Writing is, believe it or not, a tiring activity, and can also be emotionally draining. So having finally completed the first chapter of my memoires, I felt I owed myself a little R&R.
I started the evening by popping into the Marquis to find out who was around, and see if anyone was up for a big one. I ran into the usual Crabtree Lane suspects: Murphy (my on/off boyfriend), Blackie, and Molly. One thing led to another and before we knew it word had got round and we had something of an impromptu street party going on. One of the cats had the house to himself as his owners were away* so we all piled in through his cat flap and raided his kitchen. I think it's safe to say that a good time was had by all (his owners always keep a well-stocked larder).
You know there's a point on any night out, when the evening could go either way? Kind of like a 'Sliding Doors' scenario where in one version everyone goes home to bed and wakes up fresh as a daisy the next morning, but in another version a collective decision is made to take the party to the next level? Well that happened to us last night, and let's just say we didn't decide to call it a night. Instead, some bright spark (it could well have been me) suggested that we do a 'house crawl' along Crabtree Lane to see if we could pick up any more cats, and possibly more munchies en route. Molly the tabby started moaning that we might get caught and decided to stay put - she's all fur coat and no knickers that one - but the rest of us set off in pursuit of good times.
As usual, I was de facto leader, so I slipped in through the conservatory door of Murphy's next door neighbour Kim. I've been in Kim's house loads of times before, and I know where she keeps the refreshments, so I headed straight for the kitchen. I turned round expecting to see my gang right behind me, but instead I realised (too late) that the door had been shut behind me and I was trapped. Not only that, but Kim was picking up the phone to call my owners (or the police, or possibly both).
I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid! Molly's words of caution were ringing in my ears, but yet again I'd let my heart rule my head, and now I was going to pay the price for it. I spent the next 10 minutes yowling in the kitchen, trying to warn my gang (who I knew were waiting for me outside) to leg it, but I also knew they probably couldn't hear me. Meanwhile I tried not to think about how much trouble I was going to be in with my owners. I was aware that I had not been home for a while (OK, two and a half days) and that they'd been trying to contact me. Anticipation of the inevitable telling-off, combined with the humiliation factor of having the party broken up by my owners, meant that this was not shaping up to be quite the evening I'd had planned.
Sure enough, before long I heard a car pulling up outside, followed by a knock on the door. I could hear my owner's voice thanking the Kim for calling, and apologising for my behaviour (slightly unnecessary, I thought - no one got hurt!). Next thing I knew the kitchen door was open and Kim was picking me up to hand me over to my owner. Obviously I did what any self-respecting party-cat would do and exploded into a frenzy of claws to try and escape. The shock of my reaction succeeded in loosening her grasp long enough for me to jump. If I'm honest I didn't really have a long-term plan, other than somehow to make my escape and then lie low until the dust settled. The plan didn't work though (damn those slippery tiled floors!) and I soon felt my owner's hands around my middle.
As predicted, all the gang were waiting outside the front door, to witness my final humiliation of being carried like a baby to my owner's car. Murphy made a futile show of solidarity by following us to the car (even sitting in front of the wheels by way of protest). Molly on the other hand was unbearably smug (as usual), observing proceedings with a look of 'I told you so' written all over her face. I let out an audible growl in her direction just to let her know I had noticed, but even this earned me a rebuke from my owner.
I was thrown, rather unceremoniously, into the back seat of the car, where I pressed my paws against the window as we drove off, watching the desolate faces of my friends disappear into the distance.
In my Sliding Doors alternative life, I am probably lying in a sunbeam right now, wondering what to do with myself today -who to visit, what adventures to have. Instead I am in the proverbial dog house, being told to get on with my writing and not cause any more mischief.
I know where I'd rather be.
*I'll preserve his anonymity so he doesn't get into trouble
Thursday, 29 July 2010
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Writer's block
I have recently begun writing my memoirs. As Harpenden's premier celebrity cat I felt it was only right and proper, and I have made at least 3 advance book sales to Facebook friends alone.
However, I have discovered that the path to literary greatness is not an easy one. It's a lot more challenging than writing a status update, or even a blog (about 70,000 words more challenging, to be precise). The good news is that my agent tells me that what my book needs is 'a journey'. You've come to the right cat, I told her, journeys are my speciality. One time I even got as far as Wheathampstead. Turns out this wasn't quite the sort of journey she had in mind, but it's a start.
The main problem I'm facing at the moment is the perennial scourge of the author: writer's block. It's not so much that I don't know what to write, it's just that there are so many - dare I say it - more exciting things I could be doing with my time (all in the name of research, of course).
