The cat whisperer

Recently I had the interesting experience of being exposed to my boyfriend's mum's secret talent.

Before your mind goes wandering, it's nothing dirty, swingery or enough to give you nightmares. It's something quite erm... different.

I don't know whether you know this, but I'm pretty keen on cats. And so is she. So much so, that she has sort-of-gone-and-got-six of them.

But after years of knowing her, I have never realised the depth of the pure spiritual connection that she has with these animals.

She called me outside one muggy afternoon and said, 'Hey, look at this, Hannah'.

And I did.

She clapped loudly and called out 'WALKIES'.

Six cats, each one previously amusing themselves in various corners of the house with fake mice, licking themselves in an undignified manner and just plain sleeping, were instantly alert.

One by one they darted from their positions and slowly formed into a distinct line behind her.

She then opened the gate at the bottom of the garden and preceeded to 'walk them' around a path, all constantly in this line formation, like the pied piper of felines.


I tell you, I was in awe. My boyfriend was full of pride - which at the time looked a little like embarrassment and humiliation, but I'm sure it was pride.

No matter what I do, I cannot cause this effect with my two cats at home.

The cat whisperer is too talented for the likes of me.

The 30 Day Ab and Squat Challenge - What it's really like

So last time I complained about exercise, I was in the process of doing my half marathon. Which I did. Little 'wahoo' to me.

"Wahoo"

But instead of going back to my sofa, throwing popcorn in and around my face with no real direction to target, I have decided to do another stupid challenge.

 
I read an article on the 30 Day Squat Challenge, and then the 30 Day Abs Challenge. 

I'm now on Day 15. Today, I have to do a total of 70 sit ups, 90 crunches, 42 leg raises and a 60s plank. Oh, and 125 squats. 

And it's terrible. 

I mean, the sit ups are bad enough. 

When I begin, my hands are on the side of my head like the picture of the dead thin person on the crunch machine, and I'm breathing in a awesomely professional manner.

But as soon as I reach double figures, my body appears to move in ways I never even thought it could. It moves like a fish out of water, flapping and flopping about on the stupidly slippy mat.

I move from one end of the mat to the other so much so that I swear I have friction burn on my arse. And my perfectly poised hands? They go from doing nothing to literally pulling me up by feebly grasping my knees. 

The effects:

So nothing outrageous has happened so far. I still resemble the same person and my clothes are still the same fit.

But there are a few changes to my general well being. I now have no control over my entire stomach area. When I wake up in the morning I have to physically roll out of bed to prevent myself from actually sitting up.

When I cough, it is like Gandalf is slamming his stick into my stomach. And don't even get me started about the sheer horrendous effort it is to get in and out of sofas/cars/seats now.

I swear to god, if I can't wear one of those 'cropped tops' by the end of this I will be having SERIOUS words with whomever's damn idea this was.  

The woman who made me feel all lesbian and stuff.

I met a woman the other day who changed my perspective on the entire world. My first female crush.  

Let me tell you the story.

It was a dusky, smoky evening. The smell of  my pink Blossom Hill and bloated, farty tradesmen floated about the Wetherspoons on Broad Lane.

I’d gone out with four boys for a friend’s birthday, a male:female ratio I was not previously anticipating, and was failing under the pressure to join in on the “macho” conversation.

After the fourth discussion about gym tactics and how to retain perfectly soft hands irrespective of the weight you PUMP HARD, my eyes were beginning to droop. I pined to join in with those people whom I usually silently mock: the three female, older than necessary, 'dancers' who had found positive euphoria from flapping their bingo wings to 90's classics whilst everyone else sat the hell down in the pub.

A prime example of the saying: just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should.

Whilst watching the jirating hips of female #1, her muffin top pulsating through the folds in her Jane Norman sequined t-shirt, she suddenly stopped dancing, panting with dog-like enthusiasm and looked somewhat...nervous. A quiver formed in her foot and ran up her leg to her left pitted buttock, visible to the world through her see-thru leggings.  

She had spotted something – something which scared and excited her whilst simultaneously devouring her ability to dance. Something magical. 

I peeled my eyes away from the shudder-inducing thong line under her leggings and looked around in anticipation. What could possibly remove the urge to bootyshake from these wrong-side-of-forty women?

And then I knew.

I felt her before I heard her. Clicking shoes vibrated on the sticky wooden floor. The sound of someone who did not belong here. The sound of... one classy bird.

