McColleague has gone on holiday this week.
Luckily I have the lovely young volunteer I mentioned here, who is now experienced enough to be able to perform most of McColleague's duties in her absence.
She works until about 1 pm each week day and then departs, so I always close up the house myself every evening. Some of my volunteers who steward in the house in the afternoon like to stay on after we close, to help me put the house to bed. Tonight my volunteer and I went to the Court Cupboard to fetch the bat covers. These are the tyvek sheets we use to protect all the surfaces in the Great Hall from the bats which like to socialise in the rafters after dark. They are taken off in the morning, stored in the cupboard, and put back on when we close.
We opened the cupboard door. Wow. All the sheets were neatly folded.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed my volunteer, in shock. "This is very tidy."
He was right. Normally McColleague or I just grab the covers from the tables and chairs, bundle them up and stuff them into the cupboard in a big, bulky ball.
"Ah," I explained. "That would be our young volunteer who helps in the house in the mornings."
"She's folded them all up," he said, somewhat redundantly, as we both stood looking at their folded neatness. "I thought half of them were missing at first, but it's just that they take up so little room like this."
"Well, she's young and still cares," I said. "She hasn't become jaded like McColleague and I. We just stuff them in any old how. It's not like they're best quality tablecloths - they're only going to get covered in poo."
"True," he agreed.
"Plus it probably took her ages," I ponted out, "whereas McColleague and I can have this room open in under a minute."
"Still, it's nice that she bothered."
"Yes."
I miss McColleague.
Showing posts with label McColleague. Show all posts
Showing posts with label McColleague. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Explorers
"Are the cows coming?"
We left the shelter behind us and moved on. We had a moment of indecision when faced with a herd of cows on the horizon. Should we walk through them, or go round on the other side of the hedge? We opted for the latter. As we walked up the hill we could see the cows on the other side of the hedge. They were only youngsters, half grown. We felt somewhat foolish. Turns out they weren't far away, they were just small.
We did a lot of clambering over stiles and fences. Eventually I managed to hurt myself on some barbed wire. "Watch out for the barbed wire," I said, giving my wound a lick.
"Ow!"
I was too late. I untangled McColleague and compared injuries. Mine was worse.
I was half way over the ricketty gate, in a vulnerable position.
"No, they're still the other side of the hill."
"OK. Well, if they do come, and if that one with the horns is a bull, just save yourself. You're small and quick. I will distract them by flailing my arms about and getting trampled."
McColleague laughed, her eyes scanning the horizon as she calculated the sprinting distance between us and the next gate.
"I reckon we should be all right," she asserted.
McColleague and I had been on quite an adventure, exploring the estate on foot for the last four hours, through fields, woods, streams and parkland.
We found a little shelter in the woods.
It is where the community service kids have their base camp, brewing up tea over the fire when they are not clearing away fallen trees and maintaining the footpaths.
I particularly liked their sign over the door.
I am tempted to make it my own office.
We left the shelter behind us and moved on. We had a moment of indecision when faced with a herd of cows on the horizon. Should we walk through them, or go round on the other side of the hedge? We opted for the latter. As we walked up the hill we could see the cows on the other side of the hedge. They were only youngsters, half grown. We felt somewhat foolish. Turns out they weren't far away, they were just small.
We did a lot of clambering over stiles and fences. Eventually I managed to hurt myself on some barbed wire. "Watch out for the barbed wire," I said, giving my wound a lick.
"Ow!"
I was too late. I untangled McColleague and compared injuries. Mine was worse.
OK, so it was just a scratch. McColleague swallowed a fly too. It was a survival type exercise, all right.
Home was in sight when we encountered the final field, the cattle thundering toward us, eager to see what the two humans were up to on the other side of the fence. "I think there is a bull in this field," I said. "That one's got horns, anyway."
We decided to try to find another way past, and stood for some time peering over the ricketty gate at the expanse of apparently cow-free field before us. "I think we'll definitely be all right, climbing over this," I stated, confidently.
And, as it turns out, we were, despite the fact the electric fence keeping them from us just stopped halfway along. I decided not to draw attention to that fact and just walked a little faster. "I really need some tea," I said. "Come on.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The Wonky Sign
I could see my Boss and Lovely Warden in the distance, working by the newly erected kiosk. I braked to a gentle stop beside them and wound down the window.
"We're just putting up the new sign," explained my Boss, somewhat redundantly, given the massive red board he was holding.
