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.



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This is all a power game.

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


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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.

Beyonce

Booty liscious. She's got jelly and I loved it.

Running, stick a fork in me, I'm done.

I ran a half-marathon over the weekend.

Done.

Just call me a really awesome athletic person now. 

Thanks especially to Nike. I had my trainers stolen a week before my run, and their bad-ass social media guru hooked me up with some shoes so that I could run the race for Parkinsons UK. 

Next person who sneezes on me, I will punch you in the face.

Now I'm no advocate for violence.

I've only been in one fight in my life. And that was when I was fourteen and someone said a snide comment so I pushed them lightly and then ran away.

On the rare occasions that anyone attempts to fight me, usually because I've said something stupid, which I previously thought was hilarious and they have overheard me, I usually try and win them over with my offhand charm and wit.

But there's one time where I would happily get up on someone's grill.

And that's when people forcibly spread their germs in my direction.

I'm no hypochondriac, but it's cold outside. I've already had roughly ONE MILLION colds this winter. I don't want another one. So please, do not come into my personal area and hack that cough or spray out that sneeze without any barrier between me and the green little bugs coming from your face.


Glad I could express that.

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: