Hello chums, Magnus here. Not a lot to report to be honest, I'm plum tuckered out keeping the Tinker stocked up with fresh rabbit. I leave him half a one, carefully dissected, outside his front door every morning because I can never resist having a little nibble first, but it's all demanding and exhausting work and between you and me they all seem less than grateful.
Now as regards this holloway, well I don't go up there much but of course you-know-who is out there every five minutes flaunting those ridiculous ears... And Faber are kindly offering FIVE copies of Holloway by Rob, Stan and Dan (we're good mates, the chaps know a decent cat when they see one) so names in comments as usual and I will draw the winning numbers in about five rabbits' time.
Hello Chums, Magnus here. I am dreadfully sorry this draw has taken me soooo long, it's the weather you see. The sun...the basket... what's a cat to do but languish.
And also we have a new resident here who is thankfully doing some work on the garden. I can't tell you how interesting this is, and such kindness...the cold frame dug over especially for me to use as a litter tray, I am thrilled with it.
Anyway, here are the five winners of a copy of Tom Vowler's debut novel What Lies Within, and a funny old set of numbers this which just goes to show.
I don't know what it goes to show, but anyway check its really you here and send your address to dovegreyreader at gmail.com with I'M A WINNER (or something equally startling and noticeable in the subject line) and your book will be with you drekkly.
69 25 60 7 6 Random numbers generated May 7 2013 at 21:33:26 by www.psychicscience.org
Hello Chums, Magnus here having a really busy time, but it's fine ...as you can see I can walk on water too so all in a day's work for a bright cat like me.
29 12 1 Random numbers generated Apr 21 2013 at 18:54:52 by www.psychicscience.org
And who says No.1 never wins!
1 ~ jzzy55
12 ~ Alison Collins
29 ~ Jane
Check it's really you against your comment number here and then send your address to her indoors at dovegreyreader at gmail dot com and your copy will pop through your door, and many thanks to Bloomeowsbury for sending them.
Hrmph...did you see all those blog inches that stupid dog was given on Saturday??
Not that I'm envious but really, I mean some of us came from very humble origins, abandoned, rescued and have had to claw our way out of Feraldom.
And forgive me for saying so but it's obvious who has the brains amongst the animal population in this house... right??
Anyway three copies of that book with the really long title that you have just read about by Jon Thingy can go to deserving homes worldwide, so names in comments as usual and eventually I will apply my complex algorithms to select the winners.
Magnus here, recovering from my third rather Embarrassing Episode of 'Getting Lost.'
I'm sure when they took my bits away they took my compass too, this isn't my fault. I always follow the dogs on their walks but I get distracted...and then I've gone a bit too far from home, at least a good league hence... and I've lost them...and I don't really know where I am...and I feel like a lost kitten again and I don't know what to do.
So I sit and wait until one of them comes to find me hours later because I've missed lunch and I never miss lunch or an afternoon in my basket, and it's getting dark and the rude wind's wild lament is doing that, and they walk along the lanes shouting 'Maggers' and 'Magpuss' (yes they do call me that) and I miaow from the hedge because I am just sitting there thinking, oh dear... fails my heart I know not how and I can go no longer, but I pretend I meant to be there all along and was just doing things.
Anyway it's alright now, I'm home in time to do this Wenceslas prize draw which is what I was most worried about.
'No,' I said as Bookhound carried me in the door, because why bother to mark my footsteps my good page tread thou in them boldly when there's the offer of a lift.
'No, I will eat that lovely pouch of Whiskas in gravy with swan plover lark something indeterminate and drink that dish of milk later, first I must do my duty,'
And so the winners of a copy of Wenceslas by Carol Ann Duffy are...
26 2 34 60 8
Random numbers generated Dec 2 2012 at 10:59:50 by www.psychicscience.org
2 ~ Nancy
8 ~ Carol Norton
26 ~ Lesley-Ann
34 ~ Liz F
60 ~ Marilyn
Congratulations everyone, thank you for entering and thank you to Pi-cat-dor for the books. Check it's really you here and if you could send your addresses to dovegreyreader at gmaildot com subject line I'M A WINNER or some such, King Wenceslas and all that poetic crusty goodness will be dropping through your catflap letterbox with haste.
