Cats . Insomnia
Insomnia
On September 21, 2016 by Speranza
I was just stretching luxuriously in bed, thinking I would get up in a moment or two since I was feeling so uncommonly refreshed, when The General told me it was 1 am.
He then promptly went back to sleep.
After trying everything I could (and feeling guilty for disturbing the cat, who was cuddling with me in a perfect donut-shape) I decided to get up and try to make the best use of the time, safe in the knowledge that I would be wrecked by lunchtime and feeling/looking like a zombie.
Creeping about an old house without making a sound is an art form and I zig-zagged my way down the hardwood stairs, with Dresden following dutifully behind (I never realized that cats do actually frown) and then, once installed on the main floor, I decided to bake the cake for my niece’s birthday this week. After a while, the cat decided it was obviously just a really, really early start to the day and demanded breakfast (kedgeree, broiled kidneys, lightly coddled eggs but settled for FancyFeast in the end) before trying to make his usual routine fit, which to be honest, is just a quick wash and then more sleep, although at least he wanted to be in the same room as me.
And I appreciate that support.
Writing
Soup du Jour
On September 13, 2016 by Speranza
“Here it is. Just on the left there.”
The car slows down and a large sign comes into view – Sunshine Acres. At one corner, a laughing cartoon cow doffs a straw hat in welcome. It occurs to me – and not for the first time either – that elderly people are often lumped into the same category as little children. These dreadful names! The last place we visited was called Happy Haven. Must they use nomenclature that would be better suited to a Victorian lunatic asylum? As we pull into the driveway, my daughter-in-law, Nancy, makes enthusiastic chatter at top speed, rather like a monkey. I’ve heard her prattle like this before when she’s uncomfortable and it only serves to make me feel the same way.
We’re out of the car now, feet crunching on gravel and as The Director opens the door to us, a warm blast of the sweet smell peculiar to the old, hits me like a wave. Familiar feelings of dread begin to creep upwards from my bowels.
“Welcome! Lovely day, not too hot.”
With startling insight, I can now see who the model was for the cartoon cow on the sign. The Director is immaculate in a crisp tailored suit with piping and her platinum blonde hair is styled like a policeman’s. She is smiling alright, but there is a certain oiliness. Even her breasts, restrained within the confines of her jacket, have a formidable, don’t-mess-with-me attitude about them. She pumps my hand firmly and ushers us further down the hall, where the sun is shining brightly in a room called The Lounge and people huddle in groups reading the paper or staring into space.
“Now isn’t this pleasant!” says Nancy chirpily to Bill who has not spoken a word all the way here. The Director begins extolling the virtues of having a life that is still very much your own, where independence is retained right up to the end. The end? Nancy nods intently, hanging on every word. I wonder if she and Bill ever have a proper conversation. I wonder if they still make love.