"Madam, if you think that I am going to stare awkwardly at my feet and confess you have picked the
wrong man."
"What do you mean?" she asked with an edge of affront in her voice.
"You do not have a box to tick for my smoking. I smoke 80 a day and have down for ten years, before that I smoked 40 a day and I have smoked for 40 years. So far!"
She forgot to turn the screen away and he could read the next question and the available answers. "Before you ask."
"I'm sorry?"
"Before you ask, yes I drink."
"Do you understand what is meant by a unit of alcohol?" "Absolutely," with no pun as vodka was never his drink. "How many united do you drink each day?"
"28."
"No, a unit is explained as a single measure of spirits or between 6 and 10 units for a bottle of wine depending on its strength. . . . and ..."
"Yes."
". . . I asked how many units each DAY."
"Yes."
"No, you don't understand . . . "
The rudeness of interrupting upset him but needs must.
"Do you understand why Scotch is sold in 75cl bottles?
"What do you mean?"
"Do you ever eat MacDonalds?"
Embarrassed she looked away, "Well, yes, sometimes."
"Well a bottle of 'Grouse' is a take-away in Nick's world."
"But I return to my explanation, how many units do you drink each WEEK?"
"You'll have to wait a moment, I don't know my 28 times table off by heart...... hmm, seven twenty- eightsare.....justshortof200... 196."
She looked furious and turned the screen away and began to type with fury that the cat would have understood.
He imagined the words - DON'T . . . TREAT . . . SELF-DESTRUCTIVE . . . UNDESERVING.
Every now and then she looked across with ice-picks in her eyes.
"When did you last have your blood pressure taken?" she asked with air of triumph.
"When I was six."
"Ah - then we'll see." Her advance with the apparatus was almost gloating.
The expectation was a basic sphygmomanometer and stethoscope but she had the 'machine that goes ping'.
The band was 'velcroed' to his arm and the nurse returned to her keyboard and the challenge of typing the politically correct death sentence. The machine went 'PING', she stood, walked across the room and stared at the display. Her face dropped and looked concerned.
"Oh shit, I really don't need a blood pressure problem," he thought.
The worried look did not leave her face: she chewed her lip.
"It's perfect," she announced, barely able to disguise her disappointment.
There was a sense of relief but an irresistible urge to parry the unspoken barb.
"Well. I'm no expert but I do know two things about blood pressure."
She looked irritated.
"The first is that high blood pressure is bad."
Defeat was beginning to take control of her face.
"The second is that even that is better than none at all."
"Yes but . . ."
"No, hear me out - smoking and drinking raise blood pressure so I can only conclude that by persisting with these 'vices' I'm ensuring that my blood pressure does not sink dangerously low!"
"We've run out of tetanus vaccine - my colleague has just used the last vial," she announced. "There will be more tomorrow - please go to reception and ask them to 'pencil you in' an appointment - you won't need a full appointment as the inoculation will only take a few seconds."
"What do you mean?" she asked with an edge of affront in her voice.
"You do not have a box to tick for my smoking. I smoke 80 a day and have down for ten years, before that I smoked 40 a day and I have smoked for 40 years. So far!"
She forgot to turn the screen away and he could read the next question and the available answers. "Before you ask."
"I'm sorry?"
"Before you ask, yes I drink."
"Do you understand what is meant by a unit of alcohol?" "Absolutely," with no pun as vodka was never his drink. "How many united do you drink each day?"
"28."
"No, a unit is explained as a single measure of spirits or between 6 and 10 units for a bottle of wine depending on its strength. . . . and ..."
"Yes."
". . . I asked how many units each DAY."
"Yes."
"No, you don't understand . . . "
The rudeness of interrupting upset him but needs must.
"Do you understand why Scotch is sold in 75cl bottles?
"What do you mean?"
"Do you ever eat MacDonalds?"
Embarrassed she looked away, "Well, yes, sometimes."
"Well a bottle of 'Grouse' is a take-away in Nick's world."
"But I return to my explanation, how many units do you drink each WEEK?"
"You'll have to wait a moment, I don't know my 28 times table off by heart...... hmm, seven twenty- eightsare.....justshortof200... 196."
She looked furious and turned the screen away and began to type with fury that the cat would have understood.
He imagined the words - DON'T . . . TREAT . . . SELF-DESTRUCTIVE . . . UNDESERVING.
Every now and then she looked across with ice-picks in her eyes.
"When did you last have your blood pressure taken?" she asked with air of triumph.
"When I was six."
"Ah - then we'll see." Her advance with the apparatus was almost gloating.
The expectation was a basic sphygmomanometer and stethoscope but she had the 'machine that goes ping'.
The band was 'velcroed' to his arm and the nurse returned to her keyboard and the challenge of typing the politically correct death sentence. The machine went 'PING', she stood, walked across the room and stared at the display. Her face dropped and looked concerned.
"Oh shit, I really don't need a blood pressure problem," he thought.
The worried look did not leave her face: she chewed her lip.
"It's perfect," she announced, barely able to disguise her disappointment.
There was a sense of relief but an irresistible urge to parry the unspoken barb.
"Well. I'm no expert but I do know two things about blood pressure."
She looked irritated.
"The first is that high blood pressure is bad."
Defeat was beginning to take control of her face.
"The second is that even that is better than none at all."
"Yes but . . ."
"No, hear me out - smoking and drinking raise blood pressure so I can only conclude that by persisting with these 'vices' I'm ensuring that my blood pressure does not sink dangerously low!"
"We've run out of tetanus vaccine - my colleague has just used the last vial," she announced. "There will be more tomorrow - please go to reception and ask them to 'pencil you in' an appointment - you won't need a full appointment as the inoculation will only take a few seconds."
"Quite how does one 'pencil in' on a computer system? Never mind. My only real request is that,
should I die of tetanus in the intervening hours, the display will not read "64 PEOPLE FAILED TO
ATTEND NURSE APPOINTMENTS IN MAY" but will, instead, read "63 PEOPLE FAILED TO ATTEND
NURSE APPOINTMENTS IN MAY AND ONE DIED BECAUSE OF THE INQUISITION"
She did not smile; he attended the next day and received an inoculation in silence.
The cat understood nothing of this and demanded his evening meal. His manservant did as requested and completed the first stage of packing. The third case contained all that he could imagine excepting those items that would be required on the morning that he might travel. Would he really need the beard trimmer?
She did not smile; he attended the next day and received an inoculation in silence.
The cat understood nothing of this and demanded his evening meal. His manservant did as requested and completed the first stage of packing. The third case contained all that he could imagine excepting those items that would be required on the morning that he might travel. Would he really need the beard trimmer?
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