Where Did You Get That Cat?

.
It is well known that I am the original ‘Mr Squeamish’ in my family and cannot bear the sight of blood, discussions about people’s medical problems and the operations they have had, and cannot even look at the needle when I’m having a blood test.

I detest also those television programmes about ‘nature’ in which animals are seen hunting down and eating other animals. It’s enough for me to know that a wild animal has to hunt for its dinner but I don’t see why it is necessary for so many programmes to show in graphic and tedious detail the bloody processes involved.

There was a documentary the other night about the work of the ‘bionic vet’, Noel Fitzpatrick, who is pioneering new techniques to save the lives of injured animals. I couldn’t watch the programme for obvious reasons, but it was interesting for me to read about his amazing work and the artificial legs he gave to that lovely black cat, Oscar.

Reading about Oscar made me think about the four cats we have been slaves to over the years (we have, bye the bye, been slaves to eight dogs also). They were Smokey, Henry, Ginger and Spike.

I saw Smokey, more of which later on, as a kitten in a shop window. Henry was the son of my sister’s cat and was definitely ‘mine’. He must have had a bit of Siamese in him for he would sit on my shoulder and I could have a conversation with him. Alas, he contracted a virus and had to be put to sleep (I hate that term ‘put down’!). Ginger came from an animal rescue centre and turned out to be a roamer and for years shared himself with another household half a mile away. He loved crossing a major road to visit our local nature reserve and one time was rescued from the top of a tree by the fire brigade after a call from a concerned walker. Spike was spotted by my wife in our local veterinary surgery having been bought in to be put to sleep because he was so unruly. He was probably part-ferule and was certainly a handful. He would sit on our neighbour’s garage roof underneath the ivy and wait for the birds or a stupid cat to come by before pouncing on them. He couldn’t stand me one bit though, after I returned home from living abroad for four years, he decided I was friendly after all and to everyone’s surprise became quite affectionate towards me.

Anyhow, to return to Smokey. Forty years ago on a sunny afternoon I took our two sons out in their pram for a walk. As I passed our local dirty book shop my eyes were drawn to a sign which announced ‘Good Homes Wanted For Kittens’. It would be a waste of time to convince anyone that my eyes were not drawn to the saucy magazines on display but, in a basket beneath the sign, were half a dozen mewing kittens and I thought it would be nice to have a cat in the house. My wife approved of the idea of having a pet and the next day I went back to the shop and selected one which we called Smokey. Smokey was a lovely house cat and lived for many years. Her favourite indoor perch was on top of the television and, now and again, she would go into a deep sleep and fall off. Other times her tail would fall in front of the screen and one of us would have to reposition her so that we could watch a programme without a large furry tail interfering with the picture.

We lived next door at the time to an elderly couple who were very nice and with whom we got on very well. The lady of the house was, however, a terrible snob. As Smokey grew more adventurous she started to explore the garden and, inevitably, the other gardens nearby. I prayed that the lady next door would ask me the question that inevitably she did. ‘What a lovely cat, Mr MacDonald. Wherever did you get it?’ she enquired one afternoon. ‘From the dirty book shop in the London Road,’ I truthfully responded.

The cat was never mentioned again!
.

Idyllic!

.
An interesting programme on Radio 4 last evening told listeners about the small child-free village of Firhall on the outskirts of Nairn in the Highlands where the residents say they value their peace and quiet.

It seems that only the over-45s can buy property in this quiet village built in 2003 where, apart from barring children, the residents are not allowed to keep rabbits, bees, pigeons and ducks. They are, however, allowed to have one dog.

Fortunately, grandchildren are allowed to visit and stay though there are limits on how often they can do this.

This seems absolutely idyllic to me!
.

If Only!

.
For those who are interested, despite my cheerful countenance, I didn’t win the lottery this weekend - not even a perishing tenner! But five lucky folk did, scooping £1.5 millions each.

My sister and I have sometimes discussed what we would do if we were to be lucky enough to have a really big win on the lottery. After treating the family and securing our children’s futures, we would love to set up a charitable trust and see what good we could do with the money.

One man who has just done something like this is billionaire Warren Buffett who has just shelved out shares worth $1.93 billions between five charitable foundations. This is an unimaginable amount of money, yet he says that he intends to give away 99% of his fortune which is reckoned to be something around $44 billions.

