Are We Dogs or Are We Cats?

Scout, mad for the new feather toy and frankly, it's not Love as you or I would see it. Scout doesn't love the feather toy so much that he wants to set it free and see if it'll come back to him. Oh, no. It's pure obsession. Scout can only be happy if he's got the feather toy in his mouth, under the sofa, hidden away from all the kittens enjoying his precious.

Ballerinas and Escape Artists

Boo Radley with the grace of a dancer

Like any family, we all have our own individual talents. Mr Findingmoxie has skill with numbers and likes being called a mathematician. I can read 100 pages in an hour and have a photographic memory, more or less (English 45C Final at Berkeley, I couldn't remember the name of the W.B. Yeats poem and referenced it by the page number in the anthology. Yes, that's how geeky I can be).

Boo Radley, as you've seen, is a ballerina. Scout is an indefatigable sportsman. Dill is the fastest draw in the west when it comes to leaping out of the pen--escape artist or ninja, I don't even know. What I do know is that she takes a stunning photo. Kid's a natural.

Dill, born to pose

Calpurnia is a devotee of the string. Wherever there is a string, she will give up everything for worship of it. Even conkers (yeah, they love conkers. Why do we have conkers? God, I so wanted to type 'honkers' all because I am twelve years old. Because spiders fear them and we fear spiders). Anywho. The kittens adore knocking around our conkers.

Sensei Atticus

Atticus surely must have the sharpest claws as he sharpens them all day long, but he is also wise, because he knows that with great power, comes great responsibility and has never scratched me. It's like he's a Sensei in training: our own Mr Miagi. Jem, well, Jem is the beauty queen. Jem has cheekbones to die for and lovely slanted eyes--and he knows it. He languishes about (when he's not tearing it up at playtime) and regally tilts his head, to hold his chiseled cheek up for a genteel rub. Not much of a cuddler otherwise, but preens when you make a fuss about his bone structure.

Atticus and Dill facing off

To catch you all up, we've been experimenting with all lot more playtime outside of the pen. I know, we were advised that they might not be ready. But I don't think they got the memo. Every single time, I open their pen for feeding or cleaning, one of them is out like a shot--usually Dill. What's most galling is that they seem to be sharper than me in the morning. I stumble out of the bedroom, thinking they're just helpless and hungry, and they're like little meerkats, all upright and eyeing me up for their moment of escape. Yesterday morning, I must have been especially tired because three, count 'em, three got past me. I'm not a morning person and the little darlings have already scented this weakness. So, rather than fight a losing battle, I'm going with it. Besides, it gives the OCD in me opportunity to hoover out their pen while they run themselves ragged.

Boo Radley giving me the finger

I'll be honest; on the occasions they surprised me, I had neglected to shut the bedroom door and being super cunning, they made a beeline for the bedroom. Now, I had promised Mr Findingmoxie that we would keep the little allergen-shedding rascals from the bedroom and this caused me some serious panic. The first time, I chased Atticus around the bed a few times, muttering, 'oh no, oh no, oh no, ' which quickly turned to tiny shrieks when he jumped and ran across BOTH OF OUR PILLOWS. Not anywhere else on the bed. Not across the foot, but right across both pillows where we like to rest our faces. Our clean, freshly washed faces. Now, sadly, I had to confess this to Mr Findingmoxie and measures were taken.

Our fancy box

Dill on his obstacle course

Last night, however, had to be the most comical and simply ridiculous position in which I have EVER found myself--which if you know me, is saying something! It was late and I was finishing up feeding the kittens. Mr Findingmoxie had already retired to his rest. Reaching into the pen to put their clean litter tray in, three kittens jumped out simultaneously. Cue 'Ack.' Naturally, it was a kitty beeline for the bedroom, where Mr Findingmoxie laid his pretty little head. I dashed after them into the bedroom, to see Mr Findingmoxie, deep asleep (phew) with his eye-mask on and oblivious to it all. By all, I refer to the 2 kittens gamboling around our bedroom. I had to tread carefully--literally. Picture me chasing kittens around the bedroom on tiptoe, all the while keeping an eye on the door to avoid any more kittens coming in and trying to refrain from cursing. It was the quietest chase scene in the entire world. Needless to say, I was fully cognizant of the absolute hilarity of the whole scene and on top of it all, had to keep from laughing. Wish you were all there. Although, not sure if Mr Findingmoxie would have found it all that amusing.

It's Conker TIME!

Conclusion: the kittens are definitely developing personalities and are getting more and more comfortable. Boo Radley will still not play with me, but will allow me to pet and pick him up. Briefly. He's definitely my troubleshoot. The others are coming along in leaps and bounds. And I'm in love with them all. Curses. Oh and they LOVE foam fingers. Seriously.

My Little Ballerina, Monsieur Boo Radley.

Boo Radley, proving that practice and yet more practice does make perfect. Pirouettes, pirouettes, pirouettes--until we all fall down.

A Week of Firsts

It's been a busy week and I bet, for those of you without kitten shenanigans, it's probably been a long week. And for those of you who work, it's actually the start of another week, but in my defense, I was away this weekend. Where was I? I was up in Chesterfield, visiting the in-laws for our annual summer birthdays celebrations. It was grown-up fun without any kitty babies, so yes, we had Pimms, amber ales and a sometime-sunshine barbecue. It was not all sometime-sunshine and lollipops, though. As I was leaving the kittens, I had heaps of anxiety. Who could handle them? Would I be condemning someone to a weekend of kitten drudgery? Would the kittens act out? Would any of them hurt themselves or escape? And could I put into a manual all that I'd learned and all that needed to be done?

But before I launch into that first, I should mention another first. When CATS (my former team) disbanded, we founded the ExCATS Social Club and meet up every Tuesday evening. This Tuesday, I had the CATS come round to meet my little angels. I was seriously excited and I could tell the kittens were too. I knew my former team were from all the exclamation points in the text and email exchanges. I hadn't determined if I'd allow the kittens out of their pen and was going to play it by ear. After a few glasses of Prosecco, it seemed harmless and out the kitties came. They were a bit startled to find 6 regular-size humans lounging about in various stations of our living room, but the allure of running amok was too strong. They fell into their usual circuit, under the sofa, over the bottom shelf of the coffee table, round the kitchen and back. After a few loops, they began to take notice of the legs planted here and there along their way. With notice, came tiny, razor-sharp claws and a fascination with patterned tights.

