Spud We Don't Like

Yesterday I waved off a reluctant Brian for a 2 week business trip to the Far East and welcomed a return visitor from the West (of Canada). She too has been waging war on the lbs so today she came with me to brave the Witches of Weightwatchers who were, of course, charm personified. Despite some misgivings, we each recorded a 1.5 lb loss (bringing my personal tally to 9) and skipped the pep talk for a celebratory coffee, and no cake, in more congenial surroundings. Later on, after an hour's perambulation around the sights of Gazeuponafactory Estate, we found a novel method of curbing our worked-up appetities by watching a recording of "My Half Ton Dad", a Channel 4 documentary about 40 year old,27 stone Kenneth Brumley from good ole Houston, Texas (apparently exisiting, not living, quite close to our erstwhile abode as it was members of the Klein Fire Department who arrived to wrest him from his broken bed and, via a demolished internal wall, convey him to the Renaissance Hospital downtown). The surgery he underwent before a gastric bypass could be performed was truly gruesome and Good Friend and I were so engrossed (and grossed out) that we forgot all about our healthy suppertime potatoes baking in the oven. By the time they were rescued and arranged on a plate together with fish and steamed veg they, in their wrinkled dark leathery skins resembled nothing so much as rounded portions of tissue carved from Kenneth's inner thighs - more tumour than tuber, to paint a not very pretty picture. So without any effort or feelings of deprivation, GF and I were able to save 3 precious points apiece which will be spent later tonight on large G's with slimline T and, I'm ashamed to report, if hysterical laughter can burn calories, they're in for a very big surprise at WW next week!

Since my recent post extolling his exemplary behaviour, Sir William hath been comporting himself in a mighty strange manner. For the last two evenings he has launched himself at the front door then charged out into the night, all of a doo-da, twitching from tip to tip (whiskers to tail). On Sunday night he was seen crossing the forbidden Gazeuponafactory Drive with scant regard for oncoming traffic (there was none) and marching purposefully to The Roundabout. Brian was all for calling the police but I bravely decreed that we must sit tight and await developments. An hour later, William of the Wild had returned and immediately reverted to being our dear little Willy Wonka, sleeping all night on Brian's side of the bed thus ensuring that he (Brian) would arise next morning with a strangely lop-sided gait - not the best condition in which to undertake a 13 hour flight. I blame the effect of the amazing full moon we have been enjoying lately which, I believe, is due to reach its zenith this very night. At the time of writing, William is lounging on warm tarmac in front of the garage doors, languidly casting the odd pitying glance at the poor canine saps forced to accompany their humans on the Twitcher's Turning leg of the passagiatta. But appearances can be deceptive (just ask the Yorkies) and in a couple of hours time the feline equivalent of Clark Kent will, before my horrified gaze, morph into William the Werecat. Just as long as he is home by 11.30 pm because that's when the Silver Shadow's Mummy is going to bed!

Tempuss Fugit

Friday already - where does the time go? As I sat nursing a cup of tea and a sugar hangover, William came flying in through the kitchen door pursued by a flurry of raindrops and an extra fat magpie - nasty things. For several weeks running now I have been dogged (hardly le mot juste, I know) by single magpies, dive-bombing my car windscreen or landing on the front lawn just as I look out of the window. I was already feeling a bit spooked when, in town the other evening, a pigeon landed right in front of my car. Fortunately I was looking for a parking place so moving very slow;y. I waited 20 seconds or so for it to waddle on and was just about to set off again when I realised I hadn't seen it arrive on the opposite pavement so pulled back a few feet and there it still was, staring up at me. Is somebody trying to tell me something?

I had a sugar hangover because last night, even after enjoying a very substantial risotto verde and side salad in the company of a friend, I was still hungry and very tired and it had to be sugar so I broke into Brian's cake store and pinched half a square of millionaire's shortbread although it was from Aldi so not the most appropriate epithet. It certainly hit the spot that WW's cereal bars don't reach. I blame too much swimming. I got quite carried away on Wednesday and have felt the effects ever since. I am not going today because I have hair and eyebrow appointments followed by Sainsbury's - quite enough penance for one day.

As it is raining (which he can detect without getting out of bed in the morning) William will be quite happy to stay in while I am out, not that this is usually a problem. I have noticed just recently that his vocabulary has increased tremendously. Not only does he understand, "I am going out now (so you had better come in)" but also "bedtime", " alright, just five minutes more then", "no road, no dogs" (although we have has another slight altercation with the Yorkies) and, of course, "I have booked William into the Cattery" now expressed, with some difficulty on Brian's part as "J'ai fait une reservation pour Guillaume chez l'hotel des chats. Of course, it will only be a matter of time before Mon Petit Choux, cat of superior intelligence, works that one out and we will have to move on to "Wilhelm muss ins Katzen Hotel!". On second thoughts, that's much too obvious. Anyone know the Japanese for cattery?

I have had a comment on my blog! However, it was only from martinet Daughter Number 2, pointing out that there has been a number of spelling mistakes/typos (naturally the latter) in my posts to date - now rectified and Brian has introduced me to the blog spell checker so hopefully there will be no need for the red pen in future. I dare say she was not the only one to spot the unintentional mistakes, so apologies all round.

Oh uh. "Daddy's home" has just reverberated down the hall, William has dived for the nearest exit and I've forgotten to put the oven on. Stercus Accidit - that's Latin for an unfortunate occurrence.