She tapped her way in unison to 'Don't Call Me Baby', her path progressing ruthlessly towards our table. She was too far away to see clearly so I slipped a look at the dancers. The buttock was still quivering, though the rest of the lady was pretending that all was back to full form and proceeded to waggle her index finger at her long suffering boyfriend whilst mouthing the words: 'y'know I don't belong to you.'

But she couldn't keep my attention for long.

A blue dress came into focus, followed by dark, chocolatey skin. The skin that she had on view was glossed, like someone had poured honey over her, lapping over her décolletage, streaming down her arms, forming thick sweet puddles on the tips of her elegant fingers.

She came close to our table. Even the genuine gym freaks had stopped talking protein at this point and a sensitive silence fell.

She swung streaks of dairy milk hair with a flick of her neck and smiled. We all gormily smiled back, buck-teethed and salavia-ery.

Then, after carefully judging the lack of females and silently noting her affect on the males, who had began tightening their grips on their beers in a hopeless attempt to flex, she stared directly at me with those midnight grey, starry eyes and said:

'ALRIGHT bab, you lot getting f*cking trollied are ya?! We am getting some shots if ya wanna join like?'.

The Birmingham accent that came out of her mouth received the same jaw-slamming shock which would have come if she'd have opened her gob and a big swinging ball sack had popped out.

But my god, she was still magical.

And that is when I had a lesbiany lovely love.

The end. 
 

Cats screw with your brain. Fact.

When I was 14, pubescent and gangly, we got Olly. Olly the cat was fluffy, adorable and when he looked at you, your heart melted like Vienetta in your nan's 35 year old freezer.


Then a few years ago, after Olly's companion died, we got Sophie.


And Sophie is actually out to get me.


Don't get it twisted, she's not violent, and on the outside she looks utterly harmless. Her claws remain firmly in her tiny padded feet and her teeth are only showcased when she yawns, but I can honestly say she is evil.


Why? You ask. Here's why. 


Example #1: The Stare-Glare. 

So here's the scenario. I walk in to my room and clock Sophie.

She'll be on the radiator just maxing and relaxing and I will look at her joyfully. An 'awwww' may even slip out of my mouth.

I will then turn away from her, content with her presence, and sit at my desk, writing or stalking people avidly on Facebook.

But there's no denying it...there is a dark prickly sensation creeping up my back as if someone is watching me....

I flip around as fast as my Argos chair can go, simultaneously thinking of a list of things I can use to attack potential intruder:

1) hairspray;
2) my hair brush;
3) a teaspoon out of my yoghurt pot, definitely left there for a good few days.

However, there is no one there. Just Sophie. 


I chortle to myself and casually glide back round to face the screen, sure in my mind that my darling cat is happily sleeping behind me.


But still, I swear I can feel....

I stop. This is ridiculous.

I turn slowly round on my swivel chair, breathing hard, like I'm expecting a man with a chain-saw to be sweating behind me...

And still, there's just Sophie. But she's not asleep. 

I lock onto her pensive, creepy ass glare and she just stares. Stares. With those slitty little cat eyes. Directly into my soul.

Then I turn the hair dryer on and she shits herself and runs out the room.

Hannah-  1 - Sophie - 0.


Example #2: The Murderer.

I was home alone the other night, minding my own business, watching some programme about penguins and how awesome they are, when Sophie comes in.

But she is not alone.


She walks right up to me, a poor bird in her mouth, gasping at his last breaths, and lays it next to my NAKED feet.

And I SWEAR, I swear she then looked at me and we had AT LEAST six seconds of intense eye contact.



Hannah - 1 - Sophie - 1.



----------------

This is all a power game.

I'm watching you Sophie, don't you worry. I'm watching YOU. 


---------------

LOOK LOOK Cat Photos Online! Lollo Lolz

I've been having one of those weeks where I feel irritable and critical around 65% of the time. The other 35% of the time I am sleeping.

There's no particular reason for this.

I don't have a hard life. I get out of my double bed with clean sheets on it in the morning and go down and have my Crunchy Nut. I leave the house in an automobile which works fairly well. I go to work in a nice, safe office.

And yet sometimes, I just have this big ass hump going on which I find powerfully hard to shift.

It usually starts with me stubbing my toe whilst leaving my double bed, stabbing my eyes with mascara and crying black tears, then going downstairs to find there is no Crunchy nut left and I have to suffer with the dreaded "All Bran".Eurgh.

