Home and garden | Now I'm 64

Forgiven!

We have recently been travelling, spending nearly three weeks north of the border in Scotland. We had a good time there, visiting old haunts and exploring new ones, but although it’s great to be back home again our return is tinged with anxiety – will the cats forgive us for abandoning them?

Regular readers of this blog will know that, although we have no cats of our own, Mrs P and I have a close relationship with several of the local neighbourhood felines. They all lay claim to our garden, though they graciously allow us to use it too, and the most brazen of them – Malteser and Caramel – also enjoy prowling through the house, demanding regular attention, edible treats and loving belly rubs. Our role is simply to attend to their needs, and they are certain to be unhappy that we have recently been neglecting our duties.

We arrive home late afternoon on Tuesday, and I scan the garden hopefully. It’s an overgrown mess – no surprise there, given my lack of enthusiasm or talent for gardening – but it’s also a cat-free zone. Tomorrow, maybe?

But Wednesday comes and goes with minimal feline activity. Milky Bar passes through, eyeing me up as he does, but not bothering to say hi. He’s an aloof cat who rarely greets us these days, but I’d hoped he’d at least acknowledge our return with a few well-directed purrs.

Thursday brings an unexpected visitor, neighbourhood wide-boy Cadbury. Our other feline friends all live together, but Cadbury is a new arrival from the other end of the estate. When he encounters Milky Bar, Malteser or Caramel hackles are raised on both sides, and the air crackles to sounds of mutual hissing and yowling. We wish Cadbury no harm, of course, but our affections lie with his feline opponents, so we shed no tears when he leaves.

***Cadbury, the neighbourhood wide-boy***

At last, on Friday morning, Caramel arrives. I’m in the kitchen making an early morning cup of tea, and glance through the window to see the ginger ninja – as we sometimes refer to him – peering hopefully into the garden pond. He’s clearly hoping to have a goldfish for breakfast, but the netting I installed years ago frustrates him once again.

Looking up, Caramel spots me watching him. The reaction is immediate. He meows several times, leaps onto the garden seat that sits beneath the kitchen window, and from there onto the window ledge. With his nose pressed up against the glass he stares in at me intently, checking me out. I can read his mind: Is it really you? Really? After all this time?

I cross to the door, and the moment I open up he dashes in, meowing furiously while rubbing himself against my legs. Where have you been? he demands. Abandoning me like that is unforgiveable. However, if you were to give me a large helping of Pawsome Pockets, I just might let you off this time! And with that he hops up onto one of the kitchen chairs, gazes cutely into my eyes and waits to be hand-fed. Mrs P joins us and together we give Caramel the breakfast to end all breakfasts.

When he’s done feeding our feline pal exits the kitchen, runs upstairs and stretches out on the comfy sofa in our library room. I sit next to him, and spend the next 30 minutes cradling his head, massaging his ears and rubbing his belly. Caramel purrs loudly, eyes closed, ecstasy oozing out of him. It’s just like the old days, before the trip to Scotland. Plainly, we’re forgiven.

Malteser, however, waits until Saturday to dispense forgiveness. I spot him in the garden, sitting on the fence and peering disconsolately into the house. As soon as he sees me he perks up. I open the door to let him in and greets me with a friendly meow. I reach for the packet of Pawsome Pockets and he begins to purr loudly, clearly delighted that normal service has been resumed after a gap of three weeks. When he’s done eating he presents his belly and I rub it tenderly, and then do the same to his ears. He’s in heaven, and Mrs P and I are officially forgiven.

In all, it has taken nearly four days to rebuild the relationship with all our visiting cats. The bad news for them is that we’ve got a busy summer ahead, and will be going away several more times. With luck they will take pity on us, and we will quickly be forgiven for abandoning them again and again. Hopefully…

Making himself at home – a Caramel update

Posted on April 16 by Platypus Man

I have written previously about Caramel, one of several neighbourhood cats who claim ownership of our garden. At that time he was still a little cautious, happy to take edible treats thrown towards him in the garden and pleased to have his ears fondled, but otherwise reluctant to get up close and personal with us. I’m delighted to report that our relationship has developed in recent months, and he is now a regular house guest at Platypus Towers.

