- Mood:
- Listening to: the rain against the window
- Reading: somewhere in Berkshire, isn't it?
- Watching: with Mother, haha
- Playing: silly buggers
- so. I'm now the proud owner of a lovely ragged, scabby, matted scalp-gash of about two inches' length. It's great, just what I've always wanted. There is a certain proverb which runs, those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones - or words to that effect: its slightly lesser-known second cousin is something along the lines of those who live in old houses with small doorways shouldn't go running and bouncing around the place dragging bits of string behing them. Arr, there be certain subtle truths buried deep in them old sayings.
Anyone care for an explanation? Here's one for the blackboard then, pay attention and stop mucking about at the back, I can see you passing them notes around, you know...
- so, I've sort-of-not-quite moved home lately: the landlord of my flat (which is sited above a shop that's recently closed down) has spent the last couple of months and a fair few quid in the meanwhile having the shop/flat arrangement converted into a shop/flat/flat sorta thing - essentially most of the shop has now been converted to flat - with a bit left to do some shop-class-teaching sort of thing - and whereas I used to live directly above the shop, I now live partly in it, and over to one side of it, for all the sense that may be made of such a sentence; the other side of what used to be my flat has now become another flat, while I've moved out of that side and gone sideways and down, so that I now also have a cellar. Perferctically simple, see? Fortunately, I still seem to have more or less the same amount of space, if not in fact a bit more - which hopefully won't mean an increase in rent since it's already nearly 600 quid a blinkin' month, arg...
...anyway, during the mess of moving meself, I came downstairs one morning to chuck some stuff in the skip (a sort of dumpster, to those without ken of certain Britain-isms) outside that the builders had graciously put there for all the building-rubbish, and lo-n-beholdy there's a little black kitten snoozin' in the conservatory where the old shop-cat's catflap had given him access to somewhere out of the rain. Now, the back of my flat's not easy to get to, high walls that even love's light wings might have trouble o'er-perching and all that sorta thing, so immediate thinky number one is that the poor little midge must have been dumped by lazy weak and inept human beings of some description: a thunk somewhat confirmed by the lack of response to any local enquiries or web-based slightly more-than-local searches for lost moglets; so, he's currently - and probably now permanently - become a resident at the residence of yours truly.
Suspicions of dumpage have also been somewhat increased by way of the fact that he's such a mad little bugger, I get the impression that whoever got him to begin with didn't realise that kittens were so pointy and sharp in so many directions all at once - maybe someone with youngsters in the family didn't appreciate his youthful 'boisterousness' in attacking every living and non-living thing in sight - or indeed out of sight, since there seem to be many targets for a young cat's claws that can only be got at by diving madly into the darknesses beneath as yet unexplored beds, settees, and the like - and perhaps were a bit concerned that their little nippers would end up covered in little nips, who knows? Indeed at present my right arm appears as if it might have need to meet up with a tall dark handsome skin graft in the not-too-distant future, but that's all par for the course at this stage. The main thing is that he's already very well housetrained (shame I live in a flat, boom-boom!), so at least I don't have to cope with cacky carpets...
- but there you have it, I am one kitten better off than I previously was, and like in the old days before telly, it's up to me to provide the entertainment - hence the running around holding onto bits of string thing of the first instance.
So, I did the head-banging thing and knocked meself flat on me back - the kitten for his part did that very cat-like thing of disappearing to some entirely different part of the house so that there could be no chance whatsoever of any part of blame being laid anywhere near his spiky little feet (who, me? I wasn't even in the room!), while I spent a second or three vigorously rubbing at the ouchy-bit presently occupying the top half of me noggin in that way that you do to hopefully dispel the pain, suddenly wondering why my hand was soaking wet. Well, they say nothing bleeds quite like a scalp-wound, and crikey they're not wrong - it looked like the set-up for an episode of CSI, blood-spatter up the walls, on the carpet, bits of skin and hair stuck to the top of the door-frame, trails and bloody hand-patterns where I got meself over to the kitchen sink, towels caked in claret, lovely - I should've thinked quick at the time to get some photos - a couple of me with blood pouring down me face would've gone well in amongst some of that emotive-whatever-they-call it section where folks are covered in blood all the time, I could've stuck an axe or something in there and it would've looked right at home... up to me elbows in ketchup, eeh. Good job nobody came calling right around then, although I'm sorta sorry I didn't get the chance to give somebody the serious willies. Eh well. My main concern was getting it cleaned off before it got sunk in anywhere, that sort of thing doesn't do much for the decor - less a thing for ambience, and more about ambulance, I'd guess.
...I suppose I kindashouldasorta dragged myself to hospital or something, 'cause it's probably the sort of thing I ought to have got stitched, but all seemed relatively well after a cup of tea and a biscuit, so I thought bollocks to it - after all, I figured there's always someone worse off, no point having 'em waste time on me when there's folks with serious injuries probably lying about the place with bits missing and stuff - and this being a silly injury rather than a serious one, and any missing bits - like blood and bits of skin - being not actually missing but in quite plain sight all over the place, and not being exactly replaceable, well, what the heck. As well as the head-hole, I managed to gain a weird scrape-bruise-burn thing right up the inside of my left arm, and have no idea as to what I could possibly have scraped, scratched, or banged it on in the immediate area to have got it - I'll have to leave it up to Grissom to figure that one out, I reckon. It's currently sporting several shades of blue, black, brown and yellow, like the bloom of some kind of corpse-flower. Marvellous stuff.
And so meanwhile, I am restricting my usual mad bouncing and running about to the main rooms, which are thankfully quite high-ceilinged: the kitten - I've named him Fidget, since he seems to have a fair degree of difficulty in staying in one place for more than a few seconds - is eyeing up my tattered knuckles as I rattle at the keyboard, so I'd better be off to man the trenches for the next assault...
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