2 posts tagged “nibbles”
Woe is me. Woe is, in fact, all of us. Everyone is gloomy. Even as I wrote that the cat bit my foot. She too is gloomy.
January is a terrible month. Nothing to look forward to, it's just cold, gloomy, and wet. This year it's been windy and our garden fence has blown down. I had a wonderful Marx Brothers' mirror moment with the neighbour this weekend, when we were both outside on the patio having a cup of tea and slowly turned our heads to realise that, since a massive chunk of fence is now missing, we could see each other. He nodded at me, looked disapprovingly at my mismatched socks, and went inside. It was the first recognition I have received from him since moving in in September. Hmph.
It's strange to find that after having spent five gruelling winters in Lithuania, where temperatures can drop to -30 and the snow freezes in gray, dirty lumps on the side of the pavement, SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) never affected me as much as it does in England. I suppose this is because England is wet and soggy. And there's nothing worse than having to lug yourself up the hill to school in the morning, in the cold and wet, to spend 6 hours dragging yourself through lessons that are becoming increasingly uninspiring as the GCSE curriculum draws to a close and exam pressure is mounting up. Then you slump home with wet shoes and socks (what would Mary Poppins say?) to find the house a mess, the oven broken, the heating off, and there's no tea. Suddenly it's the end of the world and all you want to do is go to bed at 4 in the afternoon.
Twenty minutes later you sulk your way back downstairs, bed having bored you and you've lost your place in your book.
You then spend the rest of the evening slumped in front of the computer or TV, trying to think of something worthwhile to do with your time, then avoiding it. I have successfully put off an increasingly necessary trip into the city centre (a 10 minute bus ride) away for two weeks now. I choose to blame the month. Even our amusing Edward Monkton calendar doesn't want to cheer me up. January features the Potato of Doom.
January days even seem to last twice as long. Good gig season doesn't begin till February, neither does my birthday. January punishes me by making each second twice as long, so no matter how many times I check the date, it's never February. Sigh.
Even one of my favourite cold day pasttimes, sitting in bed listening to comedy on Radio 4 or jazz, while knitting and sipping tea (very hard to do at the same time, don't try it) doesn't cheer me up. Jazz is good for gloom, but when gloom is already present it's just cruel. Going out seems pointless, as it's too cold. Staying in is boring. There's no middle ground, and everyone else is just as depressed. As I mentioned at the start of the article, even the animals get it. Poor Nibbles the cat is fed up of it being too cold to go out; all her favourite plants to chew on are frozen or dead and her rival mogs are shut up inside in front of the fire.
Short of emigrating to Australia for the cold season, there is no cure for SAD. So I beg of you, before things get really bad and I start writing on this thing more than twice a day, send help. And chocolate.
As Sue Townsend wrote in her series of articles for the Sainsbury’s Magazine, “I vow to never be one of those authors who continuously writes about the antics of her cat.” Well, Sue, we both failed.
My cat is called Nibbles. She is 8 years old, and half Burmese half local tabby, as her mother was a bit of a slut. She likes chicken flavoured cat food, chasing flies, and being stroked on her tummy. Oh, and she hates me.
I don’t know when this happened – we used to get along fine. But as soon as my beloved Nibbles came to , she decided she was no longer my friend. I bring this up now because yesterday I witnessed my friend S and her cat frolicking outside their house. When S called her cat, it not only responded to her voice, but actually came running. When S talked to her cat, it paid attention, and, I like to think, thought of helpful or amusing anecdotes to add to the conversation. And, best of all, when she told her cat to get inside the damn house or it would be out in the cold all night, it got inside the damn house.
Nibbles is one of those cats who, instead of complying with the typical pet-ownership behaviour patters, i.e. eating food provided, sleeping on owners bed, and providing footwear, (maybe that’s only Grommit, but I’ll be damned if I turn down an animal that could do that for me) Nibbles chooses to walk haughtily around her dwelling, surveying the lands and testing furniture for damages. She sharpens her claws on her personal claw-sharpening device, (my thighs, the sofas, and anything wooden) sprawls across her exclusive heated seating facilities, (radiators and laptops) and feasts upon her vast fields of fine vegetation (mother’s plants.)
Nibbles, being the supreme ruler of her domain, comes inside when she wants to come inside. The only problem preventing her free entry of our house is our distinct lack of cat-flap, forcing her to deign to tap her delicate paw upon the door, or even hop up on window-sill and call, waiting impatiently for her servants (we who feed, groom, and stroke her) to give her entry to her feeding quarters (the kitchen.) Sometimes, however, madam decides she would like to come inside, then changes her mind once she sees that her servants have opened the door, and there is nothing interesting to do once she gains entry. Then, as she stands, paw and nose poised, mid-doorway, she changes her mind, meows, reminding us how terribly incompetent we are for thinking she would really wish to come inside at such a time, when she has her grounds to survey, and her rivals to feud with, and turns, tail in air and behind waggling in a haughty and impatient manner, irritated at our ignorance.
This process is repeated several times, until Miss Nibbles decides she does indeed wish to enter her home, and check that we have not stolen or misplaced any of her belongings. We, her humble servants, must, however, endure the taxing procedure of getting up from our desks/chair/sofa/scrubbing the floor, lumbering over to the back door, hauling it open, coaxing her highness to come inside, and then, upon inevitable failure, slamming the door in frustration, causing the royal feline to add a surprised hop to her step as she sashays away. She then glares back at us, indicating that we’ll pay for that door slam later.
And indeed we do. Or, at least I do, since she hates me. When I’m tucked up in bed at night, reading my book and dozing off, suddenly, I hear something. A tapping sound. I brush it off and continue reading. Again, the tapping sound. I freeze, listening intently for the sound, but there is nothing. I return to my book. Then, oh so slowly, my door creaks.
“Um… hello?” I call out to the empty house, as I know Nibbles will only have her revenge when she knows it will hit me worst; when I’m home alone.
Silence follows. I carry on reading, determined to ignore the noises and tell myself that it’s my overactive imagination. Then my door creaks again, and a bar of light from the hall sweeps into my room. I reach for my phone, my finger hovering over the nine button, and remain completely immobile, not even breathing.
Creeeeeeeak. My door continues to creep open, and I wet myself. ‘Please please please please don’t let it be an attacker/robber/rapist/crazy person/ghost/demon. Please just let it be someone who’s gone into the wrong house and is opening my door really slowly, please god please,’ I pray over and over again. My door creeks again, and I break into a sweat. Then, in comes Nibbles, with a look upon her smug little face as if to say, ‘What? You didn’t think it was a ghost did you? God, Bran, you’re such a baby!’ Then, she will hop up onto my bed, completely nonchalant, and practises her bouncing technique on my stomach, in a playful yet determined manner. Satisfied by my shaking hands and the state of my sheets, she will trot out of my room, triumphant, knowing she has petrified me enough for one evening, and gained her revenge at my foolish door slamming antics earlier. Yes indeed, Nibbles hates me.