It was a delightful hour of rambunctious kittens, adult gossip and wine. Dill submitted to being stroked behind the ears briefly as he halted play for a breather. Scout let everyone rub his head as I carried him around, introducing him to our guests. He also used my leg as a trench behind which to hide and from which to pounce on others. Boo Radley tried to smuggle himself out in a handbag. And all kittens enjoyed climbing our ginormous orange bean bag that was out for the occasion. All was going well, until I noticed a sticky surprise in the washing machine. It was bad news for our Royal Wedding tea towel and as any good hostess would do, I quickly and quietly stuffed it into the rubbish bin--and carried on refilling glasses (after a splash of sanitizing gel, of course). A tiny indiscretion wasn't going to put a stop to our evening.

Well, it didn't stop there. In mid-sentence, one of the guests broke off and stared behind me. I turn round to see Atticus, his face in an expression of intense concentration. He was squatting. He was also doing a poo on the towel covering the floor OUTSIDE his pen. Oy. My face must have been pretty pink. As you can imagine, everyone reached for their things, politely excusing themselves. Only to discover that any jackets left on the orange bean bag were, hmmm, how to put it, well-hydrated throughout the evening. Plastic bags for jackets handed out, goodbyes hugged out, I turned to the task of getting all 6 kittens back home. Most were hungry, so food did the trick. Mr Boo Radley, being a total rebel, resisted until we cornered him in the loo and stroked him until he relaxed enough to be picked up. Well. Well. Guess we did have that one lovely hour.

So, onto this weekend away. Suddenly, my nerves at leaving them to someone else for the weekend don't seem so unfounded. But as life's not going to live itself, I had to plunge into it sooner or later. I took a deep breath and asked my good friend and former CAT, GreTay, to come stay at ours for the weekend. It was kitten-sitting time! I woke up ridiculously early on the Saturday to sort out the flat and prepare for departure--partly to tidy, partly to de-embarrass the flat. What? Don't care what anyone says, EVERYONE has slightly awkward stuff lying around, be it photos from high school, trashy lit, or nerdy box sets. Of course, I probably gave the game away by leaving my to-do list with '3. De-embarrass flat' out on the dining table. Will have to ask GreTay if she was fooled at all by the slick awesomeness of our joint.

In all this kerfuffle, I ran out of time to write this manual-cum-opus of kitten rearing and resigned myself to writing an epic email to GreTay on the train. What would have been helpful was bringing along my mobile phone. Yes, that would have helped. Might even have kept my anxiety levels down. Alas. Luckily, I was able to activate an emergency phone tree of CATS using Mr Findingmoxie's phone. Crisis averted, I settled down to typing away furiously with my thumbs. On a tiny keypad. It took me over an hour to write GreTay the instructions and advice that she'd need to get through 30 hours with the kittens.

At last, I was determined to enjoy my weekend and the first of my birthday celebrations. Surely, the promise of home-made birthday cake would sluice out any niggling worry about how my little angels were getting on. After the 4th time I asked Mr Findingmoxie if he'd had any texts or emails from GreTay, he gave me full custody of his phone, suggesting that I might settle any worries with a quick text home. He was right--although, let's keep that between ourselves, eh?--and GreTay reported that she wasn't locked out of our flat and the kittens had eaten their lunch. PHEW.

Conclusion: I missed the kittens something fierce, y'all. And I struggled not to talk about them incessantly all weekend long. On the plus side, GreTay is seriously an amazing kitten-sitter and shamed me by leaving our flat cleaner than I left it for her. Also, I spoke to the Animal Care Supervisor at the CHAT about their little short-stops and she reckons the excitement was too much for them and that we're rushing them by letting them out so early. They need more routine apparently. Noted. Definitely noted.

Gang of Adorable Misfits Looking for Forever Home

Well, it's official. We're on the web, on Celia Hammond's adoption page to be exact. Scroll down to the bottom and you'll see us! However, we've come along much farther than the update suggests. After all, Cal loves being stroked now and even Boo Radley holds still (grudgingly) for a stroke. They're a bit behind on their emails, hence the blog is actually the most up to date! Anyway, nice to see them finally getting some page time. Hopefully, several someones out there will just fall absolutely in love with them (so I don't have to, SOB) and want to give them a forever home.

Day 9--Weekend Hijinks

I'm finding it difficult to believe we've only had the kittens for essentially one week. I'm sure Mr Findingmoxie would stress that it feels like FOREVER and I have to say, it does feel like it's been longer than 7 days. Especially when you take into account how much they've changed. When I first leaned into the bars of their pen at the CHAT shelter, 6 pairs of terrified eyes glared wildly back at me, 4 kittens scurried into their cardboard house and 2 stayed to hiss at me. Those kittens wouldn't even come close to a human hand out of choice.

After only a week, my kittens think nothing of a human hand nudging them here or there, scratching behind their ears and for a couple of them, picking up to cuddle briefly. Yes, we're there. But let me backtrack.

So, this weekend began with the usual shyness. Calpurnia and Jem still shied from my hands, Boo Radley wouldn't even hold still for a stroke. Somehow,  he's got this ability to make every sort of stroke seem uncomfortable for him. It doesn't matter what I try--under the chin, on the cheek, back of neck, sides, spine, etc. It reminds me of toddlers when they don't want to be man-handled, they flop into full-on dead weight and go noodley to hamper their parents at every turn. Well, Boo Radley has mastered that, but in kitten form, where every turn of his head makes every potential stroke I might make awkward. Even Atticus would panic if my hand came from above and not from his level. Only Scout was beyond any timidity, although most of that was down to him attempting to Houdini himself out of the pen. Basically, we had our work cut out for ourselves.

I spent a quiet morning, feeding and petting, topped up with the usual string games. It was a really lovely morning actually. Mr Findingmoxie coded for his computer science course, I was all kittens--seriously rapt and gave him peace. What's more, I felt peace myself. I didn't need to chatter or was restless, even though our hardwood floors are NOT comfortable and pins/needles is part and parcel of the foster project. I've always said it, but I'll say it again, cats are good for my soul.

