Ed The Cat

Getting a pet was always going to a priority on our return to the UK – I’m on my own, husband away, I need something to make a fuss of and sit and fondle. A cat is the perfect substitute.

We already had a cat who had been left with the in-laws whilst we were in the US.  Typical of her fickle species, her allegiance quickly changed to whoever was in charge of the Whiskas packets and she soon made herself at home. It would have been cruel, not just on her, but on the in-laws, to ask for her return.

So the teenager requested a kitten.  She contacted the local cats charity to register for adoption and in less than 24 hours  we had been visited and vetted, and asked not just how soon we would like to take one, but how many kittens could we actually have? Well just the one was what we wanted, such a shame when they offered us 19.

19! Yes, that was just the number of homeless kittens in our immediate area and ready to go  that day. There were 150 across the whole of the local region. Why this massive population explosion? Neuturing apparently – people just don’t bother anymore.

So we set off to choose our cat.  10 week old kittens are of course irresistible and it was amazingly hard – but with those cute big ears, huge brown eyes and the ability to stand on his back legs and look like a meercat, Ed was the natural choice. At that point he had no name of course – we had to stock up on kitty supplies so left him at the homing centre for another couple of days whilst the teenager was left with the responsibility of deciding what to call him.

She chose Edward – after Ed Sheeran. I did point out that the kitten we had chosen was not ginger, but black and white, but he’s grown into it, and I couldn’t now imagine him being called anything else.

And of course he has been great fun. Not so much a kitten as a teenage boy, constantly out on the roam and eating us out of house and home. Yes he has now been castrated – we’re doing out bit for birth control, and he has enjoyed all the usual curiosity killed the cat  escapades of falling from trees, becoming stranded on the garage roof and painting his paws  pink with nail polish etc etc

The similarities between Ed and my husband are uncanny. He pricks up his ears at the first mention of food and purrs contently when stroked. Totally adorable and the perfect companion. Do I worry I’m going to end up an old lady on my own surrounded by cats? Absolutely.

Ye Olde British Pub Quiz Night

It’s official. Three years in that Californian sunshine as a stay at home mom and I have morphed into an OAP bimbo. A final splurge on the unpacking and I discovered the teenager’s Nintendo DS, and there untouched by time, was Dr Kawashima’s Brain Training game. How could I resist a flutter? Three years ago apparently I had a brain age of 26. Today it was 65.
 

What can be done? I do my best to keep the brain cells ticking over.  I write, I tackle the odd puzzle in the back of Bella, and then of course, there is the treat of my week - Pub Quiz night.

Every Wednesday I make up the numbers with a couple of former neighbours at the pub quiz.  When I used to live in the village, this pub was a quiet sleepy local with a few old regulars propping up the bar. Now once a week it attracts a selection of motley quizzers all eagerly chasing the first prize – a free drink.

Pubs are a unique part of British culture, and I missed them when we were in the US. A pub is not so much a place to drink, it's a social hub, a community centre. Sitting in this pub is like sitting in a friend's front room - without the TV of course (Americans please take note!).

Since taking part, I have learned so much – for example I now know that famous highwayman Dick Turpin was born in the Blue Bell Inn in Hempstead, Essex in 1705 (same question two weeks running) and that Winston Churchill was born two months premature in 1874. It will be forever ingrained on my memory that a bamboo flower only occurs once every 120 years –  a losing tie break question, and when in doubt the answer is inevitably Turkey.  I also now know that absolutely nothing happened in England between  2 and 14 September 1752 when country changed to the Gregorian calendar and the UK lost two weeks.

 

Such useful little gems I can now drop into everyday conversation, but the real reason I go of course is because it’s fun. A few weeks ago the quiz was hi-jacked by a team of six burly strangers. Throughout the course of the evening it became obvious that if these guys were going to become regulars there was absolutely no hope for the rest of us. Who were these people? Where were they from? What’s the fun in knowing all the answers? Was the landlord going to have to revert to loaded localised questions -  name his dog for example - for anyone else to stand a chance of ever winning?

Fortunately this group must have been unimpressed with their low-stakes prize and as yet, have not returned, and I’m proud to say that after three weeks on the trot of being runner up our team finally managed a win. The fact that a regular rival was enjoying a week on the Costa del Sol obviously helped, but I’d like to think brain power had something to do with it. 65 huh!

Hengistbury Head

When we lived in LA we explored.  We wanted to experience and see as much of America as we could – of course it’s a vast country and in reality we saw very little. Los Angeles is relatively isolated on the west coast and when you realise if you want to see somewhere else you are looking at a 3 or 4 hour flight, the urge to travel rapidly loses its appeal.

But we did do out best to explore Southern California, piling into the car and setting off on numerous road trips. The new adventurous me is committed to seeing as much of the UK as possible with the same sense of intrepid awe.

Home for a week from Saudi, the husband and I set off for a romantic tryst down to a luxurious hotel near the Dorset beauty spot of Hengistbury Head – it’s a mere hour’s drive from where we now live. Back in the US we’d have gone for breakfast and been home for lunch – in the UK we went for the whole weekend.

Hengistbury Head is an area of geological interest and natural beauty at the entrance to Christchurch Harbour.  At the tip of the headland is a spit of sand that stretches across the harbour entrance – on this sandbank sits a straddle of brightly coloured beach-huts that exchange hands for many  thousands of pounds a piece – no running water, no electricity. Not really my idea of a holiday home but we’re talking total exclusivity. You can tell by the accents of of the teenagers sat swigging beer on the  verandas that you have to be posh and privileged to afford a beach hut here.

Of course, when you’re staying in a beach hut on a sandbar, you need sunshine. Sadly that weekend it was in short supply. In fact it was chucking it down for most of the first day – horizontal rain and a howling gale. This wasn’t umbrella weather – it was wellies, full-length waterproofs and a sou’wester weather. It was awful. Hengistbury’s one waterfront cafe was doing a roaring trade – in fact I think some people were probably planning to stay there all day.

There was a break in the clouds so we ran  - setting off on a speedy hike over the headland with its views that stretch all the way along the south coast from Keyhaven in the East, the Isle of Wight and the Needles in the South, and Bournemouth and Poole in the West.  

Typical of the British weather, by evening the sun had come out in force and there was time for a  stroll around Mudeford Quay on the opposite side of the Christchurch harbour before our three course dinner at our boutiquey style hotel.  Only an hour’s wait for the main course – I’m so American – an hour’s wait!! Goodness if this was Pasadena we’d have been in and out and back home in front of the TV.....