Apparently…

Jeremy Kyle is guilty of attempted murder.  Well I’m not surprised.  I never did think much of that bloke. His victim was this exquisitely made up girl whose story is covered in The Daily Mail (or insert epithet of your choice):

Then I read the article a little more closely.  The young woman is holding Jeremy Kyle responsible for the injuries that she sustained at the hands of her charming coke head boy friend, even though he had been beating her regularly for a decade and she had two children with him. Attempted murder was never an issue for the prosecution in this case in spite of the Daily Mail’s fit of hyperbole.  He was found guilty of Grievous Bodily Harm and received a two year custodial sentence.

The journalist continually emphasises the fact that Rebecca Langley hails from a middle class backgound.  Is this a ploy to attract the sympathy of the Daily Mail readership?  She is still ‘middle class’, according to the introduction.  Didn’t she relinquish that status when she got herself pregnant at sixteen?  I’d always thought that when it came to social mobility that one’s status, as is the case in buying shares, can go down as well as up.  Guess I was wrong.  Not to The Daily Mail.  Once a middle class lass, always a middle class lass. That is her birthright and no amount of recklessness or fecklessness can change that.  Apparently.

Rain-Washed Sunrise

Life Collage

I am concerned about Ginger.  He can be a warm, affectionate cat.  Today he trotted towards me, obviously eager to see me.  He jumped up on the arm of my chair and we rubbed faces.  We did this for a few minuted until he jumped down, walked over to his own chair and curled up and went to sleep.

Earlier though it had been a different story.  Nobby has a neighbour – a young woman in her late teens who has two dogs of her own.  As soon as she walks through the door he starts spitting and hissing at her.  We think it is because he smells dogs on her.  As the girl entered the room I picked him up and carried him to the next room where he spat and hissed at me.  Later when the girl had gone Ginger was released from his prison.  That was when he trotted over to me and rubbed against me, almost as though he were apologising.

I am concerned that he may exhibit this behaviour on the street and that his target may not be an animal lover.  I have surfed the net looking for solutions.  There’s lots of advice about dealing with aggressive dogs but nothing about aggressive cats.  Apart from ‘take him to the vet’ because ‘he may have a neurological disorder’.  Ginger is not actually our cat.  He moved between his own home and Nobby’s.  The trouble is that we have no idea where his other home is.  Nobby has tried to follow him on several occasions but he is a wily old customer and Nobby has never succeeded in following him to his destination.

It is quite a tangled affair. And it is a dilemma I do not welcome.

I would welcome some helpful advice from all you people out there who know something, anything about aggression in cats.

Thank you in advance.

No Man’s Land

am about to sound self pitying and self obsessed. *so be it*.

I want to disappear. I want to curl up in a ball in some dark cubby hole and remain there for the rest of my life. In my nightmares I am tried, convicted by some celestial court, and sentenced to death.

For all my secret crimes. I don’t belong here – on the planet. I never have.

And the fear it is real. as real as I am. and my thoughts: they are corrupt and incoherent. i am lost. i am irretrievable – standing on no man’s land between life and death and paralysed by fear and indecision.

Somebody help me.

Hold your breath, close your eyes and jump.  But I am so lazy I cannot tear myself away from the binge-purge circle

Smug

Ginger…

…being a cutie-pie again:

Ginger Montage

Pills of Prussian Blue

They stuffed me full of multicoloured pills: coral, violet, Prussian blue and then they told me that I was ‘medication resistant’ and so they gave me more.  When I protested they called me ‘non-compliant’ and ‘unreasonable’.  They dulled the passing days.  I was beginning to see the attraction.  They lulled me into temporary oblivion.  They gave me a doped-up, saccharine view of the bleak region I inhabited.  It was an escape from the perpetually chaotic atmosphere of the ward, from the screaming and the shouting, from the fighting and the crying.  They made me forget, if only momentarily, that I existed without possibility of solitude in a transparent anteroom.  They called it permanent observation.  To me without the aid of medication it was hell on earth but I reflected that The Ward Attention Seeker had thrived on it. But I remained uneasy.  Each tablet drew me further into the backstreets of a world of declining aspirations and diminishing horizons.