The morning must have also charmed Mr Findingmoxie, because out of the deep dark blue he suggests letting them out of the pen for lounge playtime. Frankly, that's why I love the man. Gruff and not squee-ed by the tiny perfect cuteness of kittens, but inside, he's a giant kitten lover. He just doesn't know it yet. But to be honest, I wasn't sure they were ready. OR that I was ready. What if they hid under the sofa and wouldn't go back into their pen? What if I buckled under the task of getting them back into their pen? Luckily though, Mr Findingmoxie always pushes me to take risks and excel, where I would hold back for fear of failure. To paraphrase Eminem, 'success is my only BLEEP-BLEEPING option, failure's not.' What? There are 6 little ears in this house and we got to keep it clean.

Scout in mid-gambol

We went for it. I opened the pen door, Scout was out in seconds--the little rascal. The others trickled out over 10 minutes, the black kitties being dead last. And oh, how they loved it. There was running at full pelt, jumping tackles and sliding with skittering kitty nails all over our lounge. Under the sofa, round the coffee table, round and round they chased each other. It was hilarious and just exhilarating. Mr Findingmoxie was perched in our giant beanbag, blocking access to the kitchen and I took the time to properly clean out their pen. I made formal introductions between the hoover and the kittens. The kittens did not like it. But hey, NO cat does.

Scout, the only kitten to pose

Attacking the strap on my yoga mat 

Hubris

Now, you're probably thinking a moment of reckoning came and you're absolutely right. You cannot fly close to the sun without expecting your wings to melt off. The first 3 kittens were easy to get back into the pen--after all, they were pretty hungry from all the running around and it had been a few hours from the trough for them all. As you probably guessed, it was the little tabbies that went in easy peasy. We had to get creative and then just reckless in getting Calpurnia, Jem and Boo Radley back in for their tea. And it was messy.  I got my wrist shredded and some palm scratches. I felt pretty philosophical about it; I mean, I've always subscribed to the school of no pain, no gain. Besides, I knew it would make for good cocktail stories: someone would ask how the kittens were doing and I'd simply reveal my arm. Cue general laughter. It's all about the silver lining. In the end, I had to corner Boo in the laundry machine and rubbed his head until he got a bit drowsy before I made my move.

What I wish we hadn't done, however, was let them out twice in one day. I think they got overwrought with the excitement and one kitty left us a stinky surprise behind their pen. To be fair to him, it looked like a serious emergency, rather than the kitten version of sticking two fingers up. Mr Findingmoxie was not amused and was deeply traumatized. And we may have lost our tempers with each other. Hmmm. This project is not just teaching us about cats. I get this tingly feeling like the tiny hairs rising on the back of my neck that we're going to have similar breakdowns when it's time for the tiny pitter-patter of other little feet. Sigh. Any practice is good practice though, so I retain my optimism.

Come Monday night, Mr Findingmoxie had forgiven the kittens and we had some proper gambols with them. Scout and Jem were clambering up over his legs and my back (I was lying on my stomach) in their games. I admit, it's a bit harder keeping them contained now, especially as I'm feeding or cleaning their pen, or just trying to get some petting time in, but I've got this new system.  I am the gatekeeper and there is a toll to get past the gatekeeper. Every kitten that climbs onto the door gets picked up, held in my lap and cuddled. And once a day, they get their fondest wish: to RUN AMOK.

Conclusion: Food and Outside Playtime have become their key incentives and even little Cal curls up in my lap now when she wants to get out of the pen. Fist pump! And tonight, they'll have a little party of guests come to play and I couldn't be prouder of how far they've come.

Day 5--It's All About KTL

Well, it's been a busy few days, what with the 4th of July, my social obligations (relax, I'm not quite chairing any charity committees or lunching--that always gets a laugh out of Mr Findingmoxie too, like it's too grand a title for my sort of hanging out. Pfft, I say) and my kitten fostering. 

The kittens are coming along swimmingly. I won't lie; we had moments of despair, when it felt like they'd always cower and I'd always be this giant ogre terrorizing their pen. But once I started Kitty Tough Love, it sort of all fell into place. I'll probably always be a giant ogre, but we're making inroads on cowering. What, you ask, is KTL? It's very simple. Encourage them to see me as the FOOD. Remember when we started and I wanted them to see me as more than a food dispenser? Well, I think that's where I went wrong the first few days. I was fixating on cuddles, before I'd trained them behaviorally. Food is the incentive and while it seems like a cheap gimmick, it is the ground level to that ivory tower of love and cuddles that I want so badly.

So every time I feed them, I sit there and watch them eat, stroke them while they eat and once they walk away from the bowls, I remove the food and walk away. Even if they haven't finished their allotted portion. That's the plan. And boy, is it HARD. I don't like the idea of them being hungry and sometimes I cheat and leave dry food. But, KTL has results. Good, solid results. 

The first morning was a revelation. I woke up ridiculously early and came to feed them out of guilt. I was prepared for upturned noses and cold shoulders. There was the usual reserve as I sat before their pen. However, when they saw their bowls, they began to inch forward and when I was scooping food, they just sat in front of me, shifting their weight nervously--eyes only for FOOD. So far, so good, I thought. I placed the bowls before them and then, it was simply magical. All six kittens began purring. It was like a chorus of warm deep purring. Apparently, I'm a sap, but I nearly cried, kids. It was that beautiful. Ahem. Anyway, and what's more, they allowed me to stroke them while they ate. Even the tragically shy black kitties. Even Boo Radley, who never takes his eyes off me, the suspicious cutie, dipped his head and ate unconcernedly. 

Hell's bells, we're getting somewhere! And from there, it's gotten easier to handle them. I've stroked them all and they're actually coming to like it. I have caught Scout, Dill and Atticus leaning into it actually, the little softies. Calpurnia and Jem did not like it at first and only would allow it on their backs, but today, I've managed some cheek scratching and their eyes closed. I won't say in pleasure, but certainly in a tiny sliver of trust. 

