I am, most of the time, a hard-faced bitch. That’s not bravado, nor am I putting myself down. It’s fact. I have been described (by someone needing a slap) as a “busty Glasgow hardticket”.
I can’t cry when I should, only when it’s quiet and thoroughly inconvenient. I rarely tell people how I feel, and lately I find myself sort of coasting along in a nice protective bubble, free from any emotion other than abjection irritation (the downside of dealing with the public).
But were any nemesis of mine trying to find an easy weak spot to exploit, they need look no further than my two adorable balls of fluff – otherwise known as Franklin and Orlando.
I’ve been climbing the walls, as it turns out that Franklin’s recent whining hasn’t just been a childish strop after moving house, in fact he’s back in the kitty carrier and making an emergency trip to the V.E.T. Seems nothing major, he’s had it before and it’s easily treated with a jab and some follow-up pills.
But Gawd, if this is what having kids is like, I think I remain at a considerable distance from ready. I worry about him, the very thought of anything serious happening to him is accompanied by stabbing pains where my heart allegedly is and a welling of tears that’s incredibly hard to suppress. They’re just pets, right? Oh, but how can anyone think that when they both have these wee personalities, and when they wake you up at 4am with cold noses and purrs? I shouldn’t get so attached, I manage to avoid it in almost every other part of life.
I know, I know, I’m such a lezzzbian; but damn, I love my cats.