Lost and found

My cat went missing on Friday. She is eleven. And Siamese. And a princess. She does not wander which led me to a state of almost-insanity by 26 hours after my last sighting of her. I am running ahead of myself. Friday lunchtime she ambled through the lounge in the pretty way she does, glanced at the fire, feigning disinterest (this is her way - in reality, she loves the fire and is the first to push in front to be closest to it). Then she disappeared. Not instantly, in front of my eyes like something in a Harry Potter book but just by walking out the door and not coming back. As darkness fell and no whisker was to be seen, we searched back rooms, cupboards and other dark, cat-swallowing places. Nothing. Dawn arrived (okay, a bright Saturday morning, let me not give false impressions that I stayed awake all night and resumed the search as the birds started twittering), still no kitty-footsteps or morningly crunches heard from the kitchen as normal. Panic set in. I called the neighbours, vets in the area, my housemate found the best picture of her and missing posters went up on lamposts, it was the full tooty. Minutes ticked by, hours, and I became increasingly tearful and helpless-feeling. As night two fell, my mind flashed to the worst-case scenarios. At about 7pm, a little, squawky (she is Siamese, as I said - they're not known for their melodic tones) meow was heard at the door and relief flooded through me, the house, the housemate, and then everyone I'd called all day, panicky. She was fine, a bit hungry, and quite tired and would not, under any circumstances tell us where she'd been or what she'd been up to. What do 11-year-old, Siamese princesses do when they're away for 28 hours? It's a wonder.

Blog names and party plans

Why did I call this blog what I called it? Well, surprisingly, it is because I'm thirty-two-and-a-bit. I thought quite hard about it, went through all the discussions in my head about how it'll become redundant in February next year, then got distracted by thoughts of how I'll celebrate my thirty third. I'm thinking I might wait until June and then have a thirty third and a third birthday party instead. It just seems to sound more fun. By that time I'd strayed completely and was wondering if it was a better idea to stick to the formulaic party I've had for the past, well, five or so, years - disco in the garage (visions of spinning-the-bottle, aged 12, and having to kiss boys in a cupboard), fairy lights in the garden, large amounts of people, fun music. It works so well, yet, each time I do it again, I fear that, this time, it might be "The Time She Did it One-too-many-times"... One of those parties people bring up for years after at dinner parties when anyone brings up the words flop and party too close together in a sentence. My thoughts then turned to how to change it slightly, while keeping relatively close to the winning formula. My aunt's stepson had a jumping castle at his 40th birthday party - the thought of a bunch of forty year olds (or thirty three and a third year olds, for that matter) jumping with their champagne-filled bellies on a jumping castle filled my head with thoughts too vile to put down on this page. Pony rides? Good god girlie, THIRTY three and a third, not three and a third. That was just a momentary regression to childhood longings of having "pony rides" written on my birthday invitation - I don't even like the concept of ponies in sunhats being led around in circles with small children clinging to their furry backs. Then my thoughts wandered to cocktails. I like blue ones. The same party, but with blue cocktails... It was at this point that I realised I had strayed away from the task at hand completely and needed to get back to blog naming. Ah, fuckit, it's still months until my birthday, and the party, so I decided I need neither worry about how to change the formula or how to deal with the redundancy of the name of the blog for, well, 10 months at least. Phew. I did warn you in the previous post about my tendency to stray... In the meantime (I don't suppose there's any harm in being prepared - that's what they always told the Brownies, or something like that), what ingredient do you add to an already fabulous party formula to make it, well, fabulouser?

Melancholic joy

I have been a blog voyeur for, oh, probably 4 years now. It provides The Great Escape from hours of tedium at work. It's not that I don't like what I do, it's just that it can be a bit black-and-white at times. I find my creative side cowering beneath my desk sometimes, staring up at me disconsolately between the wires connecting my computer to the electricity supply, looking petrified. As if it might be killed by a falling pile of reference books. (This is not essentially an invalid fear - the shelves holding up the books are starting to look a bit dodgy as old editions are replaced with new ones, made heavy by added information). But back to the point - forgive me, I am easily distracted. The voyeur bit - I have always contemplated starting my own blog. I've even written my first entry a couple of times (I may dig them up at a later date and post them, as evidence - it may be amusing. Then again, it may not). So, what made me do it, finally? My friend, the amazing Leah. She started one and I love it. Also, the following facts:

1. It is a grey, rainy day
2. I am sitting next to a fire
3. I now have wireless access at home
4. From next week I am pursuing my second career (finally). I have gone down to a four-day week to allow myself time to proofread/edit and maybe, even, write
5. It is a grey, rainy day

Point 4 - I have a sneaky suspicion that possibly starting a blog may not be very conducive to encouraging me to work on my fifth, allocated-to-other-work-not-mucking-about day. Oh-oh...

And, yes, I know points 1 and 5 are the same. It's something about grey, rainy days - makes me want to write. Melancholy mixed with joy. It also makes me want to drink. From what time of the day is it acceptable to drink alone? Or is it never acceptable? And who made up those silly rules anyway?