I squinted at it and tried tilting my head, first to one side, then the other. No, whichever way you looked at it, the wording wasn't level.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"Um....I'm just proof-reading it...."
"Well I took the prices off your sheet," he said, testily.
I didn't have the heart to break the news that the myriad price options, while correct, were all wonky.
"I'm sure it'll be fine when it's finished," I smiled. "I'd best get back down to the house."
McColleague was awaiting my return. She had a surplus of duck eggs to be eaten up, so I had volunteered to buy bread and cress while on my trip to town, and make eggy sandwiches for everyone on my return. We stood in my kitchen, shelling the hard-boiled duck eggs. "I saw the Boss at the top," I said. "He's made the sign."
"Is it bad?"
"Yes, it's really wonky. Plus there's a big bubble in the paintwork he kept trying to smooth out with his thumb. And you could see where he's gone wrong earlier and peeled some letters off and then stuck others on top, so it all looks blurry."
McColleague nodded. We both expected as much.
As it was such a glorious day we took our plate of eggy sandwiches to the bench by the moat, to while away our lunch break. We heard a car approaching down the drive and looked up.
"Here he comes," I said.
"Must have given up on the signs."
The Boss stopped his car when he drew level with our bench. Out he stepped, fingers automatically reaching for his baccy and papers, rolling a fag on autopilot, as he always does when he goes from inside to outside.
"I really should wear my glasses more often," he announced. "Bloody sign was fine while I was working on it, but when I stepped back it was all wonky."
McColleague and I glanced at each other, then quickly away again.
"Was it?"
"Yes. And I buggered up some of the letters too. Had to order new ones now."
He looked quite downcast. "I thought I could maybe saw a bit off the sign, to level it out, but no joy."
"Have an eggy sandwich," I suggested, brandishing the plate his way. He brightened up a bit at this and joined us on the bench.
We munched thoughtfully together. We heard the sound of the Gator approaching. Lovely Warden drove up behind our bench, with an off-road kind of flourish.
"Sign's all wonky," said the Boss.
"Did you try sawing some off the bottom?" asked Lovely Warden.
"No, it's too wonky for that."
"Eggy sandwich?" I offered the plate to Lovely Warden.
We all sat and chewed for a while.
"I'll knock something up on the computer for now," I said.
"We're just putting up the new sign," explained my Boss, somewhat redundantly, given the massive red board he was holding.
I squinted at it and tried tilting my head, first to one side, then the other. No, whichever way you looked at it, the wording wasn't level.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"Um....I'm just proof-reading it...."
"Well I took the prices off your sheet," he said, testily.
I didn't have the heart to break the news that the myriad price options, while correct, were all wonky.
"I'm sure it'll be fine when it's finished," I smiled. "I'd best get back down to the house."
McColleague was awaiting my return. She had a surplus of duck eggs to be eaten up, so I had volunteered to buy bread and cress while on my trip to town, and make eggy sandwiches for everyone on my return. We stood in my kitchen, shelling the hard-boiled duck eggs. "I saw the Boss at the top," I said. "He's made the sign."
"Is it bad?"
"Yes, it's really wonky. Plus there's a big bubble in the paintwork he kept trying to smooth out with his thumb. And you could see where he's gone wrong earlier and peeled some letters off and then stuck others on top, so it all looks blurry."
McColleague nodded. We both expected as much.
As it was such a glorious day we took our plate of eggy sandwiches to the bench by the moat, to while away our lunch break. We heard a car approaching down the drive and looked up.
"Here he comes," I said.
"Must have given up on the signs."
The Boss stopped his car when he drew level with our bench. Out he stepped, fingers automatically reaching for his baccy and papers, rolling a fag on autopilot, as he always does when he goes from inside to outside.
"I really should wear my glasses more often," he announced. "Bloody sign was fine while I was working on it, but when I stepped back it was all wonky."
McColleague and I glanced at each other, then quickly away again.
"Was it?"
"Yes. And I buggered up some of the letters too. Had to order new ones now."
He looked quite downcast. "I thought I could maybe saw a bit off the sign, to level it out, but no joy."
"Have an eggy sandwich," I suggested, brandishing the plate his way. He brightened up a bit at this and joined us on the bench.
We munched thoughtfully together. We heard the sound of the Gator approaching. Lovely Warden drove up behind our bench, with an off-road kind of flourish.
