It may get hairy…

Archive for November, 2011

Just one stocking

After a moderately stressful day, I popped by my grandfather’s for a glass of box vino and a chat.

My grandfather’s one of those lovely elderly folk who doesn’t dwell on ‘the ol’ days.’ We can have a pretty good chat about current events, family stuff and the likes, never having to enter into the world of the old that the youth so readily condescend without ever having understood.

Yesterday, however, we got onto the topic of how he met my grandmother. A touchy, but touching, subject, as she passed over two years ago and he is still very much in love with her…as are we all. After chatting to him, I got to wondering whether true love, or at least true romance is now antiquated.

We’ve all watched movies like The Notebook and other parodies of history and romance – it makes us weep (or, if you’re a ceiling watcher like I am, bawl shamelessly) and makes us wish for a such a time, whilst realising the fiction and the sensationalism that makes those movies so damned profitable.

*But listening to my grandfather, I realised that, perhaps, movies such as these aren’t sensationalised at all.

He lived that life of trust, honesty, fidelity and romance. He spent years apart from his girlfriend, not yet wife, writing her letters, with which he posted only one stocking a time, to ensure she replied. Stockings weren’t readily available in England at the time and my grandfather had returned to Scotland to dig trenches for electricity lines, whilst my gran completed her nursing studies in Plymouth. So he would only send the second stocking after she replied, thus ensuring their correspondence continued.

They spent months and years apart and somehow retained passion, love and trust. Coincidence had it that they were both transferred to London and one year later they were married. This may seem slightly tame in comparison to the love-birds in The Notebook, but when you look deeper, you find the sensationalism, you find the struggles and the difficulty that they faced just to be together.

My grandfather is a Scot, a damned proud one. My gran was as Irish as can be and came from a…um…rather traditional family. My grandfather was not well off, whereas my gran’s family was wealthy. My grandfather was a Protestant, whilst (and here’s the clincher) my gran was an Irish Catholic.**

When they were wed, no parents attended the wedding.

Whilst apart, they wrote and they knew the other would reply. They had oceans between them and yet they trusted fully. In today’s day and age, we look down on what we term ‘long-distance relationships.’ I’m a loud and proud advocator of not having a long-distance relationship and have accused friends of ‘playing it safe’,  by having a partner so far away that you have a hassle-free relationship without the implied shame of singledom.

After chatting to my grandfather, I now find myself ashamed. I’m a firm believer in true love and have always been, regardless of logic, and yet I felt free and obligated to condescend those that fought for love, regardless of distance.

I am ashamed that I should so readily give up the values of past generations, so am now determined to support those who fight for love, no matter how far apart they may be.

I only hope that someday I shall find someone who will love me enough to send me just one stocking.


*please ignore the bad grammar – poetic license.

**allow me some flexibility on the facts, I may have one or two mixed up, but the gist remains the same.


The world is a vampire*

So I’ve had some time for retrospection and feel a need to ramble some.

I’m fully aware that to publicly accuse someone can have severe consequences. I didn’t really think those consequences through, but in hindsight, I feel I can forgive myself this slip of impulsiveness (I want to write ‘impulsivity’, and although Wikipedia says I’m right, Firefox says I’m wrong).

I know I some times make jokes to make things seem lighter and less serious – partly for others’ sakes, as it’s never nice having your wall/inbox filled with negativity, but it’s also partly for me. When something hits me really hard, I can’t just grieve, or get mad, a part of me has to keep it within and that’s the part that jokes, so that no one knows exactly how I feel.

The anger I have at this man goes beyond words. I’m angry because he lied, I’m angry because he lied to me for so long, but most of all I’m angry because he hurt an entirely innocent animal. Yes, the abuse wasn’t beating her, or kicking her, but was neglectful abuse – to me that makes it no less cruel.

I’m also aware of my part in this. Regardless of what the end result was, I shouldn’t have left her with someone else. I should have stayed in SA, instead of dropping everything and going traveling. Leaving Nibbles and Shadow was probably the hardest part of my traveling (as you can explain when you’ll be back to humans), but remorse doesn’t justify actions.

I know I’m facing criticism (unsaid, but definitely implied) in leaving my cats, firstly, in publicly accusing him, secondly, and in ‘replacing’ Shadow with the Guns.

I hope those that know me, know me well enough to know that nothing could replace Shadow and that I would never attempt to ‘replace’ any animal. The Guns were acquired because they needed me and, perhaps in part, because I needed them. Both the Guns and Shadow are (perhaps was, in the latter case, which breaks my heart) very sociable and, should I have gotten Shadow back, I would have had to get her company regardless, so the aim was to have three cats in total.