The Kaffe designed Tumbling Blocks jumper seemed the perfect attire for someone like me, back in the days when I ran that little quilt shop and taught patchwork and quilting in the room over Bookhound's interior design showroom in Tavistock (now Cafe Liaison by the Church Green for anyone wondering where). The Quilt Loft was a wonderful moment in my life that would be made complete with this jumper, and all things considered I think I did pretty well to get the ribbing of the front done. Sensing that this jumper might not happen anytime soon I took it to a local and very accomplished knitter for completion, presenting her with two inches of ribbing and a bag of wool scraps left over from just about everything my mum and I had ever knitted. As you can see Magnus admires the detail too... before settling down for a kip the minute my back was turned. The result still makes me smile as I recall the joy wearing this jumper brought me back then and, though I don't wear it these days, I would never part with it
The second Kaffe-fession might have been so different but for Bookhound's common sense.
Browsing for Christmas gifts in the little shop of the accomplished knitter who had finished my jumper to such great acclaim, Bookhound spied a kit for the Kaffe Fassett Temples jacket. Pattern, wool and needles so he bought it for me. Halfway home he turned round, went back to the shop and exchanged the kit for the jacket ready made which is why I was able to wear it on Christmas day and intermittently ever since, and am not now rummaging around in the loft for the wool and the two inches of ribbing. He knows me so well.
The design is exquisite, the colours gentle and subtle, and being honest I would never have finished it in a month of Christmases and of course the minute he laid eyes on it...
Remember this... Well, now that there is a chill in the air Magnus has taken ownership of Rocky's Aga mat... and pays homage to the cushion...
Bless.
Enjoy your extra end-of-BST hour today everyone.
I haven't decided when to take mine yet, but when I do it is magic... I make the most of this day and I have even got the geraniums indoors, let winter commence, and I do hope everyone in the path of the Frankenstorm over in the U.S. is safe and well.
I think I mentioned before how thrilled and delighted I was when Brandon Mabley made contact with me earlier this year on behalf of the Kaffe Fassett studios. He and Kaffe had been on a photo shoot at Port Eliot when the subject of dovegreyreader arose, and when the subsequent offer of some books came in I am afraid I was hard-pushed to wait a polite twenty seconds or so before dashing off a reply of the effusive affirmative variety.
I can't tell you the infinite pleasures to be had from a stack of books by Kaffe Fasset. I keep one open on the bookstand in the kitchen at all times for a constant stream of colour and inspiration in my eye, the others are always to hand, but I will admit that until now I have baulked at the idea of making a Kaffe quilt. I would stare at the colours and try and figure out a system... get some sort of control of the patterns and the combinations so that they would 'match', but it is only since reading Dreaming in Colour (more of which soon) that I realise why. This may all be down to my British reticence and fear of flamboyance, coupled with unwittingly allowing myself to drop anchor for far too long in the safe harbour of the colour wheel and small-scale prints.
I have engineered one or two plucky escapes from convention... the Emily Dickinson quilt 'The Inundation of Spring' now safely stowed chez Kevin From Canada... and then the little quiltsuke I made for Port Eliot guests in the dovegreyreader tent this year... A sort of mini test excursion into Kaffe-land, perhaps a limbering up for the big one.
As each successive rural Devon winter looms large, I always make time to sort out my creativity for the months ahead and get some projects on the go, as well as dragging out all the unfinished ones....and putting those away.
This winter I have established Craft Thursdays.
Bookhound will be out helping the Gamekeeper on his shoot every Thursday between now and the end of January so Nell, Magnus and I will be home alone. There is of course absolutely nothing to stop me being creative when I am not home alone, but somehow it is easier when I am. I have the house to myself and can spread the fabrics and the cutting mat and the iron all around the kitchen, switch the radio on and work away at it all sans interruption whilst the weather invariably lashes down outside. Magnus is the first of our cats in all this time to truly embrace the art of patchwork and always arranges himself for a good snooze amongst the fabrics. So, a bit behind the times, I have been slowly plucking up the courage to Fassett my inner Kaffe.
I have been slipping a few large-scale fabulously blousy flower fabrics into the stash now and again, going so far beyond my colour comfort zone that I am now not really sure what that is. Then adding some really zany polka dot combinations when I saw them and putting it all in the mythical Kaffe Quilt pile... for one day... eventually.