"Sign's all wonky," said the Boss.
"Did you try sawing some off the bottom?" asked Lovely Warden.
"No, it's too wonky for that."
"Eggy sandwich?" I offered the plate to Lovely Warden.
We all sat and chewed for a while.
"I'll knock something up on the computer for now," I said.
Friday, November 17, 2006
A State of Emergency
“The car park seems very empty!” We looked about us. It was true. There should definitely be more cars, given the numbers due on the course. McColleague and I had wisely taken the back roads to our destination and were now disconcerted at being among the first to arrive. “Damn. We look keen now”.
Apparently there’d been a big pile-up on the motorway, which was the way the majority of attendees were travelling. McColleague and I duly dropped off our neatly labelled kit bags in the allocated gazebo and made our way inside. We then had to drink insane amounts of tea to pass the time until the course actually started, as several “key” people were stuck in traffic and we couldn’t begin without them.
“My attention span has already gone” bemoaned McColleague.
“Yes,” I agreed, “my optimum learning time is between 9 and 10am, so it’s all downhill from now on.”
Finally, at about 10.20am we were called through to begin the training day. Rows and rows of chairs laid out before us, a projector screen and laptop at the front – I could sense an imminent Powerpoint presentation brewing. Bugger. “Where do you want to sit, McColleague?”
“At the back. So we can text”.
Ah, sensible McColleague. Text saves many a dull meeting or presentation. Press press press - “I R Bored” – send.
The Powerpoint presentations were just as arse numbingly dull as anticipated. Shame really. I mean the subject matter should be gripping – Fire! Flood! Emergency Situations! But no. In reality, after the nth slide of something on fire (of which you can only see the top left hand corner anyway, due to the sea of heads in front of you) interest levels had slumped. And people who put up slides full of tiny text and then read it out to you make me want to do bad things to them. Very bad things. Good job I drank all that tea, really. It gave me reasons to leave the room before I did something unspeakable with a biro.
Still, it wasn’t all sitting around being talked at and texting. We did have lots of interesting workshops on various salvaging methods for various materials – like stone, ceramics, textiles, paintings and so on. Then, best of all, we had a full blown emergency exercise, complete with fire engines and flashing lights and men in uniform. When the alarm sounded we all had to exit the building and make our way to the gazebo where we had left our kit bags earlier. We then had to put on said kit, outside, in the dark and the rain. I looked at my many colleagues, hopping about on one leg, trying to get their clumpy protective boots on, or attempting to fasten their tyvek overalls.
I turned to McColleague. “Why don’t we take our stuff to the toilets, and put it on in the warm and dry? With the light on?”
Five minutes later McColleague was laughing at my NHS-glasses-style headlamp.
“The problem is, “I explained, “that there are no clips with it, so the elastic band slides off the helmet and the lamp is catapulted a fair distance, if you’re not careful.”
McColleague was not careful. Her headlamp catapulted itself to the toilet floor with a satisfying clatter of plastic and batteries. We then both managed to overtighten the headstraps in our helmets.
“Ow! I can't wear this. It’s giving me a headache!”
“Let’s just carry the helmets for now”.
Eventually we did manage to get all component parts of the kit to function and fit adequately. We salvaged items and packed them in bubble wrap, in crates. I had to do it in the style of a finishing school graduate, of the book-balanced-on-head-for-excellent posture variety, as every time I bent forward my helmet would fall off. Our team leader had a task for me.
"Now, I want you to pack up the items on the mantelpiece. But not the clock. That candlestick, those ornaments, not the clock and the other candlestick. Don't touch the clock."
"So, basically, you're saying everything except the clock".
"Yes. Not the clock".
"Right oh!" I exclaimed, cheerfully. "So, that's everything on the mantelpiece and especially the clock."
Not everyone shares the same sense of humour in an emergency situation.
Still, we were obviously the most organised and efficient, as our team was the first to finish. “Good work, McColleague,” I said as we stuffed our kit back in the bags. “Now let’s get out of here. I need to get home and salvage my wine stash.”
Apparently there’d been a big pile-up on the motorway, which was the way the majority of attendees were travelling. McColleague and I duly dropped off our neatly labelled kit bags in the allocated gazebo and made our way inside. We then had to drink insane amounts of tea to pass the time until the course actually started, as several “key” people were stuck in traffic and we couldn’t begin without them.
“My attention span has already gone” bemoaned McColleague.