First world problems, hey.

So to save me from turning in to a full Whinging Pom, I have decided to quash this misery by partaking in a hobby which I know always leads to happiness and fulfilment.

Call it the 'Eat Pray Love' of the internet, if you will.

And that? That, friends and Mom, is looking at cat pictures online.

Here are my top three.

Running, I hate you. Regards, Hannah.

I am training for a half marathon.

This will shock all people who know me as I am:

1. Lazy
2. Shit at running
3. Asthmatic
4. Have only just learnt how to spell no. 3 through iPhone auto correct. Technology sure is something, isn't it?


I decided to train for this event like a sensible person. However I have found that instead of finding it an enjoyable and rewarding experience, instead I fully HATE AND DETEST 98% of all running I do.

And today I had two prime examples of why I dislike running so much.

Example #1:

To begin with, I'm running all happy and feeling like I look all fit and stuff. This is usually at the very start of my run and I amuse myself by imagining all the cars whizzing past are thinking how professional and awesome I look, and then the drivers would be overwhelmed by an intense guilt that they have not run in 15 years.

But then, suddenly, out of nowhere, I get this deep, intense BURNING sensation in my CHEST.

And for a moment I think:

'This is it. I'm going to die right here right now in this stupid fluroscent yellow top and restrictive leggings.'

So after I have hobbled/ 'jogged' past all other pedestrians on the road (just to keep up appearances) I duck into a driveway and grasp at my poor, defeated chest.

( And before you giggle, 'grasp my chest', you dirty minded people, has got nothing to do with me fondling my honky honks, it is merely a physical representation of how much pain is going on in the chest region.)

But nay, it is not a heart attack...this is not the end for me.

 It is ...stitch.

Stitch. Stitch is not the word for such torture. I suggest we rename it 'stab' or 'surgery whilst awake'.


Example #2: 

This example is not quite about running, but other people vs running.

Once I have limped back to my home, my sanctuary, my abode, I fall into the sofa and pine a drink from whomever is near.

But instead of a pat on the shoulder and an ice cold beverage, I get horrendous abuse from the know-it-alls I live with.

'Stitch? Ah that's because you... *insert completely scientific reason for my stitch that person has just made up*'

'Aching? That's because you....*did not do some sort of exercise that they have NEVER EVER done*'

Eurgh.  

Nose hurting is it? That's because, with all the strength I can muster, I've just bopped you in it with my feebly weebly arm.


I can't wait till this is over and I can get back to my normal, lazy existence.

Merry Easter

Merry Easter to one and all!

I'm going to keep hold of the pagan obsession with eggs and chicks and not give you a picture of Jesus but give you this instead:

Jackie, my Chinese friend.

My friend Jackie is OK.

She's Chinese and looks like a child from a distance. And before you ask, she can't do kung fu or dance well.


This is a picture of her:

PS I like her lots really. Honest.

The man who was not there.

She had not heard from him in a week but he was everywhere. On a train to Blackpool, Heather spotted him in the next carriage, sat next to a brunette. He’d always said he preferred brunettes. They were sat with their backs to her and she could see the curls in his hair, right at the top of his neck, that she had played with all those times.

His head arched towards the brunette and Heather saw a flash of his cheek. That was his cheek right? The same olive skin, the same indentation in line with his lips, those lips. Heather gripped her seat in anger. He hadn’t bothered to call her but he could hang out with this girl, talk to her, make her laugh? He was wearing a coat that she’d never seen before. So he’s gone shopping too, plenty of time for that, it seemed.  The pain in her chest grew deeper as the curls shifted, the lips motioned to hers, and he leaned in for a kiss. .  

But that profile was not his. No, there was something wrong about his smile afterwards. His mole, the one which she was sure was the shape of a heart, her heart, was not where it should be. 

It was not him. And never would be, no matter how many times Heather tried to mould the picture of Ben in her head to the boy who seemed so very close.

This was a torture that she went through repeatedly. She saw him over six times that day and heard the word 'Greece' at least a dozen. It was like fate was screwing with her head. 

‘Cheers fate, give us a break will ya?’ she muttered.

'Er, hello to Heather?! For fuck's sake stop day dreaming. Have you listened to anything I’ve just said?' 

The eloquent sounds of Alice hit Heather's brain with the subtlety of a mnemonic drill. Heather groaned as they drove past another 'Discover the hidden treasures of Greece' billboard. 