For instance, I started writing a chapter about my favourite Harpenden pub, when I suddenly realised I couldn't remember the exact layout of seating options there, and nor could I recall precisely the cupboard in the kitchen where the chef keeps the tuna. Among writers this is known as the 'tyranny of detail', and of course it meant that I had to pop down to aforesaid pub and sample both the seating and the tuna in order to be able to continue writing the chapter. If you can imagine this scene multiplied by a thousand, you will have some understanding of my current dilemma.
There are also the numerous distractions of writing at home to be overcome. My desk overlooks the back garden, which at this time of year is positively buzzing with activity: cats passing through, wildlife taunting me, sunbeams just waiting to be napped in. Plus I have to cope with the added distraction of the little people in the house who, when they are not trying to distract me with their toys, are pestering to use my computer themselves.
I am trying to console myself with the fact that JK Rowling managed to write Harry Potter during her baby daughter's naps. Clearly, where there's a will there's a way (although did JK also have a facebook page and a blog to maintain at the same time? I doubt it). But if JK can do it, so can I.
First, though, I think it's time for a nap.
However, I have discovered that the path to literary greatness is not an easy one. It's a lot more challenging than writing a status update, or even a blog (about 70,000 words more challenging, to be precise). The good news is that my agent tells me that what my book needs is 'a journey'. You've come to the right cat, I told her, journeys are my speciality. One time I even got as far as Wheathampstead. Turns out this wasn't quite the sort of journey she had in mind, but it's a start.
The main problem I'm facing at the moment is the perennial scourge of the author: writer's block. It's not so much that I don't know what to write, it's just that there are so many - dare I say it - more exciting things I could be doing with my time (all in the name of research, of course).
For instance, I started writing a chapter about my favourite Harpenden pub, when I suddenly realised I couldn't remember the exact layout of seating options there, and nor could I recall precisely the cupboard in the kitchen where the chef keeps the tuna. Among writers this is known as the 'tyranny of detail', and of course it meant that I had to pop down to aforesaid pub and sample both the seating and the tuna in order to be able to continue writing the chapter. If you can imagine this scene multiplied by a thousand, you will have some understanding of my current dilemma.
There are also the numerous distractions of writing at home to be overcome. My desk overlooks the back garden, which at this time of year is positively buzzing with activity: cats passing through, wildlife taunting me, sunbeams just waiting to be napped in. Plus I have to cope with the added distraction of the little people in the house who, when they are not trying to distract me with their toys, are pestering to use my computer themselves.
I am trying to console myself with the fact that JK Rowling managed to write Harry Potter during her baby daughter's naps. Clearly, where there's a will there's a way (although did JK also have a facebook page and a blog to maintain at the same time? I doubt it). But if JK can do it, so can I.
First, though, I think it's time for a nap.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Cat Haiku
Knowing what a cultured bunch my readers are, I have decided to put my life to verse, using the ancient Japanese form of haiku....
Lady with buggy
Talking to me in playground.
Will follow you home.
******************
Watching and waiting,
Tom-cat seems keen to impress.
What's that funny smell?
******************
If you don't want me
To jump on your bed at night,
Why have a cat flap?
******************
Not sure where I am.
Must meow till door opens.
Come on, let me in.
***************
Street needs new road sign:
'Give way to oncoming cats'
Drivers need to learn.
*************
Dogs are so stupid,
Barking at me, high in tree.
Can't reach me here, fools!
*************
Heading home for night,
Hear laughter from the Marquis.
Time for a swift one.
**************
You will be amazed
How long I can make myself,
Stretched out on your bed.
**************
Next up, Nancy: The Sonnets.
Monday, 7 June 2010
The Rules (for Cats)
I've been doing some research on what the experts have to say on the subject of dating etiquette (a subject close to my heart, as you know), and I stumbled across a copy of 'The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr.Right'. Now this sounds like my kind of book!
I've had a quick flick through the chapters and think I can safely say that, without even knowing it, I am indeed a 'rules girl'.
Here's a few examples:
Be a 'Creature' Unlike Any Other
I think it goes without saying that this sentence could have been written about me.
Don't Talk to a Man First
As you all know, I let the men do the yowling.
Don't Stare at Men or Talk Too Much
See above (although I do perhaps need to work on the staring part - I have been known to deliver the occasional Medusa stare across the garden).
Don't Meet Him Halfway or Go Dutch on a Date
We always meet in my garden, naturally. As far as I know neither of us has ever paid on a date.