My dreams last night showed me just how much this has affected me. I went to bed early, because my pc had decided to join forces with my conscience and wouldn’t let me play the episode I was hoping would help me forget my woes….thus, my guilt took hold.

In hindsight, the dream was humorous, but shortly after midnight (at which stage I’m usually not yet asleep), I woke sweating and grabbing for the Guns. I had dreamt that Eric Northman (vampire from True Blood, who has only ever seemed delicious rather than dangerous to me) owned the Guns and had kept them for his ill-will. I set out to rescue them from some interminably clichéd abandoned barn and got quite far, after several attempts and almost run-ins with ‘bad guys.’ Eventually, I got the Guns in the car, locked up and started the car…only to find picturesque Eric sitting next to me, gun in hand (literal gun, not a kitten), which is when I woke up.

It sounds stupid, as most dreams are, but I woke realising that I’m not doing a bad job protecting and raising the Guns. They’re as healthy as anything according to the vet and, as I type, they’re climbing all over me and the back of my chair (we both have the scratches to prove it).

I’ve never been one who has the courage of my convictions. In fact, I rarely ever believe that what I’m doing is right, although I know I almost always try to do the right thing, it often backfires, or I screw up. The problem with having an unlimited supply of anger, is that when it’s coupled with a cruel and blaming conscience, it becomes a right nag.

So after all my actions yesterday, I was left wondering. Did I do right? The answer is, not with the Facebook post. I shouldn’t have posted, I know that, but in hindsight I’m not going to beat myself up about it. That was my revenge, perhaps immature, perhaps silly, but it was my slight way at getting back at him. I needed him to know I know. That I’m aware that he’s been lying to me for so long.

However, my revenge is now done and what I need to do now is the right thing for others. This isn’t about me any more. As any abuser (towards humans or animals) he must be stopped and I will do everything in my power to make sure that he doesn’t hurt any animal again.This afternoon, I’ll be meeting with the police to see what they advise I do. They will know the right authorities to report animal cruelty to and they’ll tell me whether it will be worth it to charge him with theft.

To those that have supported me and/or given me brilliant advice, thank you so much. I’m not sure I would have the courage of my convictions this time if it weren’t for you.

For those that criticise, it’s cool, I was an ass. I’ll take the brunt of your criticism.

*As per normal, if I can’t think of a title, I use the song in my head. With the Eric Northman thing, it’s no surprise this was the song playing.

Animal abuse is punishable

So I’ve been told I should blog about what’s happened. If anything, just to feel better and in part to publicly accuse a man guilty of animal neglect, which amounts to abuse.

I’m not sure what to write, to be honest. So, instead of stuffing meaningless words into a post, for once I’ll just tell you the facts as I know them.

To protect myself legally, although I’m not sure if it helps, these facts are hearsay. I haven’t any proof other than emails I received from people who benefit in no way from lying to me. Thus, I believe them.

Today I was informed that we don’t know how Shadow is or whether or not she was put down. We will never know.

It turns out that Jacques van Dyk took Shadow, a beautiful, healthy 4 year old cat when he broke up with his fiancé. He prohibited her from taking the cats, which included her own Persians and Shadow. By this stage, Niblet had passed away a happy cat  (for that I am forever indebted to his fiancé).

From what I understand, the fiancé kept in touch with their landlady in order to check upon the cats. Up until she received a call from the landlady, the cats were healthy. The call was to find out whether the fiancé knew where Jacques was, as he had apparently packed up and left in the middle of the night.

Leaving all the cats locked in the house with no food.

The cats were alive and alright when the landlady found them. The fiancé asked that the landlady wait until she got there, to take the cats somewhere safe. The landlady didn’t wait and took Shadow and the rest of the cats to the SPCA.

From what I understand, this was well over a year go.

The bastard has been lying to me for well over a year. In hindsight, I knew he didn’t have her, but the audacity it took to agree to let me pick her up only a few months ago, is unforgivable.

The neglect of animals who are in your care is unforgivable.

Abandoning them, locking them up in a house and leaving them with no food is abuse and is punishable.

I shall be laying a claim of theft at the police station and shall take all email evidence (including emails and texts from Jacques proving that he had the animals at one stage and his subsequent lies after the fact) to animal rights organisations and the like. The police will also be informed the abuse.

This may not help, but hopefully it will help to scare him into taking care of animals that are in his possession and implied protection.

I am guilt-ridden and heart-broken and so will stop now. I hate myself for leaving her with him and wish I could take it back. If I hadn’t had abandoned my animals with strangers, this would never have happened.

For those who don’t know the story thus far:

Post 1,

Post 2

Post 3

He had the nerve to tell me he was heart-broken.