'Y’know you've turned into a right sap since Ben.' Alice continued, undeterred by Heather’s sudden fascination with the ends of her hair, zips on her clothes, anything that was not Alice’s judgemental gaze.

Her friend turned to her. 'Heather seriously, drop it. He's a loser, a fit loser, but still a loser. He wasn't even that interesting when you were actually talking to him. You were always saying how he didn't get your jokes. But I suppose he's only human' 

Heather received a, slightly too hard, dig in the ribs. She moaned, 'is there a point to your bullying, because you do realise I could wang you like a welly if I so desired, Al.'

Her 4’10 friend did not care for threats over her size, and continued with her jack-russel-like bark. 

'All I'm saying is that God, fate, Scientology alien, Allah, whoever the fuck brought you two together may have just got it wrong.'

'Don't start the lectu...'

'Just because you met and talked about books all night does not make you soul mates. I mean, just because he liked the same old boring shit that you like does not mean that you are meant for one another.' 

Heather returned to the window. 'I have to believe it is for some reason, Al, I don't mean to sound like a creepy spinster from a Mariane Keyes’ novel, but surely this, us, what we had, is more than the usual, well,' Heather winced at the phrase, 'holiday fling? It has to be.'

'But maybe not. Maybe you were drunk, maybe it was a hot summer's evening and you’d had too much Sangria’

‘Sangria’s Spanish, Al’

‘Tequilia’

‘Mexican….’

‘Whatever. Maybe it was just the heat of the moment. Maybe it was to stop you nausing over Dave. Maybe it was to just break you two apart.’

Heather winced. Dave, she had not even thought about him in such a long time. The guilt washed over her, permeating her skin and forcing her to flush.

Alice continued.  ‘I mean, let's face it, you've been with tons of people...' 

'....and? Where the hell is this going now?' 

Alice grabbed her by the hand, 'and, Honey you weren't right about any of them. They all started off very sweet and full of potential but when it comes down to it, they were all wankers. So either you are just chronically awful at choosing men...' 

'LOTS of men, it seems' 

'Or' Alice interjected, 'or, you have just done the ground work and have to be patient now' 

'So….what you’re saying is being a slag is the same as building the foundations of a house?' 

'Even though you are being sarcastic here Heather, I think, I think that's exactly what I mean.' 

Heather returned to the window, just as the train slowed into a village and a pub called 'Ben’s Bar' flashed into her vision. 'Such bullshit' she whispered. 

Alice pulled at Heather’s anorak and called her attention. 'My dear darling screwed up slut of a best friend. Like that song, y'know the one, you just have to wait patiently for love, some day it will surely come.'

Alice began a power ballad rendition of 'that song' for the three seconds it took for Heather to reach out and press her hand firmly against her friend's gaping mouth. 

'Ok, no more.' She said.  'I promise, no more Ben. No more waiting for messages, no more moping.' 

'Thank all that's holy! Yo everyone, Hev's stopped being boring! It's a fucking miracle!'

The quiet carriage filled with elderly couples and families glared at Alice’s outburst. She had raised her pale arms above her head, like she was expecting an encore and a round of applause.  

‘It was only to stop you bloody singing’. Heather snapped, but her face soon echoed the infectious smile of her friend’s as the train lunged forward from the station.  ‘Now give me a drink. I think I’ll need it for ‘I love Lance and even though he's prematurely bald and watches too much porn, I'll still marry him’ time tonight.’

Heather took the glass offered to her from their train picnic and raised it, ‘to Lance and Lauren, I suppose’, she exclaimed, half-heartedly.

Alice raised hers to meet: ‘to being single and hanging around with pathetic, needy, hopelessly in love people all weekend’

‘Hear, hear.’ The clink joined the sound of whimpering babies and old, marginally deaf couples shouting names of sandwiches to each other in the carriage.

The wine slipped down her throat easily and a smile pasted itself on Heather's face as she listened to more of Alice's stories. But what she couldn't figure out, no matter how hard she tried, was why the pit of her stomach had turned so very cold. 

Fuck You, Snow

This morning I woke up with an anger unknown to most sensible human beings.

It was intense and has not been relieved all day. And that is because there is no way of removing the thing which has caused me such great sorrow. Because, dear readers, it's the weather.

Snow, in late March (yes I know, please do not get me started) has decided to rock up and spray its white shit all over my crib, my car; even my cat if it stands still for more than twenty seconds.