Scout is a crazy little bundle of energy, who will play with string or feathers UNTO DEATH. There is no nap-time if there are toys that need battering. I reckon if I left the toys in, he'd NEVER sleep. See? He is always the last to give in to sleepies.

Nap-time, except of course, for Scout the Curious

Scout, in a stringed frenzy.

This morning I put on some Bob Dylan (mostly because they're watching a lot of violent crime shows on telly and they could probably use some soft folk influence in their music) and Scout just went nutballs. I mean, he was tearing at his string one second, the next second he was tearing across the pen to rugby tackle Atticus, then he'd drop Atticus, turn, grab their pillow and kick it angrily, and REPEAT. So, I don't think Bob Dylan is going to calm them. I managed to get some video of his antics set to 'Mr Tamborine Man,' which I'll post shortly. It's like I was playing some death metal or something. That's a firm NO to Bob Dylan, then.

Dill, however, is just a tiny ball of sweetness. He's the smallest and when I stroke down his back, his little backside just rises into the air and he's on tiptoes. Très adorable. And he just loves a neck scratch, but does tend to come out of it confused and slightly startled that it was a human hand! I think they are surprised that we, humans, can be good for affection. 

Oh, but the fighting. It's WWF wrestling most of the time, with kicking, scratching, tackling (from heights!). Besides being a sap, I'm a bit squeamish about fighting, especially when Atticus and Dill give this tiny whine when they've had enough. I know I should leave them be, but I end up nagging them like they're a bunch of toddlers. 'Don't kick your brother in the face' or 'brothers who love each other don't make each other cry!' Eh, it's exhausting and cutting into my evening TV viewing. I try to think of the afternoons when they're all smushed together taking a siesta. Those are some good times. 

Let's all pile into the tiny tray.

And cue, flopping over into sleep.

Conclusions: the kittens behave well in front of company (they get that from me and my people, Ayroms are renowned for hospitality) and seem to enjoy playing with strangers. Also, they find celery disturbing. Too crunchy, their little startled faces say. Yoga antics, they're used to now. Don't even care when I master the headstand. Where's my applause, kitties?

Today, We Celebrate Our Independence!

Before Obama and Clinton, Bill Pullman was my favorite President of all time. Who didn't want to jump up and defend the skies against the alien menace after that speech in Independence Day?

"Perhaps it's fate that today is the Fourth of July, and you will once again be fighting for our freedom... Not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution... but from annihilation. We are fighting for our right to live. To exist. And should we win the day, the Fourth of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day the world declared in one voice: "We will not go quietly into the night!" We will not vanish without a fight! We're going to live on! We're going to survive! Today we celebrate our Independence Day!"

It is the tiny patriot in me. And let's face it, damn good speeches are damn good speeches.  For once, I'm not at work, wishing I'd thought to book the date off so that I could be American in full colors. Today I rocked it in red, white and blue from head to toe and went from shop to shop, sourcing an amazing BBQ steak dinner. You might be thinking: that's an alarming turn of events. And you might not be wrong. I am working with an entire bottle of Jack Daniels and naked flame. And yes, while I reduced the Jack Daniels, I thought I'd pass out from the fumes. In good faith, I'll also admit that I did get distracted by kitten gazing and nearly missed my reduction wnidow. But suddenly, with molasses and all the other bits, my BBQ sauce is smelling SMOKIN'.

While I do celebrate my Independence today, this is the last Independence Day in London for some time. Normally, I'd sadface, but after the usual hunt for American ales (no Anchor Steam, ALAS) and fireworks (sparklers just aren't the same), I'm actually excited to be back in the motherland for next year's 4th of July. Somebody better throw me a Pool Party BBQ and take me to a fireworks show.

Anyway, Happy Independence Day to all my countrymen and those married to them!

Lady of Leisure Log, Day 2 of Kitty Krusade.

I've been a kitten foster-mom for 2 nights now and already, I'm experiencing parent anxiety. Last night, one of the kittens scaled his prison and got his tiny head stuck in a gap of his folding pen. BECAUSE I DIDN'T TIE DOWN ALL SIDES OF THE PEN. Which, by the way, did not take away from my stress levels while watching Walking Dead--I mean, I would love for one single episode where no one dies, but not holding my breath. I digress.

Sure, the little guy was none the worse and in fact, showed no indication of learning his lesson as he immediately scaled the other side, looking for another chink in his pen, once I released his tiny head. But the guilt, oh the guilt stays with you. I got into bed last night and lay there for what seemed like hours (and was probably a single hour), wondering if the kittens were okay and if I should sleep in the lounge in case something else went awry. It was only imagining Mr Findingmoxie's ridicule that kept me from launching myself  into the other room, pillow in hand. It's a terrible and a beautiful thing when you're responsible for tiny lives. That much is clear to me.

However, this morning began quietly. I started the day with a much anticipated feeding, both for myself and the little darlings. Seeing the kitties settled into a post-brekkie snooze, I risked a peaceful hour of yoga. I'd been looking forward to this, not just because of the much needed zen, but because I was desperately curious to see how the Wild Bunch would enjoy my yoga accompaniment. That's right, I wondered how their tiny ears would react to some serious opera, Maria Callas to be exact. Opera helps me dis-spell the white noise and if I'm doing it right, I feel like I'm soaring with the high notes. Turns out, the kittens were more interested in my contortions than in the tunes. Don't know if I did myself any favors--they already think I'm not entirely to be trusted.

Despite that, afternoon cuddles went really well and I even got two kittens purring! Definite result. And besides that, I came up with the exact literary source for their names. The same kitten that caught his head in the pen is my little rascal, an explorer, the first to venture forward either in eating or in play. While watching him try to single-pawedly annihilate the three pronged feather and ball toy while all his kitten sibs gave up to nap-time, I knew. He was Scout. And so a theme was born. I have myself a Scout, a Jem,  a Dill, an Atticus, a Calpurnia and a Boo Radley. Just call me Harper Lee, kids, because I've got me To Kill a Mockingbird.

Let me introduce to you:

Atticus, sitting court. [Bah-da-dum.] Look at his majestic chops and wise eyes. 