Mrs P and I generally wake up shortly after 6am, and by 6:30 our need for the first cup of tea of the day is overwhelming. I make my way downstairs, flick on the kettle and make the necessary preparations. And then I glance through the kitchen window into the garden where, almost always, Caramel is waiting, peering up at me with a look that says “get your priorities right, man. Tea can wait but I can’t, so let me in NOW“.

I do my duty, and then call upstairs to advise Mrs P that her services are required. Caramel dashes into the house as soon as I open the door, meowing squeakily as he passes me, and leaps immediately onto one of the kitchen chairs. I grab a packet of Pawsome Pockets – “crunchy pillow treats with a soft centre” – and pass them to Mrs P, who is now sitting on the other kitchen chair directly opposite the ravenous feline. Her job is to feed him by hand, pillow by pillow. Caramel has no manners and gulps the treats down greedily, purring loudly in appreciation of his ill-gotten breakfast.

Eventually Mrs P decides that enough is enough, and explains this to her furry friend. He’s not pleased, but knows that his morning fun has only just begun. Jumping down from the chair he sprints into the hallway, then thunders upstairs towards the room that we call The Library.

I follow dutifully, grabbing Caramel’s ball on the way. It is about the size of a tennis ball, but soft and squishy. I throw it against the far wall of The Library, and Caramel chases madly after it. Having captured his quarry he does a flamboyant victory roll, flashing his undercarriage for all to see. I lower myself onto the floor next to him, ignoring the protests of my ageing knees, and rub his belly. Caramel is in ecstasy, and lets rip with purring so loud as to be totally out of place in any self-respecting library. But he’s not bothered, and keeps up the purring for as long as I keep up the rubbing.

Finally, he decides the floor is no place for a cat of his pedigree, so he gets to his feet and jumps up onto the sofa that is tucked into one corner of the room. I sit down next to him, and set about massaging his belly, his ears, his chin and his ego. This goes on for maybe 15 minutes before I decide that I really do need my breakfast. I tell Caramel he can wait for me, but he doesn’t like to be left alone as he suffers from a severe case of FOMO – Fear Of Missing Out! I head downstairs and he follows me back into the kitchen, where I dispense a few more Pawsome Pockets before persuading him that he really should nip back home and spend a few minutes with the people who believe they own him.

We’re sad to see him go, but the chances are he’ll be back again once or twice more during the course of the day. And if not, we know that we’re in for a repeat performance tomorrow morning. And the morning after that. And the one after that too…you know how it is with cats, when they recognise they’ve won!

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Postscript – update on Malteser and Milky Bar

***Malteser loves Pawsome Pockets, particularly if we hand-feed him***

Regular readers of this blog will know that Caramel shares a house with two feline companions, known to us as Malteser and Milky Bar. I am pleased to report that they too are still doing well. Malteser visits most days, and also enjoys Pawsome Pockets and belly rubs. Sometimes he and Caramel come indoors together and Mrs P has to feed them both by hand, one treat for Malteser, then one for Caramel, then one for Malteser followed immediately by one for Caramel. And so on…

Milky Bar is more restrained, and never crosses the threshold into our house. He does, however, enjoy sunning himself in the garden and drinking from the watering can. He, Caramel and Malteser are wonderful characters, and their visits are amongst the highlights of our daily lives. Long may it continue!

Another year, another cat

Posted on February 7, 2024 by Platypus Man

Milky Bar* and Malteser*, two cats who live locally and claim ownership of our garden, have competition. There’s a new kid on the the block. Caramel has arrived on the scene, oozing cheeky charm and kittenish cuteness. He first appeared just before Christmas, watchful, tentative, a stranger in a strange land, hoping for the best but plainly fearing the worst.

Since the start of the New Year he’s been coming more often, and is gaining in confidence. Our garden is a bit chaotic (I lack both talent and enthusiasm in the gardening department!) so there’s plenty for him to investigate, plenty of adventures to be had. Transfixed, we’ve watched the intrepid explorer through the window, anxious to do nothing that might alarm him.