“Yes,” I agreed, “my optimum learning time is between 9 and 10am, so it’s all downhill from now on.”
Finally, at about 10.20am we were called through to begin the training day. Rows and rows of chairs laid out before us, a projector screen and laptop at the front – I could sense an imminent Powerpoint presentation brewing. Bugger. “Where do you want to sit, McColleague?”
“At the back. So we can text”.
Ah, sensible McColleague. Text saves many a dull meeting or presentation. Press press press - “I R Bored” – send.
The Powerpoint presentations were just as arse numbingly dull as anticipated. Shame really. I mean the subject matter should be gripping – Fire! Flood! Emergency Situations! But no. In reality, after the nth slide of something on fire (of which you can only see the top left hand corner anyway, due to the sea of heads in front of you) interest levels had slumped. And people who put up slides full of tiny text and then read it out to you make me want to do bad things to them. Very bad things. Good job I drank all that tea, really. It gave me reasons to leave the room before I did something unspeakable with a biro.
Still, it wasn’t all sitting around being talked at and texting. We did have lots of interesting workshops on various salvaging methods for various materials – like stone, ceramics, textiles, paintings and so on. Then, best of all, we had a full blown emergency exercise, complete with fire engines and flashing lights and men in uniform. When the alarm sounded we all had to exit the building and make our way to the gazebo where we had left our kit bags earlier. We then had to put on said kit, outside, in the dark and the rain. I looked at my many colleagues, hopping about on one leg, trying to get their clumpy protective boots on, or attempting to fasten their tyvek overalls.
I turned to McColleague. “Why don’t we take our stuff to the toilets, and put it on in the warm and dry? With the light on?”
Five minutes later McColleague was laughing at my NHS-glasses-style headlamp.
“The problem is, “I explained, “that there are no clips with it, so the elastic band slides off the helmet and the lamp is catapulted a fair distance, if you’re not careful.”
McColleague was not careful. Her headlamp catapulted itself to the toilet floor with a satisfying clatter of plastic and batteries. We then both managed to overtighten the headstraps in our helmets.
“Ow! I can't wear this. It’s giving me a headache!”
“Let’s just carry the helmets for now”.
Eventually we did manage to get all component parts of the kit to function and fit adequately. We salvaged items and packed them in bubble wrap, in crates. I had to do it in the style of a finishing school graduate, of the book-balanced-on-head-for-excellent posture variety, as every time I bent forward my helmet would fall off. Our team leader had a task for me.
"Now, I want you to pack up the items on the mantelpiece. But not the clock. That candlestick, those ornaments, not the clock and the other candlestick. Don't touch the clock."
"So, basically, you're saying everything except the clock".
"Yes. Not the clock".
"Right oh!" I exclaimed, cheerfully. "So, that's everything on the mantelpiece and especially the clock."
Not everyone shares the same sense of humour in an emergency situation.
Still, we were obviously the most organised and efficient, as our team was the first to finish. “Good work, McColleague,” I said as we stuffed our kit back in the bags. “Now let’s get out of here. I need to get home and salvage my wine stash.”
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Running Repairs
It's the emergency salvage training day tomorrow for McColleague and I.
I have had to prepare our emergency salvage kit in neatly labelled bags. We need to take the following:
Black steel toe-capped boots
Olive green waterproof jacket and trousers
White tyvek overalls
Yellow reflective jacket
Rigger gloves
White helmet
Head lamp
As I packed our respective bags one of the head lamps clattered to the floor, hitting the tiles and becoming so much plastic shrapnel.
Fortunately the bulb escaped unscathed, so I have performed an impressive piece of restoration work using just a roll of carpet tape.
Tempting though it was to stick it in McColleague's bag with an accompanying "Oh dear, your head lamp appears to have been dropped and all smashed", I have done the decent thing and put it with my kit. I will have the head lamp equivalent of NHS glasses held together with sticking tape. I will look special. I might say McColleague beats me and takes my lunch money.
I have had to prepare our emergency salvage kit in neatly labelled bags. We need to take the following:
Black steel toe-capped boots
Olive green waterproof jacket and trousers
White tyvek overalls
Yellow reflective jacket
Rigger gloves
White helmet
Head lamp
As I packed our respective bags one of the head lamps clattered to the floor, hitting the tiles and becoming so much plastic shrapnel.
Fortunately the bulb escaped unscathed, so I have performed an impressive piece of restoration work using just a roll of carpet tape.