Batteries not included

So, I believe it’s official – this blog has decided it’s a permanent and personal fixture, rather than a place –

Smash! There goes my water glass. Thanks Guns

– to practice my writing. It’s not that good anyway and we all need a vent. It’s this or smoking and lately I’d rather do this, but this could change.

So, on that topic, I’m still rather peeved at the reactions of some to the recent changes I’ve had. Apart from having upturned my entire life and lodging myself firmly in the sand here at the coast, I’ve also (only in the past few weeks) managed to shed the interminable depression that’s been lurking over me.

I’ll admit that I got pretty damned pathetic. Everything was negative and…well, (if you can’t blog it, when can you say it, eh?) I partly mimicked my adolescent suicidal self. Never fear, I wouldn’t do anything that drastic, I’m way too atuned to the consequences of my actions, but that horrible cliche ‘I hate my life’ was very real to me.

It’s past now, and I have to say I’m rather proud of myself. It took a lot of hard work. Depression’s a bitch and, as my friend says, “depression is a miserable, lying bastard,so it gets away with a lot. When you’re certifiably depressed (by this I mean, not ‘oh woe is me, I’m late for work and stubbed my toe’ depressed) you cannot see a positive. Imagining something going right is impossible; getting the energy to try something is nigh impossible (as any efforts would be moot) and just waking up proves to be a nightmare. I can’t tell you how often I got up, showered, brushed teeth and fell back into bed again, not being able to rise for a good half-hour. I wasn’t sleeping, but getting up and facing the world just became beyond me for awhile.

Now, this isn’t to highlight how freaking sad and pathetic I was, but rather to show you why I’ve been the way I’ve been for the last few months and to highlight how freaking sad and pathetic many of my friends and acquaintances have proven themselves to be.

So let me make this simple. If you consider yourself a good friend, here are some of the guidelines (applicable to this case) that you should follow:

  1. If your friend is normally a good friend and checks up on you frequently, asking you how everything is and picking up where things aren’t going so well…and they suddenly stop this. Find out why.
  2. If your friend says they’re not happy but doesn’t feel like talking about it. Find out why. Bug the hell out of that bugger, because the miserable, lying bastard that is depression also makes it’s host a lazy-ass sod who’d rather keep their problems to themselves.
  3. If a previously very social friend suddenly stops communicating. Find out why.

It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out something’s wrong and yet, perhaps three of my friends realised something was up. I’m a pretty social person, so suddenly acting disappearing off social networks that are my life (and my living) should have been a pretty big fucking warning sign to those who cared.

To the few that realised something was wrong, followed up with me to find out why and forced me to talk, you hold my faith in humand-kind (if I were to be melodramatic) and, quite honestly, without you I’m not sure I would be smiling now. You are truly awesome people and I’m so damned lucky to have you in my life.

To the rest of you, this is what I see: People who are desperate to be considered good friends, so desperate that they cling to stupid little sayings and nicknames that imply friendship, but go no further. Trust me, when I’m staring down a bottle of pills, that little nickname could quite possibly push me over the edge, not bring me back (example, let’s not freak out and call Sez a psychiatrist. I am not suicidal. I was just miserable. Like uber). I see people who are so thoroughly wrapped up in their happy existences that even a cry for help, such as “I’m not doing so well, but it’s cool, not really in the mood to talk about it” goes unnoticed. Shiny, happy people who have forgotten that a real connection is not someone who matches you drink for drink, but someone who will sit down with you even when they’re feeling vrot, just to make you feel better.

All this I can look past, but what I cannot look past is being told by these same people that I’m a bad friend, because I haven’t been there to wallow in their guilt-ridden hangover with them. That I’m spamming people with the blogs that help me feel better (again: defriend, unlike, and unsubscribe, I haven’t the foggiest why this is difficult) and the implication that my life no longer matters, as I chose to leave the ‘big city’.

On this note, I’ll stop venting and go back to my coffee, whilst watching the sea, because I’m a happy bunny again. I’m also exhausted and woke up pissed off after a dream about aforementioned prats – hence the  blog. Yesterday was spent following 3 ambulances, accruing goodness knows how many speeding fines, getting my grandfather settled into 3 hospitals, keeping his panic at a minimum, organising medical records and handing out death-threats to retarded EMTs – all of which started at 4am and finished at 8pm, so I’m a little tetchy, but Grandad’s doing well.

Postscript: To the author of Rage Against the Black Dog, thank you for the support, you rule 😉 It’s pretty amazing when someone’s going through rough times themselves and still finds the time of day to check in with someone like me, who’s pretty much just wailing about nothing 😉

Side note: to those of you that noticed something was wrong and helped me through it, you have the right to say I wasn’t really there for you, so this is not aimed at you. Additionally, friends who have joked about my blogs being spam are also the batteries not included. I love you all and this is just my little vent to those that I will soon crop out of my life.