Everything’s a game to Caramel. He’ll be strolling nonchalantly through the garden and then suddenly go crazy, stalking inanimate objects, pouncing on windblown leaves and swatting invisible insects. One time, for no obvious reason, he attacked the withered stem of a pondside plant. After grappling with it for a while he succeeded in breaking the stem free. Then he daintily picked it up between his teeth and proudly walked off in the direction of his own house, clearly keen to present this hard-won trophy to his bemused owners.

We probably shouldn’t do it, but we’re in the habit of treating Milky Bar and Malteser to snacks when they visit. Milky Bar is quite a fussy eater these days, but will happily down a couple of mouthfuls of freshly cooked chicken. Malteser, on the other hand, has no such reservations, and is hopelessly in love with Pawsome Pockets, “chicken, turkey and duck crunchy pillow treats with a soft centre.”

Caramel is also developing a taste for Pawsome Pockets. The first time I opened the door to throw some out to him his instinct was to run. Good! Some people do unspeakably cruel things to cats, and it’s important that he works out who he can trust. But he soon decided that I’m one of the good guys, and was keen to investigate the little treats I tossed in his direction. Sniff, sniff, sniff! Crunch! Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch! And then stared at me with his mad kitten eyes and gave me THAT LOOK, the look that says “Keep ’em coming, I’m a growing kitten don’t you know!“ So I kept on tossing them out, and Caramel carried on wolfing them down.

Last week there was a major breakthrough in our relationship. With a bit of encouragement Caramel plucked up the courage to approach me and stand at my feet. I knelt down and offered to hand-feed him his daily dose of Pawsome Pockets. He snatched them from me and gulped them down, hardly bothering to chew at all. And then he approached even closer, clearly inviting me to stroke his back and fondle his ears. I did my duty, and the little ginger guy looked suitably pleased with himself, almost as pleased as me!

***Milky Bar is doing his best to ignore the irritating teenager***

Already I can see Caramel is growing up. Soon he’ll be putting his kittenish ways behind him, but his prospects for the future look good. Milky Bar* and Malteser* will look after him – we think they all live in the same household. He appears at ease in their company, and they tolerate him in the way that adult humans put up with irritating but basically likeable teenagers. And when he needs to fill his belly with Pawsome Pockets or have his ears fondled, he knows just where to come!

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*The Milky Bar and Malteser story

Milky Bar and Malteser have featured many times in this blog. You can read about Milky Bar here, here and here. Malteser’s story is told here, here and here. Just click on the links to find out more about this fantastic feline pair.

The Big Garden Birdwatch breaks my heart

Posted on January 31, 2024 by Platypus Man

It’s that time of year again, the time when the UK’s dedicated nature lovers take part in the RSPB’s (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) Big Garden Birdwatch, a national survey that has been running annually in one form or another since 1979. It is also, sadly, the time when I have to confess that once again Mrs P and I have failed miserably in our attempt to attract a wealth of birdlife to our modest suburban back garden.

***The Woodpigeon was one of just two species to visit our garden over the Birdwatch long weekend***

The first event, in 1979, was aimed at children and was a good deal more popular than anticipated. For over two decades the Big Garden Birdwatch continued in this form. Eventually the RSPB must have realised that the buzz created by the Birdwatch every year would be even bigger if anyone could take part, so in 2001 participation was opened up to adults as well. It worked: last year over half a million people took part in the Big Garden Birdwatch, and between them they recorded a massive 9.1 million birds!

The RSPB is understandably very proud of its Big Garden Birdwatch, which it claims is “the world’s largest garden wildlife survey”. The benefits are wide-ranging: media coverage helps raise the profile of birds,- and environmental issues more generally – with a wider audience; those taking part get to focus their attention on nature for a while and enjoy consequential benefits for their mental health, and the RSPB collects a wealth of data on which species are thriving and which are struggling.

***We were also visited by two male Blackbirds***

Unhappily, the picture painted by the Big Garden Birdwatch is not encouraging, with the number of birds plummeting over the decades since it began. For example, House Sparrows are down 57% since 1979, while the number of Song Thrushes has collapsed by 80%.