Anyone out there who understands the principles of the stash will be at one with this purchasing policy.
So wedged in the rut of tradition have I found myself, that I feel sure it is the endless borders and lattices I create, and the huge amount of quilting they require, that has stymied me in the past, leaving me at the moment with that Great Unfinished Millenium Quilt hanging over me like the Quilt of Damocles. Every time I decide to try something new a great cloud of guilt descends and gives me a stiff lecture, telling me I really should finish that first, it is now 2012 after all....some Millenium Quilt that's turning out to be. Friends have suggested I machine quilt it, or even send it off to be finished by someone else and pay the going rate which both feel like heinous crimes.
One day I'll get it finished...one day.
But succumbing to that guilt can cut off all other avenues of inspiration too, and I for one have settled for the wall-hanging as a sort of finishable allowance in the meantime, yet so much of the fun of full-size quilt-making is in the thinking. Then follows the real planning... choosing the design and the colours before letting them wriggle around in my mind a while before I finally decide, and then the gathering of fabrics from everywhere. It is never cheap when you buy fabric in quantity but with Cowslip Workshops just across the Tamar I head there regularly and have been adding to the stash gradually.
Eventually it seemed I might have enough to fire up the Bernina and progress, just dip in a toe and see, because the next thrill is the cutting...and the piecing... the pressing of the seams...watching the pieces start to come together and the sheer size of the thing, along with the sense of achievement when it is done. Once I really got into just putting one great big dazzly colour next to another big dazzly colour there was no stopping me and I have hit on Kaffe's Diamond Quilt as the one for me. Of course, by this time my modest stash is running low so I scoured the internet for more fabrics...even wondered about buying from the U.S....coveted the stock in a shop in Kew in London ... until eventually Bookhound and I took a Sunday trip back to Cowslip Workshops. As I walked in the door, to be met by Jo the owner saying 'Have you seen the gorgeous new Kaffe Fassett fabrics??', I knew I was in the right place...on my doorstep for once, and at £3 per fat quarter, the cheapest by far... and good news, they have an online shop now too.
And how excited am I about these new additions... British reticence be gone..
Well as you can see Magnus has made a good recovery from his little surgical intervention (no stitches, just sort of cut and ...er pop 'em out...sorry TMI) and is wondering which section of the feline choir to join now he is a catsrato.
Did you see what I did there.
He was already one cool cat, (Rocky would turn in his corner if he knew how much Magnus adores the V.E.T. purrs at him and sits so nicely on the table) the most tranquil, untwitched and adoring cat that we have ever had, which is probably because we found him very young, wrapped him up and carried him around for weeks, but he is now feeling even more relaxed about life in general and prize draws in particular... So many thanks to Quercus books who are offering five SIGNED copies of The Lives She Left Behind by James Long to readers here and the books can go worldwide. Names in comments as usual which gains you a number, and Magnus will press the buttons and choose the five winners from the Random Number Generator the next time he is awake, which will probably be towards the end of the week.
Magnus here, it's prize draw time and as.... shhhh, she said not to say... it's her cake and candles day... not quite a Very Big One but almost, they've gone off out and I am in charge here OK.
Thank you for your concern about my tail the other week, and then I have that operation thing on Friday ... how could they do that?? I didn't agree to any of it so they'll have to catch me first, and just as my purr was dropping nicely into a bass, and I suppose I'll be a soprano any day now...rats.
Anyhow, in the interests of safety and as I am home alone with 'it', I am indulging in some covert CCTV surveillance from the safety of the desk. I am by far the the most sensible of the two of us so this choosing a winner thing is safe with me, just add your name in comments to be in with a chance of winning one of five copies of The Ladies Paradise by Emile Zola and I'll do the rest, alright chums, and the books can go worldwide, so go on that person in Ulan Bator, this means you as well.
And a big thank you to Oxford University Purrress, the books will be ready in a week or so and they will post them out to the winners drekkly.
Right, while they are out I'm just off to sharpen my claws on that nice sofa over there and then I'll probably go out and find a few voles to bring indoors for a play.
I can think of a million and one reasons why I should not have enjoyed Clare Balding's recently published autobiography, My Animals and Other Family and yes, it is a deliberate play (with the family's permission) on Gerald Durrell's book My Family and Other Animals.