Jem and Scout scrabbling away. Scout, biggest tomboy, picking fights with all and sundry. Jem not too far behind.

White-chested Boo Radley, easily spooked and keeping to the shadows. Calpurnia, sleeping soundly--unless that is, you stick your hand in the pen too quickly, and then it's a HISS, because she protects her home. 

And finally, sweet, adorable Dill, who seems to cry uncle more than any of the others. 

We're so on our way, dear readers.

I Do a Far Far Better Thing...

Yes, I am being absolutely selfless by fostering an orphaned litter of six tiny kittens for Celia Hammond Animal Trust. I mean, it gives me no pleasure to dangle a feathery toy and watch 6 adorable kittens gambol around me. Nor does watching that one kitten, who prefers live prey over the feathers, attack his brothers' tails instead make me feel soft and gushy on the inside. No sir, not me. I do this for charity.

And here's what charity does for me: gives me a sense of purpose to my days and yes, gives me so much cuteness that I think the universe might explode with it. Of course, these are not just cute kittens. They are, in fact, new to this cuddling humans thing and frankly, they are not sure if it's worth all the fuss. But that's where I'm meant to come in. I have been given these kittens to socialize them and train them to love me, I mean, us--the human race. Starting with me, naturally. Anyway, I was instructed to play the radio, sing along to music and keep the television on as much as possible. I know, right? This assignment was MADE for me. Except for using the hoover and laundry machine, those are all my favorite things! If only having ice cream would make the kittens grow to respond to cuddles, then this would be the summer that I was given a little slice of heaven.

Today was Day 1 of the foster experiment. I woke early and suddenly, having had my first anxiety dream about the kittens. Mr Findingmoxie and I were back in Thailand and having Thai massages and I was relishing being back in my swimsuit, when BAM, I remembered the kittens. I had not arranged for anyone to come look after them. And I didn't have a spare key with anyone. How could I not have forgotten to look after the kittens?! Cue freakout and new for me, bursting into dream sobs. Enough to bring me awake, dry-eyed, thank god, but blessedly awake in a world where I haven't just sentenced six kittens to die of starvation in my own flat. Even though it's barely light, I have to nip out into the lounge and make sure they all survived the night. Plus, Mr Findingmoxie is new to this cats thing and I wanted to tidy things a bit before he had his breakfast right next to Kitty HQ. Good thing too, as they'd been busy kitties.

Getting them used to human noise, I set up a playlist--a veritable variety of genres, from Evita to Daft Punk. Interestingly, they handled everything calmly--including Biggie Smalls--but for the Daft Punk. 'One More Time' sent their tiny ears skittering and made one of the black kitties pace a bit. I like to think it's his jam.

Mid-morning playtime came round and it was a big hit.  The first step to trust and sweet, sweet cuddles is playtime. It's obvious that there are more confident and frisky kitties among the litter. Those same kittens are the first ones who come forward to eat once I place their food bowls into their pen. I will have to work harder to get the shyer ones to play. Challenge accepted.




Music, check. On to the TV training for my new cadets. I opted for some Glee (as I'm a bit behind on the season and I thought music and TV, two birds, eh?!), which to be honest, acted as a lullaby for the kittens. They dropped off immediately, only occasionally squinting up at me; I like to think they were making sure I was still there. Yes, they're already that attached to my awesomeness. What they did not enjoy was Maria Sharapova's match today--and I'm pretty sure, given the outcome, neither did Ms Sharapova. The emphatic shrieks of the tennis star did not endear Ms Sharapova to my napping brood, sadly.

Having noticed that they scurry back whenever I approach the pen, I wanted to get them acclimatized to me and so, after lunch, I arranged my yoga mat alongside their pen. I stretched out with my current reading (Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo. I know, not kitten friendly. If I dropped the tome, a kitten could be squashed. But, I always have read dangerously.) and we spent a lovely hour napping and reading.

Tomorrow, I will focus on stroking each kitten, hoping that once I scratch beneath their ears they'll see less of a purely functional use for humans--a.k.a food dispenser.

Demurely Saucy--Oh Yes, It's A Thing--Courtesy of Zara.

Well, to be perfectly clear (oh yes, I am that girl), today's hardest look for me to pull off comfortably is the sheer look. Besides jumpsuits, that is, which will always be beyond me given my tiny height and bodaciously curvaceous factor. I digress.

Yes, you can see London and France.

But seriously, skirts without lining and made deliberately sheer take me out of my comfort zone. Luckily, I need nudging out of my comfort zone from time to time. And it is fun to be demurely saucy. Every now and then, mind you.

-- I sent this from my 3 mobile --

In A Cat's Cradle

I've said it before and I'll say it again, the Victorians did it best. When Rochester turns to little plain Jane Eyre and says,

'I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you--especially when you are near me, as now; it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.' 

 it's one of the truest things I have ever read about love and attachment. It was when I first read it over 12 years ago and it still holds today. When I met Mr Findingmoxie, this passage flared up in my consciousness, lighting up the dark like a match and I knew that bizarrely, for their isolation, the Bronte sisters knew what it was to love deeply. Through the years of long distance and even longer distance, I held this image of a string anchoring from mine to Mr Findingmoxie's heart. It would thin with each mile it was stretched and it would quiver with the motion and roar of that sea that separated us. And oh, how it would ache. But, it never snapped or grew too weak to hold. And one day, at last, I followed it across the sea. 

We have lived happily in London for the last 5 years and we have forged for ourselves a warm and lovely hidey-hole in this ever-changing city. But, as all things change, we decided to move to back to the States and give the other side of our lives a chance at growth. And in this long summer of goodbyes, I have realized that there is not just one string from my heart to his, but rather, many strings branching from my heart to the supports of our life. Strings for my in-laws, my former CATS, my Lit friends, Mr Findingmoxie's school friends, our road, our flat, my favorite London bridge and the long white nights of an English summer. And so I am held in a cat's cradle of deep connection, bound tightly to these supports. Bound and raised loft--rather like the carved figure on the prow of a great masted ship. And soon I will catch the wind and with the strength and grace of these strings, move further into 'light and life,' like Jane Eyre with her Rochester. You know, only more crowded with much loved people and places.