Don't Accept a Saturday Night Date after Wednesday
This one's a bit of a sticking point as I have been known to think it's still Saturday on Wednesday, but I've never knowingly broken this rule.
Stop Dating Him if He Doesn't Buy You a Romantic Gift for Your Birthday of Valentine's Day
As I explained in my last blog, a healthy tomcat spray around the hallway counts as a romantic gift for cats, so I think this one's covered.
Don't See Him More than Once or Twice a Week
I try to make a habit of not seeing ANYONE (human or cat) more than once or twice a week, so not a problem.
Let Him Take the Lead
Hmm. I'm not a dog, you know.
Be Honest but Mysterious
Check. To both.
Slowly Involve Him in Your Family
Well, he's had a few stand-offs with Pip in the back garden. Same thing.
Love Only Those Who Love You
Easy - EVERYONE loves me!
I've had a quick flick through the chapters and think I can safely say that, without even knowing it, I am indeed a 'rules girl'.
Here's a few examples:
Be a 'Creature' Unlike Any Other
I think it goes without saying that this sentence could have been written about me.
Don't Talk to a Man First
As you all know, I let the men do the yowling.
Don't Stare at Men or Talk Too Much
See above (although I do perhaps need to work on the staring part - I have been known to deliver the occasional Medusa stare across the garden).
Don't Meet Him Halfway or Go Dutch on a Date
We always meet in my garden, naturally. As far as I know neither of us has ever paid on a date.
Don't Accept a Saturday Night Date after Wednesday
This one's a bit of a sticking point as I have been known to think it's still Saturday on Wednesday, but I've never knowingly broken this rule.
Stop Dating Him if He Doesn't Buy You a Romantic Gift for Your Birthday of Valentine's Day
As I explained in my last blog, a healthy tomcat spray around the hallway counts as a romantic gift for cats, so I think this one's covered.
Don't See Him More than Once or Twice a Week
I try to make a habit of not seeing ANYONE (human or cat) more than once or twice a week, so not a problem.
Let Him Take the Lead
Hmm. I'm not a dog, you know.
Be Honest but Mysterious
Check. To both.
Slowly Involve Him in Your Family
Well, he's had a few stand-offs with Pip in the back garden. Same thing.
Love Only Those Who Love You
Easy - EVERYONE loves me!
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Sex and the Kitty
This week has seen me reach two major milestones - my first birthday and my first romantic entanglement.
The man in question (a Mr Big to my Carrie Bradshaw, if you like) is a rather attractive tabby and white tom. He started hanging around my garden last week, culminating in a night-long declaration of his affections in the form of yowling outside my bedroom window. Always a sucker for a good singing voice, and giving him credit for persistence, we hooked up.
Unfortunately, my Mr Big proved to be about as reliable as his namesake, and after a whirlwind 48 hour romance he vanished, leaving me feeling used and humiliated.
Having sought solace from my friends (sadly not over a Manhattan brunch, but on Facebook) I decided the loss was all his and that I was too good for him anyway.
As is so often the case, the effect of this was like catnip, and sure enough he was back a couple of nights later, taking up his old position at the bottom of the garden, waiting till we were all in bed before starting to serenade me.
Coming downstairs the following morning we found that, in addition to the singing, he had been in through the catflap and sprayed the downstairs hallway. (I tried to explain to my People that this is the feline equivalent of a dozen red roses, but they weren't having any of it.)
But this time I'm playing it cool. After all, I am still in my first flush of youth (you can draw your own comparison with Carrie Bradshaw here - enough Botox already, girlfriend!) and there may be a whole town of potential suitors out there just waiting to fall under my spell.
And of course I have to think of you, my readers. What would you all do if I traded my celebrity lifestyle for a life of boring domesticity?
So, sorry Mr Big, but no can do. I have dipped my paw in the pool of romance, but it is not for me. Yet.
The man in question (a Mr Big to my Carrie Bradshaw, if you like) is a rather attractive tabby and white tom. He started hanging around my garden last week, culminating in a night-long declaration of his affections in the form of yowling outside my bedroom window. Always a sucker for a good singing voice, and giving him credit for persistence, we hooked up.
Unfortunately, my Mr Big proved to be about as reliable as his namesake, and after a whirlwind 48 hour romance he vanished, leaving me feeling used and humiliated.Having sought solace from my friends (sadly not over a Manhattan brunch, but on Facebook) I decided the loss was all his and that I was too good for him anyway.
As is so often the case, the effect of this was like catnip, and sure enough he was back a couple of nights later, taking up his old position at the bottom of the garden, waiting till we were all in bed before starting to serenade me.
