Sheffield Sex City

I am revenging myself on my criminally poor-tasted neighbours by playing Babies very very loudly. I have some real issues with those people. The shit choice of music or, rather, radio stations, the volume of said ick, and the sheer bloody bad taste of anyone who listens to Love Song Dedications at seven a.m. on Valentine’s Day are more than enough to be getting on with. Clearly severe musical cuntiness at work. Generally speaking, I don’t give a toss what people inflict upon themselves. I do mind them inflicting it upon me. [Wait, I have to replay Babies now, I don’t think they’ve gotten the hint.] Now, I understand that there are those of you out there who consider forced listening of Pulp as cruel and unusual torture but I mostly blame that on your inability to understand the sheer bloody sex-godliness of Jarvis Cocker. I mean really, who wants your Babies, kid? [If it’s Jarv reading this then the correct answer is me me me me me me me…] Oh yeah, sidetracked, what wasn’t I talking about? That’s right, everything and nothing really.
If I read distracted then it’s the fault of Sheffield Sex City which is, er, leading me right back here and reminding me of work at the weekend. It must be noted that I generally don’t find work pleasurable and it’s almost never erotic. However, the other day I had this bloke phone in. Not merely a bloke, a man with one of the sexiest voices I’ve ever heard. [I bet he was short. Damn.] Possibly the sexiest. I’ve been feasting on this all week. The conversation was brief and pretty damn typical given my job; my desire to hump the desk was not. My voice dropped so low I think I must have sounded like a tranny. I purred at him as I gave him what he wanted. I got all nervous and shaky. I practically panted down the phone line and I’m pretty sure I did when I got off the phone. I needed a cup of tea and a cigarette after that call. Seriously. The only other person in the room at the time was also the hottest boy on the floor [not much by way of competition but could hold his own in most situations] who very nearly received an extremely inappropriate proposition from me. Actually, if he wasn’t something of a twat and didn’t have a very wrong, memory inspiring name then I mighta…oh yeah…no. He’s already commented on my sexy phone voice too…maybe next time. Maybe I should have dialled his number and panted at him. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been too obvious.
I wonder why I’m having trouble marshalling my thoughts to write a proper post.

Perversity

Last night I dreamed that my mother had sent me a plane ticket and that I’d travelled north to farewell the cat. She was refusing to die until I’d said goodbye – in person. I’m not sure how she communicated this to my mother but I suspect that she spelled it out in biscuits or possibly used Morse code puncture marks on a parental arm. She was pretty insistent about it though. The flying away meant that I couldn’t work the weekend which, alas, I am doing. My boss was pretty pissed to know I was out of state and I did feel pretty bad. The cat, however, seemed entertained. She’s always been a one for getting her way by any means possible.

I phoned my parents earlier this evening. The cat’s still alive [touching a whole damn forest] and is being almost ridiculously well aside from the fact that she’s now eating like a horse. My poor parents who expected to be kitty-less and over cat-product stocked in very short order are having to purchase food and litter. We’re now starting to question the vet. They’re wondering, should she last much longer [another forest], if they should ask for their money back. I’m thinking we sue for damages; you should have seen my eyes last Saturday. Maybe on Monday they’ll call the vet for a wtf update.

It’s very much on my mind, this peculiar limbo.

Strange bloody cat.

I wish you a good death

It turns out that we were wrong about the cat. She has lung cancer. Some time in the next few days she will have to be euthanized. Her poor little lungs will fill with fluid and her breathing will become increasingly laboured and she will be taken back to the vet.

Farewell my pet, my baby, my Astaroth.

Lady Grey

My mother phoned up to tell me my cat was in hospital. My parents have had custody of her ever since I moved back to Sydney. The cat’s okay, my mother was very good about quizzing the vet about her pathology results, but is being kept on a drip for the moment. I think she’s taken ill in a monumental fit of the sulks having spent the last couple of weeks in a cattery whilst my parents were visiting me. The excessive hot weather has probably not helped either. This led, because of the cloying morbidity of my soul, to me thinking of how I will cope when she does eventually die. I haven’t lived with her for some six years so I suppose she hasn’t really been mine in that time. She was, however, a birthday present. My sixteenth birthday present [who would have thought that my parents would end up with her?] to be precise. I was given a live present at this odd juncture because our previous pet, also a cat, had been mauled to death by dogs some six months before and it was felt that I missed him the most as we were used to sitting up together until late in the night.
I remember going to get her – it was a great secret that had been guessed by some of my friends – we went after school to the shops with me still not being told what was going on. And we stopped, just for a look, at the pet store. There were four or five tiny little grey and white kittens with a sign on the cage stating that they were half Burmese. My mother told me to pick one of the kittens. I remember that she wasn’t my first choice, the all-over grey one was already spoken for; she was the next greyest and possibly the funniest looking kitten ever. Huge ears [her head has mostly grown into them], a tiny little body with big kangaroo back legs, and with her feet mittened in white and her belly likewise. She was cute but funny and with a truly crazy temperament. I named her after a demon I’d seen on a French movie – though it has always been shortened and she has picked up an astonishing array of nicknames – a name that she well lived up to. Until I left home she was always my cat, she wasn’t much interested in anyone else. Of a night, if she were tired, she’d round me up to make me go to bed. She would fight with me and punish me if she were pissed off. She’d always head into my air-conditioned bedroom and snuggle up with me under the blankets. Of course, now she does this with my parents and sulks at me when she sees me – ‘oh you, the one who went off and left me to be tortured heinously’ her looks will say as she marches up and down the bed purring for my parents’ attention. I’m sure that tomorrow night she’ll be doing exactly that and casting them looks about how evil they were to take her to the vet and how she suffered before they knew she was ill. It’s sad that I kinda wish that I was the one getting her attention.

Get well, Lady Grey, dream of me.

Au Revior

Just a little tribute to make sure you know that you will be missed for making work-time fun; for keeping us entertained; for confusing us with your stories; for frequently saying ‘don’t tell, *****’ and then telling ***** the moment she walks in the door; for bouncing around like a little pink bunny; for being a little pink bunny [okay, not so, but it would be funny]; for manic guarana moments; for entertaining ECGs; for being funny as fuck; for your dirty sense of humour; for celery sticks; for carrot sticks; you will be missed for cleavage and cleavage jokes; for casting expressive looks; for knowing all kinds of nerdy shit…fuck it kid, you’ll just be missed for being you and for being you around us.

Don’t think for moment that we’ll forget you - we won’t. And don’t think we won’t see you again – we will. In fact, some of us expect to see you working haematological madness downstairs sooner rather than later.

Have a good trip, Nanny, and remember not to come back with four legs.