Last week, I found out what it’s like being a house cat. Hannah invited me up to Aberdeen for the week, and for those few blissful days I was the ‘house man’: needy; domesticated; reasonably well trained. Hannah was out all day working, and the weather was too bad to do much outside, so I spent most mornings sitting on the windowsill staring at passers by, only occasionally coming down to scratch the furniture. I let myself out and walked around a bit in the afternoons, then came back and sometimes had a nap. |
| When Hannah came back from work, I whined at her until she gave me food. I discovered quite quickly that if I asked for food again about half an hour after eating, she would normally give me some – but only if I was really annoying. This second offering of food was usually Toblerone, which I like very much. Once or twice, Hannah got annoyed because she had left the Toblerone within my reach during the day, and naturally I had eaten all of it. It was a big mistake of her to make, but an important lesson for anyone looking to keep a domesticated creature. Since it was so cold outside that no one really passed by the window, I got bored of sitting on the windowsill after a few days. Years ago, I’d seen videos on the internet of cats using human toilets racking up millions of views, and it got me thinking. Unfortunately, my own attempts to achieve viral success resulted in a permanent suspension of my account for violating the Youtube community guidelines.  |
| After a thoroughly delightful week, I took a quick 7 hour train down to London. I emerged from St Pancras and entered central London feeling like a country bumpkin character from a musical that visits a big city for the first time. Lights, cars, sirens, people, music. Maybe I’d spent too long in Scotland, but this place was so bright and busy! It was literally fizzing. Yeah, literally. Oh boy did it get me in the #FridayFeeling. I got to Tom and Alice’s boat and discovered I’d left all my pants and socks in Aberdeen. Shit. Better do everything I can to reduce sweatiness to make these clothes last the weekend without stinking to high heaven. But then I started walking towards the tube (I was going to Finsbury park) and a boris bike caught my eye. I rode for 30 mins, taking care to stay nice and chilly. But when I got there… disaster! There weren’t any docking stations for almost 3km. So now I was late, and the clock was ticking on this bike. I cycled for 20 minutes to a dock. Then got a Lime bike and cycled ANOTHER 20 minutes to get back to Finsbury. Nightmare. So shortly after deciding to keep my activity to a minimum, I had ended up cycling for almost an hour and a half. Brilliant.   That evening, the Grain crew were convening at Rowans, the most notorious bowling alley in our nation’s capital. Now one thing you should know about me is that I am an expert bowler. Could have gone pro, in fact, but I turned it down so I could pursue my one true passion of being unemployed. But – and I tried at length to explain this on the night but absolutely no one would believe me – I need bowling shoes. Without bowling shoes, I can hardly keep the ball out of the gutters. When I came in last place, I was mortified, naturally, and went to great lengths to tell everyone who would listen about how good I normally am. To be honest though, I think everyone was too busy sinking jars to notice what the scoreboard was saying. You lot. Bloody bonkers.   On Saturday, after taking Josh on my favourite ride in London, I joined Conrad for his birthday bash. It was an exquisite display of hosting from Conrad and Em, with an eclectic mix of guests from each of the many chapters of Conrad’s life. Present at the party was a man who owns a hummus factory, and a man who quit his big shot city life to become a gardener on a country estate. I told the hummus chap that I actually prefer the regular supermarket hummus (which is what he makes) to Sabra, and he accused me of flattery.   Sunday morning was a struggle, but I managed to rendezvous with Will and Eliot more or less at the agreed time. We cruised around the countryside west of London and discussed the 3rd annual ‘hard and horrible’ ride, which we’re doing in a couple of weeks. We’re trying to think of a good name for the ride. Something we can put on a sticker. Ideas appreciated. The premise is this: we meet up in mid december and do a really long bike ride. Current name ideas (all of which shorten neatly into acronyms) are: – St Mary’s Annual Christmas Killer: Hard And Extremely Dangerous – Two Wheels Are Torture – Freezing Ultralong Cyclist Killer Keen as ever to hear how your week has been. Love to you all, James |
… And i’m *Feline* good