In Which Sarah Waters Teaches Me That There Doesn't Need To Be a Beginning or an End.

I have this fascination with wartime London. Sure there was the blitz and sugar rations, but there was also red lipstick, seamed stockings, touring American soldiers, desperate love affairs, women re-building Waterloo Bridge and all Londoners getting through their days with style and careless bravado--all to stick it to the forces of darkness, that horrid old Jerry.

I think it's hard to imagine a society where we would all pull together like that and just get on with it as so many did. That's partly why we're inundated with post-apocalyptic films and programs. Us lot are trying to wrap our minds around a time where hope and happiness were in short supply and yet, people made the best of it as they could. Hard to comprehend in our modern age of instant gratification and creature comforts. Can you imagine sleeping overnight in an underground station with hundreds of your neighbours? Without losing your cool or demanding to speak to someone in charge?

In reading Sarah Waters' The Night Watch, London in the '40s has never been made more vivid and richly arrayed before my mind. The devil is in the details they say, but it's the details in this novel that really sink into you and grab hold. Like the unsung details of the men and women who joined the ambulance service of London, working nights and careening through bombed out streets at the call of sirens and direct hits, bringing in the wounded and dead. Suddenly, the Blitz is more than an thing, more than buildings collapsing and London being blacked out. But it was something that happened to people and homes, not just the city and bricks and mortar. Real living people stuck in the middle of a lousy war, never sure that it will ever end.

Besides the usual sense of this wartime generation seemingly unflinchingly taking on hardship and harrowing circumstances, what surfaces is the corresponding effect on the characters that had never crossed my mind before. Namely, that this generation had nothing to lose really and knew it. Accepting that you could die overnight in a direct hit or via fire, flooding, etc, gave you a cold comfort: the psychological license to living as you wanted and to make decisions that might normally have given you pause. In Sarah Waters' hands, this slice of time is not simply the stuff of history books, but a life that belonged to many. And for that fleshing out, I doff my cap to you, Ms. Waters.

However, The Night Watch reminded me of what I needed and always need reminding of. Beginnings and endings, exposition and linear narrative--these are not the only way to tell a story. These are aspects that can shape a story, but sometimes a story shapes itself. Honestly, I feel more unsettled upon finishing a novel like The Night Watch, than I would over a standard story-line where we begin with so-and-so and follow more or less along to the tidy little end. From the first page, you are already at the end and as the chapters go along, you are taken layer under layer through the characters' intertwining past, first 1947, then 1944, and finally 1941. And while you finish at 'the beginning,' you are really no closer to knowing it all. And if anything, that is the hardest for me to accept. I NEED to know. To the point that I will obsess over it for a few weeks, trying to sift through what was written, hoping to find clues to what wasn't. But that's good literature, isn't it? Provocative and compelling. Haunting and niggling. And frankly, that's also life. There aren't always clear answers.

So, on a personal level, whenever I think of writing, I should not turn away from an idea because I cannot see a beginning or an end. Or even a linear narrative. Because nothing is ever that tidy.

People politely waiting (in complete silence and serenity) for parking lot space. This would NEVER happen in LA. It's almost post-apocalyptic-eerie without honking horns. I imagine myself shouting, Is there anyone out there???? And hearing it echo loudly in the cold air.

-- I sent this from my 3 mobile --

Mrs Dalloway on the London Overground

Yesterday, I lived a novel in a day.

At least it felt like a novel. It was a novel worthy of Virginia Woolf, with shades of Mrs Dalloway all over it. Instead of a stream of consciousness and a series of rambling thoughts dotted with occasional insight, you could say my day was a rich range of Experience. Yes, reader, that was a capital E.

Yesterday, I saw a little girl drop her coat on a London Overground train. A tiny butterfly effect really. It was unseasonably warm and this little girl had had her autumn coat neatly folded over the strap of her school bag. As she followed her mother off the train, the coat inched lower and lower to the ground, finally landing in a heap at my feet. What did I do?

This is the part where I feel stunned by what living in London for 5 years can do to you. I hesitated. I debated. Do I get involved? Will anyone else notice and take care of it so I don't have to? Will it be strange for me to pick up this coat and chase a little girl?

Seriously, findingmoxie?!

It's a little girl's coat. Just deal with it. It was my stop and in my hemming and hawing, I nearly didn't make it off the train in time. I snatched her coat off the ground (in testament to the cloud most of us wrap up in, no other person on that train noticed the coat or the lady dashing forward to grab it) and leaped down from the train just as the doors began beeping. I chased after the little girl and tapped her on her shoulder.

findingmoxie: Excuse me, you left your coat on the train.
little girl: [eyes me. eyes the coat. says nothing]
her mother: [to the little girl] Is that your coat?
little girl: [nods, looking down]
her mother: [to me] Thank you. [to the little girl] Say thank you.
little girl: [mumbles] Thank you.
findingmoxie: Not a problem. Happy to hel--
her mother: [to the little girl] WHAT did I tell you about holding onto your coat?! Do you know how much a coat costs? You need to be more responsible!
findingmoxie: Um. [gulps, walks quickly away] [under breath] Sorry, kid.

Okay, so it wasn't a happy ending. And it did cross my mind if I dropped the little girl into it more than if I'd just let her forget her coat on the train. But at least I can say that I saw and did, rather than stared into nothingness, turned off from the city around me. That small act changed my day though.

It became a day where London, itself, seemed richer to my eyes. The colours saturated and alive, and the people, oh the people were suddenly wandering around the city fleshed out and multi-dimensional. You could go a hundred days where everything around you is simply white noise and at best, an irritation. You take no notice of anything around you besides the trains—are they on time or not, which platform will I hurl myself towards, is there a findingmoxie shaped space in that full car—and on these days, you could live in any big city anywhere. Big City, Earth.  But not today. Today, I saw and was seen.  My life crossed strangers’ lives in the smallest of ways and I was left jarred from the contact, as if I'd been woken from a deep but short sleep. Not quite rested, but fuzzily alert, as if I had just come off a transatlantic flight, fallen asleep on the train from the airport and woke up to the sudden sound of air and velocity crashing into one another as a train on the next track rattled heavily past mine. It was a reminder of my own humanity and it felt simultaneously strange and beautiful. 