But firstly, and for those who have been on Mars through the summer, Clare Balding is the national treasure who guided the TV ship through the vast oceans of Olympic and Paralympic coverage and basically left many of the other anchors dead in the water...oooh I didn't realise where that analogy was going... I'll quit while I'm winning, but anyway, our Clare was just brill. Never knowingly under-prepped, and with highlighter pen, swathes of paper and all the right info at her fingertips, Clare Balding has been crowned the new Des Lynham (he was the last one who had the gift of the perfect sports anchor) Plenty of us who may never have watched horse racing in our lives may well switch onto it now because Clare will be doing that next.
But I generally don't enjoy autobiographies.
And I generally don't enjoy celebrity autobiographies.
And despite my best efforts and all that ancestral ostling, I have never been that keen on horses either since that one in Horseguards, Whitehall, sneezed on my new ankle socks when I was about six. If I am honest horses scare me a little too.
I mean they are big, right??
I was walking back down the field with the dogs the other day and suddenly sensed something at my shoulder... in fact it was two 'somethings', riderless horses that had appeared silently out of nowhere, and I jumped at least a furlong. Little Nell couldn't be seen for dust and Barney the Brave squared up to take them out, and I just looked a complete idiot and yelled 'Go away' very unhelpfully when they started a bit of a charge. Clare would have gone and stroked their noses, produced sugar cubes out of her pocket, whispered soothing words in their pricked ears and probably ridden them bareback from whence they had strayed.
And My Animals and Other Family is horses and dogs, Clare's best friends all, front cover to back cover... Valkyrie, Volcano, Frank, Hattie, Ellie May, Lily, Quirk, Stuart, Henry et al and Clare's equine heritage clearly far stronger than mine, her father Ian Balding champion horse trainer to Royalty and also the trainer of the famous Mill Reef. Though not trained by Ian Balding Shergar gets a mention in passing too. I now feel I must own up that we've always made awful (really awful) jokes about Shergar here (he was the prize racer who was horse-napped and never heard of again) and tried to work out how many tins of priceless dog food a horse that size might equate too, and I feel a bit bad about that now.
I hope I can be forgiven because I am warming to horses now that everything has been explained, and you have no idea of the mysteries that needed unravelling. I have several horse-loving friends and have always dozed off when the conversation comes around to laminitis and colic.
But I now know about laminitis (too much grass eating = nitrogen-compound overload = poorly feet) and hoof oil, and riding short and upsides. I know you must keep your line and kick on and take a pull now and then, and above all you need a strong, steady lower leg for dressage.
Then there are the bits. Not to be confused with what we euphemistically call Magnus's feline manhood, and his bits which are for surgical intervention and removal next Friday, but I mean who knew there were that many bits, as in the things that go in a horse's mouth... Pelhams, Kimblewicks, Dr Bristols and Waterfords, even a Balding.
I know officially that a furlong is 220 yards whilst a hand is about four inches, as in the span of a flat hand, and it was Henry VIII who standardized that measurement in 1541 having ordered the destruction of all stallions below fifteen hands, and all mares below thirteen hands because Britain's war horses were getting a bit puny. Horses won't stand still to be measured with a tape so hands are quicker and easier. Clare's desk is ten hands wide (Shetland pony sized), mine is seventeen (probably big enough for the Grand National my desk) ... my computer screen is six hands (no messing with tiddly screens here)... my chair is five hands off the ground, yes I like this. I might start measuring babies and toddlers in hands in future, instead of all that fuss pinning them down on a measuring mat ... a newborn baby would be about five hands, so much easier, surely parents wouldn't mind.
The intricacies of polo are also explained, and though I didn't think I really wanted to know this I was actually very interested, because it might all come in useful when I meet up with my student nursing best friend at our Great Ormond Street forty year reunion next weekend. She has just taken up polo ( Wiz, if you are reading this...why?? Wasn't the competitive rowing arduous enough??) so I can ask her what her handicap is and ensure that she knows to be decisive and strong and 'ride off each other' and never to yank her pony's mouth. She has just bought a mallet so I can be interested in that too.
But Clare Balding's humour, and there is plenty of it and all charmingly self-deprecating, is leavened with some harsh reality.
