Good news! We passed the home inspection. That means we’re allowed to adopt the kittens. The twinnage had so, so, set their hearts on these furry monsters that I was terrified of breaking their young hearts by failing. We’ve had so many false starts because there’s a shortage of cats available for adoption, at least in our part of the country. Honestly, I was more anxious about this inspection than I was about the viva for my doctorate. On the day the inspector was due to arrive, all I could see in the house was KITTEN HAZARDS, EVERYWHERE. Looking around, you could be forgiven for assuming that our home was designed purely to offer a smorgasbord of untimely demises for cats. We got lucky with the twinnage: they were never the sort of toddlers who needed to be fenced off from the bleach under the sink or the saw in the garage or the sabre tooth tiger in the bathroom. But kittens, I’m reliably informed, are trouble.
Against all manner of odds, we passed. The inspector was thorough – oh so thorough – but fair. Maybe it helped that she was a knitter, too. So in a few days’ time, we become the legally liable lovingly legit slaves of two 13-ish-week-old tearaways. What could possibly go wrong? Plenty, that’s what could go wrong. I can practically see the curtains and the houseplants – not to mention my knitting – quivering at the prospect.
These poor sweet kittens started life dumped in a cardboard box beside a busy road. We’re new to being owned by pets, but I’m confident at least that these particular trouble-makers will know nothing but love and comfort from now on, which I hope will help compensate for their rubbish start in life. (But as a lifelong cat-allergic, I’m seriously stocking up on the antihistamines.)
Another thing has happened, and this one is considerably less cute and fluffy. I mean… that is to say… it’s quite hard to write this… difficult to say the words… I turned 50. 50! Empires have risen and fallen in less time, not that I’d know because I’ve failed to preside over a single empire in my half-century on this planet. I can no longer pretend to be young. It’s not so many decades since I regarded fifty as properly old. Reader, I’m trying to revise that opinion. Trying. Really really trying.
It’s difficult to write anything funny about turning 50, despite the fact that the twinnage find my advanced decrepitude utterly hilarious and aren’t shy about expressing the fact. Yeah, thanks kids. That said, their birthday cards were adorable. (Yes, two children produced three cards: don’t ask.) Their excitement about the cats’ arrival is palpable:-
I’d hoped for some sort of pay-off for turning 50, such as enhanced wisdom or summat. But nope, I’m no wiser than I was at 49 (or at 12 because 12-year-olds know everything, according to the twinnage). At 50 my brain is full, and has been forced to implement a one-fact-in, one-fact-out, policy. Want to remember the capital of Tajikistan? Fine, but in compensation you’ll have to sacrifice all knowledge of where you left your car keys. Need to memorise a recipe? That’s cool, but the penalty is forgetting the name of one of your children, which could get awkward at the dinner table. These days, I write a lot of things down on paper. Then I forget where I left the paper.
There isn’t any knitting in this post, but it’s happening. I’ll show you soon. (I’m mostly working on a new design for a Stylecraft promotion, which is very exciting.) In the meantime, would you like another kitten photo? I hope so…