It made me wonder if that is how people in Small Town, Earth always feel. So part of everything and engaged. As Mrs Dalloway finds herself thinking, I can only wonder if 'this gaiety would have been mine all day' if I were a small town findingmoxie. 

Thank goodness it was my stop. Don't think I would have been able to justify jumping off before my stop to return a little girl's coat (Sorry, Small Town, Earth, but them's the breaks).

In Which Kristen Stewart STILL Looks, Shall We Say, Backed Up

Seriously, I cannot commit on her acting skills--given that I can still boast at being the only person under 33 who hasn't seen any of her films (fist pump of triumph)--but in all her publicity, it's the same uncomfortable look of someone suffering from gummed up internal works.

Observe:

Just saying. 

 In any case, if the public love you for this, run with it, sister. Just please, I beg of you, never claim method acting in an interview. findingmoxie will not be responsible for the uncontrollable mirth that will follow.

Jet-lag May Interfere With Your Castle Love

As it’s practically 100 degrees in London (comparatively, you know with LA and hot places) this weekend, we’re all dreaming of ice cream and castles. Castles, because my sister is visiting and we’re driving out to Leeds Castle to see a CASTLE.

Here’s how the dialogue went last night when we broke the exciting news to my sister, bearing in mind that she may have been jetlagged:

Me: So, do you have any plans?

Shari: Well, it depends. I mean, did you guys want to hang out with me?

P: Of course.

Shari: That’s great! What did you have in mind?

Farnaz: We hired a car and are going to see a CASTLE.

Shari: A CASTLE?

Farnaz: A CASTLE.

Shari: Um, as in a castle?

Farnaz: Yes, a CASTLE.

Shari: What castle?

Farnaz: Leeds Castle.

Shari:  Is it in Leeds?

P: No.

Farnaz: It’s in Kent.

Shari: I mean, it’s just a castle?

Farnaz: It’s a CASTLE. Not just a castle. P, I think she doesn’t get castles.

P: Well, we’ll have to show her. 

In Which TV Teaches Me to be a Better Person

This morning I was just hoping to survive. I was curled up in bed, under layers of fleecy robe and full togged duvet and yet, I simply couldn't stop my teeth chattering. My skin actually hurt--like, it actually hurt to be in my skin. Even in my awkward teen years, never did I feel so uncomfortable in my own skin. This would have made young findingmoxienager seem like Beyoncé on a bad hair year. Pretty confident, considering!

I lay there, trying all the breathing exercises I had unintentionally absorbed during 5 years of yoga and hoped that achieving a 'meditative' state would ease the chattering and set my body at ease. Not so much. It was certainly worth a try. After a good while, I realized that sleep was not coming back for me and hauled my cookies, fleecy robe, duvet cover and all into the lounge where I threw all my hard luck onto our ginormous orange bean bag. I flipped on the television in the time-honored tradition of sick days and waited for something to give.

And it did. Maybe it was the power of distraction, of being pulled away from fretting over oneself and being given an alternative reality. Or maybe it was just the cure-all of teenage drama. Oh yes. What took away my aches and shivers? Nothing but a heavy dosing of juicy US teen dramas. I started with a strong hit of Gossip Girl (in Paris!) and felt an easing. By the time, One Tree Hill was on, I felt lighter. I cannot even convey how amazing the change was. I mean, one minute I was lying in bed, alternating between moaning and clicking my teeth, and the next, I was reclined on a bean bag, chuckling and rolling my eyes (in a good way!) at Blair's typically grandiose expectations and Chuck Bass' shellacked hair. And wishing someone would give Serena a haircut with some life. Oh and that that they would stop calling each other B and S. I mean, honestly. Not. Buying. It. And since we're all girlfriends here, secretly, ever so secretly, crushing on Chuck Bass, shellacked hair and all. Don't know what that boy has that speaks to me, mojo, charisma, whatnot, but whatever it is, he has it in spades.

Lolling on the bean bag, I got ambitious. I turned to House and hoped that while I had little interest in watching it as a series when hale and hearty, it might be worth a sickie one-off. And then this happened:

It was a gift. I won't lie. It made my day. I found myself smiling as if I hadn't a care in the world. Though it won't make me rush out and buy a box set of House, to catch up on all I've missed out on, I doff my hat to you, House. But if House suddenly becomes all about handsome, stubbled men singing 70s soul music, drop me a line and I'll be on it! I tell you what, it was strangely hot watching suited men sing karaoke. I know, I could get that any weeknight at the Silver Cloud in the Marina, but not in London, friends. Not in London.

So this here is a proper journey in my restoration and I ended the day with some truly hilarious Benidorm (British sitcom about an inclusive holiday resort in Spain). It's mostly laughs and me well onto my way of feeling myself again. But what's this? Thong wearing (abusing, more like) old gent, Mel, nearly drowns after knocking his head on the bottom of the pool in an effort to teach belly-flopping Geoff how to dive correctly. It was funny, I promise. But then Mel, moved by his near death experience (his whole life flashed before his eyes and it was blurry because he didn't have his glasses on), proposes to tiny old Madge, because 'life isn't a rehearsal. This is all you get.' BOOM. The words drop like a bell tolling the hour. Portentous, resonant, striking home.

This is all we get, kiddos. I definitely need to get cracking. Tomorrow, when I'm back on my feet, that is.

On Green Dolphin Street

There are books that you read to get through time. Purely escapist books that drag you under their surface and you sink happily, knowing that in a few hours time you'll be shaking it off and striding off without a backward glance. These books do not have power over you; there isn't any risk involved. You have simply chosen to give them time and mind and once the last page is turned, you will emerge unscathed. I suppose these have been my diet of late. Sebastian Faulks' On Green Dolphin Street is NOT one of these books.