Tempting though it was to stick it in McColleague's bag with an accompanying "Oh dear, your head lamp appears to have been dropped and all smashed", I have done the decent thing and put it with my kit. I will have the head lamp equivalent of NHS glasses held together with sticking tape. I will look special. I might say McColleague beats me and takes my lunch money.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Emergency Salvage Kit
McColleague and I have to go on an Emergency Salvage Exercise in a few weeks time.
The response to this news was less than joyous.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.” (Long, drawn out noise of almost inexpressible disappointment, much in the style of small children when informed that it is now bedtime). “Do I have to go?”
“I’m afraid we all have to go. How else will we know what to do in the event of an emergency?”
This always raises a smile. The house is built of ancient, tinder-dry timber. If it catches fire we’ll probably have about 10 minutes before it’s a smoking ruin. (By the time I have got my emergency kit on I estimate I will be on fire. My plan is to drop and roll towards the moat.) We all know that in the event of an emergency we will lob what we can out of the windows, hoping for the best, and then leg it to a safe distance.
Along with the summons to the Emergency Salvage Exercise was a list of required equipment for each participant to bring with them. McColleague and I perused the emergency stores, to see what we needed to order.
“So, that’ll be everything then” says McColleague, chirpily, having singularly failed to put a tick next to any of the items on the list.
“I believe so” I agreed, closing up our emergency stores again. “But if the list had said a hammer and a washing up bowl, we’d be all set”.
Diligently I completed the order form and sent it off to our central office.
A week later an exciting parcel arrived.
The response to its contents was less than joyous.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. This isn’t what we ordered! These are horrible! I’m not wearing them.”
She had a point. The list had specified protective footwear. We’d selected ones that looked a bit walking-boot-like, a bit Timberland-like, not too shameful and yet meeting all required safety standards. What we actually had were boots which looked like they might be useful in correcting the lurching walk of Frankenstein’s monster.
We also had Tyvek bodysuits, complete with hoods, helmets, headlamps, relective jackets, rigger gloves and waterproof jackets and trousers.
In the spirit of adventure, we tried it all on. It’s a good job we weren’t about to salvage anything from an emergency situation, as we were incapacitated for quite a time. One size does not fit all.
"How does this help, in an emergency situation?" asked McColleague from the depths of her Tyvek hood.
I attempted to shrug in response, but then thought better of it, as my bodysuit was a bit on the snug side. "I'm not sure," I mused. "Possibly it's to keep us out of the way of real danger, as by the time we've struggled into our kit and clumped over in our monster boots, the real emergency services will have arrived and we can just go and make the tea".
Perhaps we will feel differently once we've had the training day.
The response to this news was less than joyous.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.” (Long, drawn out noise of almost inexpressible disappointment, much in the style of small children when informed that it is now bedtime). “Do I have to go?”
“I’m afraid we all have to go. How else will we know what to do in the event of an emergency?”
This always raises a smile. The house is built of ancient, tinder-dry timber. If it catches fire we’ll probably have about 10 minutes before it’s a smoking ruin. (By the time I have got my emergency kit on I estimate I will be on fire. My plan is to drop and roll towards the moat.) We all know that in the event of an emergency we will lob what we can out of the windows, hoping for the best, and then leg it to a safe distance.
Along with the summons to the Emergency Salvage Exercise was a list of required equipment for each participant to bring with them. McColleague and I perused the emergency stores, to see what we needed to order.
“So, that’ll be everything then” says McColleague, chirpily, having singularly failed to put a tick next to any of the items on the list.
“I believe so” I agreed, closing up our emergency stores again. “But if the list had said a hammer and a washing up bowl, we’d be all set”.
Diligently I completed the order form and sent it off to our central office.
A week later an exciting parcel arrived.
The response to its contents was less than joyous.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. This isn’t what we ordered! These are horrible! I’m not wearing them.”
She had a point. The list had specified protective footwear. We’d selected ones that looked a bit walking-boot-like, a bit Timberland-like, not too shameful and yet meeting all required safety standards. What we actually had were boots which looked like they might be useful in correcting the lurching walk of Frankenstein’s monster.
We also had Tyvek bodysuits, complete with hoods, helmets, headlamps, relective jackets, rigger gloves and waterproof jackets and trousers.
In the spirit of adventure, we tried it all on. It’s a good job we weren’t about to salvage anything from an emergency situation, as we were incapacitated for quite a time. One size does not fit all.