Clare's father, and to some extent her mother, and most definitely her grandmother, are so deeply involved with their horses that Clare and her brother must just get on with life, be self-contained and put up or shut up. Family holidays are a rarity, though horse riding opportunities are plentiful, and Clare was up on Mill Reef almost before she could walk by the looks of it, and even I can tell that is one fine horse... ...but it would have been no good fancying a turn at BMX racing or ballet or violin lessons or something, it would have to be horses or nothing. When Clare arrives at Downe House school as a boarder (the writer Elizabeth Bowen was an alumna) and sans pets and horses, she feels completely out of her depth, both socially and academically and the harsh realities of life start to take their toll with events taking several desperate turns as Clare tries hard to fit in and be one of the gang. In fact when she stops doing that and decides to be herself it's all a whole lot easier, but to this day her father remains notoriously difficult to impress and more especially if you are a woman.
Surely he loved that interview with Chad's dad??
Surely he was overflowing with pride when Clare presented the flowers at an Olympic medal ceremony in front of 80,000 cheering fans who were actually cheering for her??
In fact there is one very touching moment of redemption in the book when Clare's father does recognise her achievements, whilst along the way Clare recounts, self-effacingly as always, her successful years as a jockey and the trials of making the weight, a near mash-up in the last furlongs of a race with Princess Anne, breakfast with the Queen chez Balding and plenty more. The book ends with Clare's acceptance to read English at Newnham in Cambridge, though she will need time off in the first week to race at Chepstow, and for which she will have to ask Director of Studies, Mrs Gooder...
'You would like to go where?' asked Mrs Gooder ...You and I shall make a deal. There is one page in the newspaper that I do not understand and, if you promise that you will explain this to me, you may ride at Chepstow.' She opened a copy of the Guardian to the racing page and gestured. 'Might as well be gobbledegook. I do not like to feel ignorant.'
I feel much less ignorant now too and have really enjoyed my canter through My Animals and Other Family in the company of Clare Balding, and so did Little Nell who one minute was sitting quite peacably on my lap as I read and the next thing had chunked a complete corner off the book (witness that picture above) which sort of felt forgiveable in the end, because Clare's dogs would probably have done that too, and she wouldn't have got cross either.
All this talk of family and animals feels like a good excuse, if ever I needed one, so here is the latest Nell and Magnus Do Battle clip, and as you can see the rate the non-identical twins are going Magnus might not be needing that trip to the vets next Friday...
Bit of a cheat there on the tail grab but two falls and a submission seems to clinch it. Magnus never uses his claws and always comes back for more, and aren't those Sprocker ears coming along gorgeously too, Little Nell now all of three hands. Magnus possibly two.
Don't miss My Animals and Other Family, it really is a treat of a read.
Nell is growing legs and suddenly that little plump puppy tummy is much further off the ground than it was, and she is also sprouting the most delectable set of ears. The inseperable terrible two get up to all manner of mischief in the garden... Magnus meanwhile has brought in his first livestock, a tiny vole which may or may not still be behind the freezer. He is slowly growing into his ears and also learning the gentle art of the verandah repose...
The non-identical twins (now both about twelve weeks old) have had a very busy day.
Cat-flap wars... Magnus sits outside the back door, just biding his time and plotting... Little Nell gets the lie of the land... Let battle commence... Then off out into the garden where Nell has discovered apples... ...and Magnus has learnt how to climb a tree. We are all now absolutely exhausted.
We seem to be cornering the market in cute here but had thought the puppy wouldn't be arriving until after the Olympics... wrong, and so last Tuesday evening we set off to collect Little Nell.
This you may recall is the litter of Sprockers (Springer x Cocker spaniel) that the Gamekeeper's dog Rusty has sired, three sisters and we had pick of the litter.
Well how impossible is that because what on earth are you supposed to look for.
In the end we agreed we wanted one that looked like Rusty.
But after years of Alpha Male dogs we wanted the little girl that looked really quiet and un-boisterous...
Perhaps a little over-awed by us and by life...
So not the one that leapt into our arms the minute it saw us and squeaked 'I'm yours'
We'd look for the one sitting at the back...
The one getting crawled over by the others...
It wasn't hard. Two completely brown ones looking uncannily like Tag, the Gamekeeper's new acquisition, and one predominantly white one with a few brown markings (more Rusty-like) getting trampled on by her pushy sisters.
