Apparently, cats just love to lie and sleep in sinks. I wasn’t aware of this. But they just do!
I mean, how cute!
Mal does tend to jump in the sink whenever I brush my teeth, and she does have a fondness for the shower. (I think she thinks it’s like a TARDIS time machine. She always goes in there) But never has she curled up in the sink and decided to claim it as a bed. She just does that to my face instead when I’m all wrapped up in my sheets.
Link to more abudance of adorable cats and kittens in sinks to be found here.
I told you earlier that there are currently teenage boys constructing forts and having nerfgun battles to the death in our house right now. So far nerfgun battles we’ve had are constituting at roughly 3 per day. I am apparently their backup.
We’ve also had squabbles, alcohol ramblings and coming home at approximately 2.30am last night.
I thought, to paint a better image in your minds of our weekend, I’d take a photo of the boys and the fort they made. It is actually pretty good. Our sofa is literally upside down right now, with a blanket smothered over it, acting like a gateway into the dark hole within.
Mal is up there too … somewhere!
They’ve calmed down for now. Give them xbox and they calm down. It’s what I’ve learned.
Food also helps a lot. There are crumbs everywhere.
Mal is also enjoying herself. She is treating the fort as her own little princess tower, I think and won’t come down.
She’s very happy.
I’m a writer who has a basic outline of a plan which I follow through as much as I can. But I’m a writer who never knows where her end is going. Eventually, I find it. But right now, I’m writing a story with the theme of alienation, about a man who is gossiped about by his neighbours, whilst strange things are happening in his house. Truthfully, the house wants him dead. Odd, I know.
Right now, it’s nearing the end and he’s almost at the other end of sanity. But I don’t know whether to have him resolve the ordeal peacefully and have a somewhat happy ending, or whether to let the house ultimately get its wish so he can once again be reunited with his late wife. See, there is a happy ending in there somewhere.
Then there’s his dog too. One of the neighbours have resolved that when the man goes, the dog shall too. But killing off a dog seems too sensitive a topic to write in a short story? Surely? Especially if the man himself commits them both to suicide inside his dingy old dark living room.
I imagine him to be somewhat similar to Filch, just a little less tragic.
I’m struggling to find my ending. Have you ever stumbled over this too?
If you did, what did you do?
As a mature, accomplished 19 year old university student, I have come home to a cold house under a seize of fire.
Currently, there are roughly 4-5 large, loud and extremely hyper 7 year olds running around the house, along the hallways, up and down the stairs; they’ve even built themselves a highly strategic fort in the living room so sofas have been moved around and I can’t get into the food cupboards. I cannot even reach my tea – so I’m saying goodbye to hot beverages and may have to resort to walking swiftly out to the shops every time I want a drink. These 7 year olds – or that is how they appear to be anyway – are in actual fact nearly grown men, around the ages of 17-19 years old.
They are incredibly loud.
They keep bursting into my bedroom, unannounced, screaming my name, and demanding I join them in their Nerfgun battle to the death. I don’t want to die today.
Despite being sold and marketed towards kids, those bullets seriously hurt if they speed headlong into say your eye.
Mal is happy though. Despite being ran through with bullets she’s taken to running round the house with them, attempting to play too.
What a right little soldier. She’s my little Browncoat.
But then they stepped on her.
Basically, this was me.
So I went crazy. She’s shut up inside my room with me now, hiding under the bed.
Mal (my cat) is currently sat on the stairs, and going into certain rooms of the house at different intervals positively HOWLING as if in pain.
I was so worried. I took her to the vets when I found certain medical unfamiliars oozing out of her orifices and found her in the hallway crouching in what looked like very uncomfortable positions. I was seriously worried sick. I thought something must be seriously wrong.
I took her to the vets immediately! She was so quiet on the journey there – I’d never heard her make less noise! She was starting to freak me out, big time. I thought perhaps the ghost in our student house had taken hold of her and was making her little life hell. She is only five months old, so as a proud new mummy I was panic stricken. Mummies cannot have their babies upset! (Yes. I think of her as my child.)
The vet, after lots of prodding and uncomfortable poking – and a temperature check that Mal certainly did NOT appreciate – resolved the situation calmly by telling me Mal is merely in heat.
SHE WANTS BABIES. SHE WANTS TO GET FRISKY WITH OTHER MALE KITTIES. Oh, my God. Heavens. Mercy. WHAT NEXT?!
This was taken when she was just a baby!
I was not expecting this. My little girly… is all grown up! Her howling is a result of her female cries for a willing mate. Well, if I have anything to do with it – and I am her mother – no willing mates will be coming near her! She is only a baby – my baby!
I can’t believe after all of that (I was expecting the vets just to give her antibiotics for a urinary tract) all she wants to do is get rather amarous with other kitties!
Earlier, I blogged telling you tall tales of how I was going to spend the afternoon walking around the lovely place where I live and see what inspiration struck me with. I planned to write, and walk, and indulge myself in the luxury sights that are contained at harbourside Cornwall. And you know what? I did!
Taking routes I’d never known before it was such a pleasant experience to walk without haste in an environment I was unaccustomed to, yet everything around me was still so familiar. It was my own little adventure. I had quiet. I had solitude. I had grace.
I was so inspired I wrote a little something:
The house was languid and fine, with a little bit of wear and tear around the edges. It was a large house, with black iron railings and an archway standing boldly before the pathway to the garden. A balcony, on the second floor of the house which passers-by could look upon if they so desired from the boundaries of the outside. It was a grand house, one that distinctly belonged to another time. It was old, with a great brass knocker on the door with chipped paint, yet it still resonated beauty with its old age.
Inspiration struck me with joy when I was avidly scribbling this down in my notebook. Writers see. Writers see, and then they write. And that is what I wrote. And I’m embarrassed to admit I’m a little proud.
Who knows? Maybe one day that little passage will spark a novel, one day.
Have you ever been inspired by a certain place/landscape? I’d love to hear about it.