Coming downstairs the following morning we found that, in addition to the singing, he had been in through the catflap and sprayed the downstairs hallway. (I tried to explain to my People that this is the feline equivalent of a dozen red roses, but they weren't having any of it.)
But this time I'm playing it cool. After all, I am still in my first flush of youth (you can draw your own comparison with Carrie Bradshaw here - enough Botox already, girlfriend!) and there may be a whole town of potential suitors out there just waiting to fall under my spell.
And of course I have to think of you, my readers. What would you all do if I traded my celebrity lifestyle for a life of boring domesticity?
So, sorry Mr Big, but no can do. I have dipped my paw in the pool of romance, but it is not for me. Yet.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Nancy on the couch
I fear my hectic celebrity lifestyle might be starting to catch up with me.
In this week alone I have played cricket and baseball in the park, been flour-bombed by scouts, and chased up a tree by a dog with an inferiority complex. Add my all-night socialising, singing practice, and regular rounds of the local pubs into the mix and I think I might be on course for a Lindsey Lohan-style attack of 'exhaustion'.
After a bout of sneezing yesterday I decided to spend the night at home, only to be woken by one of my cat posse yowling underneath the bedroom window all night in an effort to get me to come out. Everyone wants a piece of me, and sometimes there just isn't enough to go round.
Like a true celebrity I blame the demands of my working schedule, and of course the pressures of media scrutiny. I've started therapy to help me deal with my issues of low self-esteem and my constant need to please, and am considering a trip to the Priory to de-tox and de-stress.
My therapist says I must listen to my inner kitten in order to heal my emotional self. I will have to reassess my relationships and cut out toxic influences on my life. It won't be an easy journey, but then when has an easy journey ever been a worthwhile journey (apart from the journey to the pub, perhaps)?
Who knows, perhaps in time I might be able to write my own self-help guide - 'The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Cats'.
If that fails, there's always prozac.
In this week alone I have played cricket and baseball in the park, been flour-bombed by scouts, and chased up a tree by a dog with an inferiority complex. Add my all-night socialising, singing practice, and regular rounds of the local pubs into the mix and I think I might be on course for a Lindsey Lohan-style attack of 'exhaustion'.
After a bout of sneezing yesterday I decided to spend the night at home, only to be woken by one of my cat posse yowling underneath the bedroom window all night in an effort to get me to come out. Everyone wants a piece of me, and sometimes there just isn't enough to go round.
Like a true celebrity I blame the demands of my working schedule, and of course the pressures of media scrutiny. I've started therapy to help me deal with my issues of low self-esteem and my constant need to please, and am considering a trip to the Priory to de-tox and de-stress.
My therapist says I must listen to my inner kitten in order to heal my emotional self. I will have to reassess my relationships and cut out toxic influences on my life. It won't be an easy journey, but then when has an easy journey ever been a worthwhile journey (apart from the journey to the pub, perhaps)?
Who knows, perhaps in time I might be able to write my own self-help guide - 'The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Cats'.
If that fails, there's always prozac.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
How to solve a problem like Nancy.
Having completed the cover design for my debut album, I was suddenly struck by an idea so staggering in its simplicity that I can't believe I wasted so much time dabbling in politics: Nancy the Musical.
Andrew Lloyd-Webber has proved that he's not averse to milking - sorry, reviving - his early hits such as Phantom, so now surely the time has come for a sequel to Cats!
And of course there would be the inevitable spin-off TV talent-show hosted by Graham Norton to audition potential co-stars for me.
I will take my rightful place on my own judging throne next to Lord L-W, and pass judgment on the performances in a wry yet insightful manner, to the delight and amusement of the viewers at home.
I can see it now - cat-fights in the dressing room, the fur flying, tears every week as a contestant leaves with their tail between their legs, having missed out by a whisker.
Damn, I'm good. Someone get me Lloyd-Webber's phone number please!
Andrew Lloyd-Webber has proved that he's not averse to milking - sorry, reviving - his early hits such as Phantom, so now surely the time has come for a sequel to Cats!
And of course there would be the inevitable spin-off TV talent-show hosted by Graham Norton to audition potential co-stars for me.
I will take my rightful place on my own judging throne next to Lord L-W, and pass judgment on the performances in a wry yet insightful manner, to the delight and amusement of the viewers at home.
I can see it now - cat-fights in the dressing room, the fur flying, tears every week as a contestant leaves with their tail between their legs, having missed out by a whisker.
Damn, I'm good. Someone get me Lloyd-Webber's phone number please!
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