I have always respected the power of novels. I know that 'like wine through water,' there are novels that can 'alter the colour of my mind.' I know this. It is one of the things I suppose I have loved most about reading--the fact that it is not just a passive activity. A novel IS the monster under the bed; the fears and lies you have promised yourself you would let lie like sleeping dogs. It is that ledge you play with, dangling yourself over the drop; and when you're ready, the superbly reckless and ecstatic dive into the unknown. It is the enormous boulder in a Canadian lake that you climb on a summer holiday only to realise you now have to jump into the lake and it's a long way down and the water will probably be cold, but that you will do it ANYWAY. It is making it to the top tier of the jungle gym that you could never bring yourself to climb onto as a child. And the rewards have always outweighed the gamble.

Like every other Faulks novel I have read, I came by it second-hand and through necessity. I needed a book and the universe provided one. I should have felt a tickle of premonition. I did not. I began reading it on and off, mostly interrupted by the end of the Harry Potter franchise (which required me to jump into the Deathly Hallows again for full on HP immersion before the big show), but also occasionally through anxiety. Reading OGDS on the train home or at lunch, I would come to and realise that my shoulders were hunched and tight, my breath held and my knuckles white from clutching the pages. The backdrop of the story, set in a time of quickly waning innocence and trust in American history, could account for some of my anxiety. We all know that Kennedy doesn't last his first term and that Nixon will bring home that presidents and governments do lie. Through the lens of history and hindsight, it is a time that always seems like a coil tightening and tightening until it simply snaps. All that glamour and glory reaching a pinnacle and then just falling to ruin: the end of Camelot, Icarus flying too close to the sun. So yes, I was grimacing for these people, unaware that their world would shortly change. Add to that, the emotional baggage from the second World War, the Civil Rights struggle and McCarthyism weighing the characters down. It's no wonder I was a bag of nerves.

Let me stress that that was just the backdrop. The main show was a tightrope of human relationships. Yes, into this already brittle and burgeoning world, Faulks threw in the spectre of human frailty, made all the more poignant because most characters were unaware of their awful frailty. At first glance, it was that old chestnut, wife has affair and ultimately has to choose between love and husband and kids. But somewhere along the way, ( I scarcely know how it happened, credit must go to Faulks' skill as an author), it transcended that cliche. The three central characters became people. Not just husbands, wives and lovers. They were suddenly individuals who needed more from life than life had given them. Which made it all the more devastating when the constraints of morality trapped them in the end. Like Frank, I couldn't believe that bog standard morality would get them in the end and much like Mary, I began to feel as if they had created a time out of this world and their reckoning would never come. But when it did, oh boy.

The whole of the novel was so restrained, so still waters run deep, that the last few pages broke like a dam and demolished all my defences. I felt raw, unadulterated grief. I could have howled with it. I still cannot believe how shaken I was. Silly lady that I am, I thought I could finish it in company--you know, like in a living room with others. Mistake.

The slow burn and the detached depiction of the characters made me believe I could walk away unscathed. Far from it. I set the book down, excused myself and had to stand in a room on my own, clawing my way back from the dark. Maybe the inclusion of airports and goodbyes resonated too deeply with my life. Maybe the conclusion wasn't as powerful and visceral as a fist to the stomach to anyone else (given some of the reviews on Amazon). But it knocked me down. And it's been a while since a book truly leapt out of the dark and knocked me down. I suppose it's because I forgot the power of books and let my guard down.

On Green Dolphin Street dragged out into the light my worst despair, my monster under the bed: saying good-bye to the man you love more than you love friends, life and country and not knowing if you'll ever see him again. It shocked me that even though it's been years and that man and I are happily married, the despair is still there and it will always be there, glinting darkly under the surface. For that reason, the denouement of OGDS will stay with me a long long time.

I begin to think that the human condition is haunted and that Emily Dickinson was right all along:

'One need not be a chamber to be haunted,

One need not be a house;

The brain has corridors surpassing

Material place.

Far safer, of a midnight meeting

External ghost,

Than an interior confronting

That whiter host.

Far safer through an Abbey gallop

The stones achase,

Than, moonless, one's own self encounter

In lonesome place.

Ourself, behind ourself concealed,

Should startle most;

Assassin, hid in our apartment,

Be horror's least.

The prudent carries a revolver,

He bolts the door,

O'erlooking a superior spectre

More near.'

Still, I should gamble more often. Reading dangerously keeps you on your toes.

Shades of Gray--no Jasper Fforde, this isn't about you.

All’s fair in love and war.

When I was younger, that never sat well with me. It was too glib, too neat. It seemed to give people license to wrong one another and left those of us who couldn’t wheel and deal at a distinct disadvantage. I could not imagine a scenario where throwing someone over for someone with more appeal could ever be rationalised as the sort of decision made by good people. I was of the mind that you could not be good people if you just took what you wanted without thought for the consequences of your actions on all the other poor saps involved. It was a black and white world. You know the type, a nice and comfortable world where right is right and wrong is wrong. The sort of world we teach our children about and fully encourage to value over all else.

And now, nearly ten years on, I find it’s all going gray. And I’m not just referring to the odd strand here or there, but to the so many shades of gray in all things important. Friends fall in love, fall out of love, parents love and lose just as easily and while no one has actually said, ‘all’s fair in love and war,’ it’s what I keep coming back to. The phrase I once rejected has come back with a sort of languid vengeance, spreading through our ranks.

And it’s not pretty. But, what is most disturbing is not that it’s back and it’s very real, but that I can’t even seem to work up a sense of outrage about it and neither can anyone else. Does this mean I believe that all’s fair in love and war? Did this happen without me even making a conscious decision to run with it? Maybe all my appalled outrage when I was younger was a symptom of denial—a denial of something that I subconsciously knew deep down was true.

I mean, what do we know about love? We know that love conquers all, that love will lead us, that love is worth dying for, that love is all we need. The world, ultimately, being Darwin’s world, would have us believe that love is survival of the fittest. And so it is. It’s not a death match, but it is an arena that doesn’t allow for spectators. You cannot sit this one out and let someone else have the glory because there is only one game. You have to push through your conscience and do what brings you peace and happiness. And I suppose, you just hope that when the smoke clears, people still love you.

Why on earth do we teach our kids this anyway? It took this kid 31 years to figure out that it’s not at all black and white, and that good people need to live their lives too. But I guess, there’s another shade of gray for you. You simply cannot tell a child it’s complicated. I know. I would have scoffed at that!