Yes. I know it's going to show the dirt and we'll regret this after a muddy walk...
And there will be white dog hairs everywhere... We had the meeting to sort too so we decided to get that done and dusted immediately.
Bit of skirting around by Magnus who quickly decided Nell could be his mum, whilst Nell quickly decided that Magnus could sub for her sisters left behind, and to our complete surprise they curled up together in the dog crate and slept like little angels.
That angelic pose didn't last of course and they now spend the day bundling and slam-dunking each other whilst the classic impasse involves each grabbing the other's tail between baby teeth and not letting go. We are having huge fun just watching them, but, at eight weeks old the pair, it is a bit like having non-identical newborn twins. To the vets on Monday for injections for both of them...and we'll just have to put them together into the old Trago Mills cat box done up with bailer twine because we only have one.
And do you remember another cat who used to do this on the kitchen table?? Isn't it funny how cats just know exactly where they want to be.
And only four weeks since his arrival as a shivering bundle that could sit in the palm of the hand, don't kittens turn into proper cats so quickly.
This is definitely like having a new baby around but I am a health visitor after all and we all know how much babies love routine and respond to cues, so we have managed to get Magnus the Tiny into a round of play, handling, food, litter tray, sleep, play, handling etc. Thus far his world extends as far as the kitchen with occasional accompanied forays into the TV cosy, while we get him used to us being around, the noises of the house and also train him to respond to the 'This is Your Food' sound of the spoon ringing on the dish. You can't train cats to do much that is biddable beyond this we have found, but hopefully it will be the way we can call him in from the great outdoors when he is eventually let loose.
He has a Magnus-gym of assorted playthings...cotton reels, bells, ping-pong balls, little furry mice etc dangling from string, some balls of wool, bubble wrap, a few empty boxes and a wind up hamster (from the Tinker) all of which he gives much high-spirited attention along with discovering things like his own shadow and the restful benefits of elusive but occasional sun puddles
Current favourites??
Hours of fun with an egg box and a mushroom brush... Meanwhile the Dowagers are still giving him a wide berth, but they are coming around very slowly.
As you can see the little chap is making good progress, getting the hang of the self-grooming thing and at his last weigh in (kitchen scales) had gained a magnusificent 12ozs... Just for today we might call him MagnusMurrayPuss because we will all be living the stress of Andy Murray and the Wimbledon final this afternoon. For those who haven't heard... Britain has a player through to the Men's Singles Tennis final for the first time in umpteezillion years so it's all a bit of an occasion and given that Virginia Wade won the Women's Singles in the year of the Silver Jubilee, wouldn't it be nice if Andy could bag it for this Diamond year.
It's obviously 'New Animal' week around here and sometimes perhaps things are just 'meant' to happen aren't they.
The Rocky-sized cat 'space' and that rug in front of the Aga has been empty for quite a while now, and we had long ago decided a replacement would somehow just turn up. So Bookhound just happened to go out for a walk on Monday afternoon and after about an hour the phone rang...
'I've found a kitten in the lane...and I've waited and waited...'
Now we had seen a stray cat hanging around of late. In fact we had done a double take because it was a bit of a slimmed down Rocky look-alike and indeed it hadn't gone unnoticed by the Dowagers. But no sign of the kitten's mother now, no sign of any other kittens and just this little tiny bedraggled waif sitting under a leaf shivering and wet and scared. Nor would it run off, it just looked all beseeching and helpless at Bookhound having decided he was the one, and by this time Bookhound had morphed into Pet Rescuer Extraordinaire anyway so it was never in doubt..
So in came this little tiny shivering bundle, no bigger than the palm of your hand and out went the Dowagers in high dudgeon, and we sat and stared as it clung onto whichever of us was holding it as we deliberated what to do.
Should we have left it there??
If it is feral what chance of socialising it??
How old is it...it is eighteen years since we had a kitten...what do we feed it on??
Will the Dowagers ever come back??
In the end we rang the vet who said don't whatever you do think about putting it back where you found it hoping the mother might come back for it because she won't and a fox will get it, or it will die of exposure. The most likely scenario seems to be that the mother had now spread her kittens around to fend for themselves... if it's young enough not to run off and for you to be able to pick it up then it's not gone feral yet so you can either bring it into us and we will pass it on to the Cat's Protection League... or you can keep it.