What can you say except thank heavens for philanthropists like Mr Buffett and Bill Gates!
.

Happy Fourth July!

.
Today is the day on which all Americans celebrate the 1776 statement by the Continental Congress announcing that the thirteen American colonies were henceforth to be independent states and no longer part of the British Empire.

The Declaration of Independence was approved by Congress on 4 July and purists have been arguing ever since whether or not it was actually signed on that day. Nonetheless, the Declaration bears 4 July as its date and, years later, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, and John Adams all confirmed it had in fact been signed that day.

I’ve been in the States a couple of times over Fourth July Weekend and can confirm that the American world, or that part of it I was privileged to see, was out to celebrate. Those I met cared not a jot about arcane arguments over the Declaration’s date of signature; they were just out to party. And why not?

So a very happy Fourth of July to all Americans!
.

Not Much Around

.
The newspapers are full of stuff this morning. Well, sort of, for none of it has prompted me to get going.

Fabio Capello is to remain as the England team’s manager. Could this imply that he was either too expensive to sack or that it was solely the poor performance of the players to blame for our rout in the World Cup?

The British chap who was once married to the alleged Russian spy now held in America tells all, or nearly all. He is quoted as saying that he wasn’t surprised at the news that his ex-wife had been arrested. Which begs the question as to why he didn’t report her if he suspected something when they were married.

A lock of hair, reputed to have been cut from Napoleon after his death in exile in St. Helena in 1821, has fetched £8,600 at an auction in New Zealand. The buyer, who wishes to remain anonymous, could have had mine for free though, perhaps, anyone purchasing a lock of what’s left of my hair wouldn’t want the world to know about it!

Israel has renewed its offer to release 1,000 Palestinian prisoners if the captured soldier Sergeant Gilad Shalit, who was seized militants on the Gaza border in 2006, is freed. It seems a fair exchange, particularly as feeding 1,000 prisoners every day must be a heavy drain on Israeli resources.

And, finally, the government has published a list of more than 150 bosses of taxpayer-supported quangos who receive six-figure salaries. The top earner was nearly £400,000 paid to the chief executive of the Olympic Delivery Authority. Others, like Lord Mogg, chairman of energy regulator Ofgem, received over £200,000 a year for working just three days a week. Oh, how I wish I could have had a job like that!

As I say, there’s not much around today to set me going!
.

A Rarity

.
As I was out and about in the car yesterday, I spotted a fairly new car with an old-style AA badge fixed to its front grill. It reminded me that we rarely see these badges these days except on vintage cars.

I suppose the entry into the breakdown market of the insurance companies did away with the old AA and RAC badges for cars. Nowadays we get little cards to evidence our membership of the various breakdown organisations and don’t need the outward symbols of them. But it’s not as good as in the days when we were proud to bear the insignia of the club we belonged to on our cars.

When I first had a company car, and used to drive into central London every day (something I would never attempt these days!), I fixed to its radiator grill the badge of the company’s motoring club which, as it happened, was the firm’s rather impressive coat-of-arms.

Shortly after I got the car I had to drive from the West End down to Southampton with a colleague who looked a little like the Princess Royal. Along the Mall I was stopped at a set of traffic lights when a policeman stopped the traffic coming from the right and waved me through the lights thinking, I suppose, that the badge and the look-alike indicated that I was a royal driver taking her Royal Highness down to the Palace. I think we chuckled about that almost all of the way down to Southampton Docks.

The sight of that AA badge yesterday also reminded me of that incident and that car badges which once indicated with pride membership of this or that motoring and other clubs are sadly a rarity. I suspect that vandalism may have something to do with it but, nonetheless, it is a pity.
.

What?

.
After an FBI investigation, ten people have been arrested in America accused of conspiracy to act as unlawful agents of a foreign government and suspician of money laundering. Another was held in Cyprus awaiting extradition to the US on suspicion of espionage and money laundering (who has since disappeared).

A Russian Foreign Ministry spokesman is quoted as saying, ‘We expect that the incident involving the arrest in the United States of a group of people suspected of spying for Russia will not negatively affect Russian-US relations.’

Oh, really?
.