And you know what? I'm taking a stand.

I refuse to enjoy this snow. This snow will hold no magic or wonder for me.

This snow will not pressurise me with its softness to sit in it and make angelic shapes.

This snow will not cause me to spend hours battling with the elements to make a snowman which looks nothing like an actual human being.

This snow will not be 'pretty, lovely' or 'just super!'

This snow will be disgusting, annoying and plain pointless.





So, with that, all I have left to say is: 

Fuck you snow, fuck you. 

Toilets, Work and Horrible Disasters

I have a terrible problem. And, like most fully grown real-life adult people, it's with work.

Don't get me wrong (especially you, Boss) I love my job.

But there is still one thing. One little thing that causes my blood to boil and my forehead to start sweating profusely.

And that's the toilets.

Urban Dictionary says this about a toilet:

1.	Toilet	1001 up, 112 down
	A place to sit and think. Also a good place to take a plop. "I'm going to go to the toilet and figure this out." buy toilet mugs & shirts

That's right, Urban Dictionary. Toilets are a place to have a little relax; some may say a place to think about the world and put it to right. A place to let your inhibitions (and bowels) go.

But my work's rest rooms ignore all previous rules about toilet sancdom. Nay, they get the rules, cock one leg up and pee all over them. Then, to carry on the analogy, throw the said rules down their cruel stained basins and flush with a powerful vigor only relative to the strenght of Lance Armstrong's lies.

Wow, what a mouthful.

These toilets are hellish for many reasons, but I've decided on the core three below.


1) The Walls.

To relax and allow toileting to become a calm experience, privacy is key. Privacy is in fact vital to this.

But, the walls on these cubicles are so painfully thin, you can hear the person in the next cubicle doing EVERYTHING, and I mean everything.

No one wants to hear Sandra from IT's Chicken Tikka Curry coming out, but I'm ashamed to say after one year at my office I can intuitively name dinners from the sounds coming from the toilet.

What can I say? It's a talent.

Due to this issue, us ladies have a secret understanding. When entering the toilet, if I have a companion in there, I nod politely at my toilet-associate, and thus the code begins.

Toilet code #1:
Flush the toilet before you have even unzipped your flies. 

If one flushes the toilet as soon as they get into the cubicle when another attendee is in the cubicle next door, it allows  the other person to let rip with whatever they desire to do. Pipe-noise and handle pumping included, I have worked out that this gives the Toileter 20 seconds of background noise. Those precious 20 seconds means that you can no longer fear over-hearing and being subjected to hardcore office gossip as the 'farter on floor five.'

Toilet code #2:
Put the hand dryer on. 

Even though the hand dryer has the power of a baby breathing on your hands, the tessid toilet agreement states that if you are by the sinks, you must put this on in order to allow the person in the cubicle to have a small ten second window of privacy.

Some kinder souls amongst us even attempt to dry our hands by this wheezy bit of warm air so that the companion in the cubicle can plop and read the entirety of War and Peace by the time the room regains its silence.


2) The Ability To Toilet

Or lack of.

My office is a standard one in a block of around ten companies. As far as I'm aware, child labour is still illegal. And we don't employ people under sixteen. So, using simple mathematics that means that ALL people in the office blocks are adults.

So why, please tell me why, can NONE of them use the toilet in the correct fashion?

I am fully aware that some people may have complications going to the toilet. But, all, all of the three toilets we have on offer have urine/floaters/shed load of toilet paper thrown all around them.

3) The Ability to Flush

Again, or lack of.

Last but not least, my office seems to physically be unable to use the device which is known as 'The Flush Handle'.

It's a small device, some may say lever, which usually resides on the toilet 'upper-deck' as I fondly call it. It's usually not that hard to find.

See I've always been taught that the toileting goes as follows:
- Sit
- Do
-Flush

It's a three stage process. If you miss out one of those stages then the whole thing goes to pot.

I mean....
- Sit
- Flush

what's the point in that?

-Flush
-Do

Far too complex, uniformly incorrect and leads to a powerful amount of 'splash back'.

So why do people miss out the last hurdle, the final step in three? It causes a great strain as one can never quite relax as to what they may find in the toilet bowel of nightmares.

The next person is then severely scarred from their toiletting experience by seeing the INSIDE OF ANOTHER PERSON.


I hope you feel empathy towards my toileting disaster. 

Tell me your thoughts - I need guidance!