Well, fine! Unf*@k you then!

Things have changed for me, and I’m not just talking about the arrival of Guns n’ Roses.

I’m aware that I may come across arrogant in this post and it’s not the meant that way, nor meant to belittle anyone else’s existence. I’m just rather pissed and must vent.

So, things have changed and here’s how:

I no longer have a boss or colleagues to bitch about (do I hear a collective sigh of relief?).

I no longer worry about what to wear or what people think of me (superficially).

I no longer sit in traffic every day and so cannot regale my favourite listeners with stories about murderous fantasies whilst anagramming* number plates.

I no longer wish with all my heart that I could follow my ‘bigger picture’ dream and actually enjoy a sunset or feel the warmth of the breeze. Something I forgot to do each day in the city.

I no longer complain or talk about these things, because my life has changed.

I understand we make friends with like-minded people and enjoy competing over whose boss is the biggest perv, because it’s something we understand. The concept of the ‘Other’ takes on a whole new form when people we once knew now live a life entirely foreign to us.

So I understand that my recent posts may invite the idea that I’ve somehow lost most of my IQ in the nearby ocean, or the Guns are slowly filing my sanity away with each cute thing they do.

If this is how you feel, then so be it. I understand, so please try do likewise.

I have moved to a tiny town, on the coast and sit each morning watching the waves whilst I drink my coffee (in pjs, naturally…me, not the coffee). My kittens (the aforementioned ‘Guns’) keep me company and do the darnedest things. I work in Social Media and so sit on Facebook/Twitter/G+ every day, so it’s likely that I’ll be telling you about my life.

Most people spend their lives working their backsides off hoping to achieve what I have accidentally achieved at 28. They spend day after day in traffic, on their way to mindless jobs that leech their passion and soul from them one task at a time, only to retire to a flat much like mine at the age of 65. Perhaps this is the South African dream, rather than American, I’m not sure, but I know that most of my friends have this is mind.

As a child, most people told me to aim for the following:

  1. Find something you love and making a living from it – Done.
  2. Move out of the city to somewhere quieter and more beautiful – Done.
  3. Learn how to work to live, not live to work (Italian style) – Done.
  4. Find someone you love to live forever with – Hmmm…yeah, still working on that. Apart from some very rich pensioners, the pickings are slim here in No Man’s Land.

I was sick before, rather sick. I was tired. I was lonely and I was deeply afraid that I was missing out on life and everything I hold dear, merely to bring in a larger pay cheque.

I’m lonely now, but that’s about it. I traded in my ‘fishing ground,’ I traded in the offer of double my previous salary, I traded in friends (which still pangs) and I traded in stability…to be broke, but happy.

Please respect that. Don’t accuse me of being boring because I talk about the Guns who’ve become a rather large part of my life, or because watching a Kingfisher outside my office window each day is the highlight of my afternoon. Be happy for me…or bugger off.

I understand you don’t like hearing about this, because it’s not what you find important, so, instead of feeling like a right tart every time someone makes a sarky comment about my new found life and screaming at the accuser, I’m now saying “Well, fine, unf*@k you then.” I now only ask you to unfriend me, stop following me, remove me from your circle. If you don’t respect my change, that’s fine, but please don’t expect me to put up with your ridicule.

Now, I’m off for another coffee on my porch, watching the sea with my kittens.

How to con ol’ buggers?

Right, so I have to get guns n’ roses* (aka kittens) tonight…. and move them in under the cover of darkness.

This already proved difficult, as we know traveling kittens rival the sound of mating foxes. I had hoped to sneak them in at night, when the ol’ buggers are in their nighties (I live between an old couple and an old woman). I’m not allowed the kittens until 26 November, as the dogs are moving out then, but neither the caretakers (aforementioned ol’ buggery couple, who are actually quite nice) or the ol’ lady (who is lovely and the epitome of a lovely ol’ gran) know this.

The owners live in Pta and are just as ol’ as the aforementioned ol’ buggers (and just as lovely, it seems), so I had little doubt that they’d find out about the Guns unless I let the other couples see them.

Today, we have a problem. It has been announced that Friday they come to visit. The owners, that is, not the Guns, they’re in tonight. Apparently, the owners’ usual stint is a one week stay.

How in the bleeding hell am I going to keep two kittens quiet and hidden for a week? Apart from taping down the curtains, so two little heads don’t come peeking out at the drive way, and putting them in the most soundproof room (meaning I sound proofed my room as much as possible – not having them sleeping elsewhere!), I’m thwarted.

Bugger, bugger, bugger.


*Their names will most probably be Axl and Slash. However, I need to confirm that with them first.


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