"How does this help, in an emergency situation?" asked McColleague from the depths of her Tyvek hood.
I attempted to shrug in response, but then thought better of it, as my bodysuit was a bit on the snug side. "I'm not sure," I mused. "Possibly it's to keep us out of the way of real danger, as by the time we've struggled into our kit and clumped over in our monster boots, the real emergency services will have arrived and we can just go and make the tea".
Perhaps we will feel differently once we've had the training day.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Lost Cat
My cat is missing. He is a home loving little fella, so when he failed to reappear after going outside on Sunday evening I began to feel concerned.
Given our location – the middle of a huge expanse of mixed woodland, parkland and farmland – it was unlikely traffic had finished him off. Or that he’d been catnapped. I had to assume he was on some sort of adventure, which, it turns out, he was.
When this morning came and he still wasn’t home I began the task of making those depressing “Missing Cat” posters, ringing the vets, and – dramatic drum roll – mobilising the estate to look for him! Yes, I have the power to do that, as I am a Very Important Person. And they were probably tired of hearing me go on about the cat.
So, I had a final wander around, making those little pursed-lip squeaky noises that we believe entices felines, and rattling food pouches, before miserably concluding there was nothing more for me to do and leaving for a day off. (A day off! Hooray! I had organised cover, and everything!)
Fast forward a number of hours, to me standing in Woolworths attempting to pay for my motley selection of Halloween items (all essential work related kit) and my mobile phone rings. It is my esteemed colleague.
“At last! I’ve been trying and trying to get hold of you! We’ve had drama!”
“What? What’s happened?” (There is always a panicky moment when I am convinced that it’s true, they really can’t manage without me, and the house has detonated or something in my absence).
“We’ve found your cat!”
This is a good thing. Yet I can tell there’s more.
“Oh, fantastic! Where was he?”
“Up a tree.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, quite a long way up. Lovely Warden tried to get him down for hours, but the cat just kept climbing higher and higher.”
“Oh no”.
“Yeah, so in the end, the cat was right at the top, and there was nothing for it but to cut down the tree.”
“What?!”
“Don’t worry! The cat leapt clear and sprinted off into the woods before the tree hit the deck, so he must be OK.”
“Right. Yes. Great! Thanks!”
Oh my god. They cut down an enormous Douglas Fir just to get my cat down! Seems a bit, well, drastic. I feel churlish even thinking it, but maybe a small bowl of kitty treats somewhere near the tree might have been another option.
Anyway, the cat has yet to reappear in the homestead. I fear he may have been so traumatised he has gone straight up another tree. Massive deforestation may occur as a result.
Given our location – the middle of a huge expanse of mixed woodland, parkland and farmland – it was unlikely traffic had finished him off. Or that he’d been catnapped. I had to assume he was on some sort of adventure, which, it turns out, he was.
So, I had a final wander around, making those little pursed-lip squeaky noises that we believe entices felines, and rattling food pouches, before miserably concluding there was nothing more for me to do and leaving for a day off. (A day off! Hooray! I had organised cover, and everything!)
Fast forward a number of hours, to me standing in Woolworths attempting to pay for my motley selection of Halloween items (all essential work related kit) and my mobile phone rings. It is my esteemed colleague.
“At last! I’ve been trying and trying to get hold of you! We’ve had drama!”
“What? What’s happened?” (There is always a panicky moment when I am convinced that it’s true, they really can’t manage without me, and the house has detonated or something in my absence).
“We’ve found your cat!”
This is a good thing. Yet I can tell there’s more.
“Oh, fantastic! Where was he?”
“Up a tree.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, quite a long way up. Lovely Warden tried to get him down for hours, but the cat just kept climbing higher and higher.”
“Oh no”.
“Yeah, so in the end, the cat was right at the top, and there was nothing for it but to cut down the tree.”
“What?!”
“Don’t worry! The cat leapt clear and sprinted off into the woods before the tree hit the deck, so he must be OK.”
“Right. Yes. Great! Thanks!”
Oh my god. They cut down an enormous Douglas Fir just to get my cat down! Seems a bit, well, drastic. I feel churlish even thinking it, but maybe a small bowl of kitty treats somewhere near the tree might have been another option.
Anyway, the cat has yet to reappear in the homestead. I fear he may have been so traumatised he has gone straight up another tree. Massive deforestation may occur as a result.
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