'We'll keep it' said Bookhound, in a flash.... I must remember this moment when it starts laying into the sofa with its claws and dragging headless rabbits in through the cat flap to share with us.
By this time it is 6pm. Bookhound hunts out the litter tray and brings in the dog crate so we can keep it safely in the kitchen for a few weeks and I head off to source emergency supplies of kitten food, kitten milk and cat litter.
We decide it is a boy. In fact we think he is so young, perhaps four to five weeks, that we may have found him in the nick of time. He is very docile, loves being handled, knows what food is and eats it and can lap efficiently, is manfully coping with a litter tray instantly and can just about walk but is not a runner yet, so we are doing lots of holding and stroking and pretending to be mother cats. The Dowagers meanwhile are giving it all a wide berth with some added sound effects.
Then we have several hours of 'Choosing the Name' and we wonder whether it is a sign that the book I wrote about on Monday was by Otto de Kat. Except he doesn't look like an Otto so we go through everything else until we decide there must be something Orkney-ish we can call on.
And then we remembered that lovely day we had in Kirkwall wandering around St Magnus Cathedral a few weeks ago.
And we look at this tiny little bundle curled up in his blanket and we say 'Magnus' in that sing-song kitten way you do and see if it sounds better than the previous 634 suggestions, which it undoubtedly does, and his big ears, which he needs to grow into, perk up and he looks just the ticket.
So we are agreed.
Meet Magnus... Who admittedly has a way to go before he fills the Rocky space but he's trying hard...
He has had a much-needed bath without protest which is a first. We have 'swum' kittens before to deal with fleas and always been worsted in the process because they obviously think you are trying to drown them. This little chap just floated happily in the water while we lathered him with baby shampoo and lemon juice, which the fleas hate apparently, and fully expecting the flea rush to his ears but to our surprise we saw no sign of any.
Next it was off to the vet who does free Kitten Checks. Little Magnus is basically a set of fur-covered ribs with a toothpick at each corner, very underweight at 1lb 2ozs, malnourished and would probably not have survived much longer out in the open, but he passed muster so we have to keep him safe and warm, feed him up, handle him as much as we can which thus far he seems to love, and just hope for the best.
Gillian Clarke: At the Source: A Writer's Year 'On the first day of January I open a new journal and mark the clean page with a date, location, a first sentence...it is always an unlined, hardback black book, three inches by five..The first words print the field of snow...'
Robert Macfarlane: Mountains of the Mind: a History of a Fascination 'Contemplating the immensities of deep time, you face, in a way that is both exquisite and horrifying, the total collapse of your present, compacted to nothingness by the pressures of pasts and futures too extensive to envisage...'
Tony Judt: The Memory Chalet 'Thus I realize that as a child I was observing far more than understood. Perhaps all children do this, in which case what distinguishes me is only the opportunity that catastrophic ill-health has afforded me to retrieve those observations in a consistent manner... I have a variety of uses to which I can put them. For this alone I consider myself a very lucky man.'
Inspiring...
Text by Simon Martin: Mark Hearld's Work Book 'The artist Mark Hearld takes his inspiration from nature, creating bold, enchanting visions of the landscapes, plants and animals that surround us...'
Listening...
Virginia Woolf: To The Lighthouse “Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,” said Mrs Ramsay. “But you’ll have to be up with the lark,” she added.
To her son these words conveyed an extraordinary joy, as if it were settled, the expedition were bound to take place, and the wonder to which he had looked forward, for years and years it seemed, was, after a night’s darkness and a day’s sail, within touch...
Team Tolstoy A year-long shared read of War & Peace through the centenary year of Count Lyev Nikolayevich Tolstoy's death, starting on his birthday, September 9th 2010.
Everyone is welcome to board the troika and read along, meeting here on the 9th of every month to chat in comments about the book.
Team Tolstoy Bookmark Don't know your Bolkonskys from your Rostovs?
An aide memoire that can be niftily printed and laminated into a double-sided bookmark.
I try to be extremely careful about any images used on this blog, most of them are my own and if not I check permissions for use very carefully.
If you think I have breached copyright rules in any way please let me know.
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