Manners

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When I was a little girl, there were certain levels of behaviour from my sister and I. We were not exactly of the generation “Children should be seen and not heard” but as the up-and-coming young veterinary surgeon my father expected my mother to keep an immaculate home, maintain a full-time job and fully appointed social calendar and keep us two presentable and well-mannered.

We absorbed these lessons as if by osmosis – we were never told to “mind our p’s and q’s”, or remember to say please and thank you, we just did. Those were the days when you could be socially mobile… it was just on our local news that the East Midlands is considered the worst place to live in the country. Apparently there is no social mobility… not surprising considering the state of the public transport system… I had to wait an hour for a bus the other day…

Anyway, my sister and I learnt impeccable manners – you could take us anywhere and we would fit right in, the perfect daughterly accessories to our aspirational father. One week, he came home from work and excitedly announced that one of his friends from university was visiting for the weekend. He was well-respected in the veterinary community and my father could see advantages to renewing their acquaintance over a weekend of hunting, clay pigeon shooting and delicious meals cooked by an attentive wife.

And us. The slightly unpredictable element of children. Even my father’s dogs had beautiful manners – they were to be trusted…

The momentous weekend arrived, as did my father’s friend, rolling up our driveway in his Jaguar. We all gathered on the patio to greet this pal from my father’s university days, and out he stepped, neatly bypassing a welcoming head butt from our pet sheep. He was a big man, tall, heavily- built and muscular, towering over my father and his

respectable 5”10’ …

James! Good to see you! Come inside, here, I’ll help you with your bags!”

Full of effervescent bonhomie, my father pulled what seemed like an awful lot of luggage for a mere weekend out of the car.

Once inside, dogs greeted and drink in hand, my mother showed James to his room, and left him to unpack and change for dinner.

She returned downstairs to make the finishing touches, fresh flowers on the table, silver cutlery gleaming, the rack of lamb beautifully done and presented and the Black Forest gateau gently chilling in the fridge, awaiting a final dusting of grated chocolate.

Dinner’s nearly ready, if you’d like to come downstairs,” she trilled sweetly.

My father emerged from his study and my sister and I joined him from the living room as slowly, heavily, footsteps were heard from the guest bedroom. They… clomped somewhat hesitatingly, down the stairs and into the hallway. James. But not James as we’d met him…

This James was wearing a nice ruffled blouse. With a pink A-line skirt. And some chunky beige heels. And makeup. A little over-enthusiastically applied, maybe, but the full complement of eyeshadow, blusher, lipstick and mascara.

In his booming voice, he declared:

I rather thought I’d enjoy being Jennifer for the weekend. You don’t mind, do you?”

My father went a little pale. My mother let out a hoot – quickly stifled. The dogs stared. My sister and I said – absolutely nothing. Not a dicky bird.

My father waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the dining room so Jennifer could precede him, while my sister and I followed. I don’t think we had ever been so quiet or well-behaved at any point in our lives previously, up to that particular moment, and we both went on later to be expelled from our respective schools.

My father managed to make awkward small talk as he and Jennifer reminisced about battles fought on the rugby field, Jennifer throwing back his head and roaring with laughter, the foundation cracking at the corners of his mouth…

My mother spent a lot of time in the kitchen that weekend, I seem to recall, with the company of a bottle of whisky – medicinal, of course, every so often, making strange whooping and giggling sounds, like she had a hyena trapped in there with her…

The rest of the weekend fades into distant memory, really, other than remembering my father looking quite… weary, by the end of it. He must, however, have shown James/Jennifer a very good time, since the following year he was appointed president of the British Veterinary Association…!

The Cleaning of Bathrooms

CitrineeThis is a beautiful example of Citrine, a marvellous crystal that NEVER needs cleansing…

I hate my bathroom. It doesn’t do anything particularly to merit my hatred, it just…is. It is, as tradition says, the smallest room in the house, so as logic dictates, it is painted white to give the illusion of size, space and light. Big mistake.

White happens to be one of my favourite colours, precisely because I love the illusion of size, space and light. However, add four cats to the mix and life becomes more… interesting. My cats have a weird fascination with the bathroom. I have no idea why. Considering the actions that take place in the bathroom, I like to keep it spotlessly clean. I use pet-friendly wipes to clean the floor, I use eco-friendly washing up liquid to scrub the bath and the sink and sheer elbow grease to polish the stainless steel fittings. Lemon juice is a big help and it also smells nice.

Yet despite my best efforts, circumstances, cats, children and partner all combine in one vast conspiracy to ruin my pristine, sparkling bathroom into a mud pit hair fest.

EPSON MFP image

Charlie as  a kitten… caught in the act!

From an early age, my princess Charlie expressed an interest in running water. My cats actually have a filtered water drinking fountain, but nothing seems to beat the taste of plain old tap water. It’s better still if you’ve already been outside, perhaps for a spot of light digging, so the fur between your toes still has granules of earth clinging to it, that you can mix with water residue in the sink or bath to produce a red medium through which you can express the finer aspects of your feline nature through the action of applying said medium to the wonderful white canvas that has thoughtfully been supplied for you on every surface in your room of self-expression. Yep. Muddy pawprints everywhere.

Our bedroom is just to the right of the bathroom door, and one day, as I was polishing the mirror, I happened to see Charlie in the reflection. She was looking particularly furtive and… yes, downright sneaky. She nudged the bathroom door open – I had been intending to do a quick clean in there as well – and disappeared inside. I had to see what my cat was doing.

I crept stealthily across the room and stuck my head around the door and – I’ve never seen anything like it. My little cat was standing on the edge of the bath, on her back legs, stretched up as high as she could reach. She was WIPING her front paws across the tiles and then examining the underneath with interest, as if to say:

Well, today I have managed to mix the finest shade of vermilion… notice how I use different pressures of my paws to achieve the desired textured effect…”

The look on her face was a charming picture of interest and excitement, but I couldn’t help the anguished shriek as I saw how she managed to express herself already across my previously gleaming bath. Charlie looked at me, shock in her eyes at this rude interruption, ‘Brrp’-ed loudly and ran away.

Citrenee 2“Somebody – open the lid!”

The other cats just sit. They sit in the sink. Or the bath. They like to watch while you clean your teeth, although I have mixed feelings about being observed while I am in the shower. Charlie, however, is a very different sort of cat. I am prepared to overlook her artistic endeavours in my bathroom because she’s my cat and I love her. I really hope my partner sees things the same way when he notices that the back of his favourite chair has been shredded. Art can take many forms…

Citrinee 1Can I help?”