Our own experience echoes these dismal findings: the results of this year’s count at Platypus Towers were, as expected, absolutely abysmal. The Big Garden Birdwatch 2024 ran over a period of three days, during which participants had to record the birds landing in their garden in a one hour period of their choice. In our garden, the number of birds seen throughout the whole three days – not just one hour! – was four.

Yes that’s right, we saw a measly four birds in our garden during the entire Birdwatch long weekend! OK, I admit that we weren’t watching every daylight minute of all three days, but the room where I work on my laptop overlooks the garden. In addition we spend every tea break in our “garden room”, watching what’s going on out there (and remember, we’re Brits so we have LOTS OF TEA BREAKS!) Not much passes us by, meaning the count of four birds is sure to be fairly accurate.

I’d been topping up the bird table for weeks to get the local birds in the mood for food, and on the first morning of the Birdwatch it was groaning under the weight of the goodies we’d provided. But they went largely ignored. The birds simply stayed away.

It wasn’t always like this. We’ve lived in this house nearly 40 years, and back in the day we welcomed a variety of avian visitors. Starlings, House Sparrows, Blue Tits, Long-tailed Tits, Robins, Wrens, Goldfinches and Dunnocks have all been seen. Memorably, for a few days one winter, a Pied Wagtail and a Grey Wagtail called our garden home. Once we spotted a Sparrowhawk sitting on the roof of the garden shed. A little later we found the remains of what we reckoned to be a Collared Dove on the path, and without doubt the Sparrowhawk was the guilty party. Even a Pheasant, hopelessly lost of course, once dropped in to say hi.

But in recent years, the number and variety of birds in our garden has fallen drastically. I last blogged about the Big Garden Birdwatch in 2020, under the title Birds Don’t Come Here Any More. That year, we saw just one male Blackbird! This year, between 26 and 28 January, the only birds to visit our garden were two woodpigeons and two male blackbirds.

OK, we did better in 2024 than in 2020, but there’s nothing here to celebrate. I wish I could believe it’s simply because all the local birds got a better offer, a garden with tastier food (Mrs P’s theory) and fewer visiting cats, but I fear it’s worse than that. All the evidence suggests that bird numbers are declining right across the country. It breaks my heart.

Next year, of course, we’ll do the Big Garden Birdwatch again. Maybe we’ll do better than this time. We could hardly do much worse.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Update, 5 February 2024

A week has passed since I wrote this post at the end of the Big Garden Birdwatch, and as expected the birds are back in numbers. As well as the Blackbirds and Woodpigeons, over the last seven days we’ve been visited by a Starling and a Dunnock, and three (yes, that’s right, THREE) Robins. It’s almost as if they know and are taunting us. Huh!

Updating the update!

No more than 20 minutes after writing the above update two Blue Tits arrived and started inspecting the nest box we’ve put up on the side of the shed. They seemed interested. Things are definitely looking up, and my broken heart is beginning to mend…for now at least.

One year on …

The 2025 Birdwatch was marginally more successful: Two Woodpigeons, two male Blackbirds, two Robins and a Magpie. Typically, however, the Wren didn’t turn up until 48 hours after the count had ended. It was ever thus …

Dunrobin – a fairy tale castle

Posted on January 24, 2024 by Platypus Man

No trip to Scotland is complete without visiting a castle. Last year, on our way north to Orkney, we did just that when we broke our journey at Dunrobin, which has been home to the Earls and Dukes of Sutherland since the 13th century. Boasting no fewer than 189 rooms, Dunrobin Castle is the largest great house in the Northern Highlands. It is also one of Britain’s oldest continuously inhabited houses, dating back to the 13th century.

Although vestiges of the early medieval castle remain, they are today buried deep within a much larger and grander structure. A series of extensions over the centuries have transformed the original fortified tower into something altogether different, something apparently straight out of a fairy tale.

One of the men most responsible for the Dunrobin we see today was architect Sir Charles Barry (1795 – 1860), who oversaw a massive remodelling exercise in the mid-19th century. Under Barry’s guidance, Dunrobin morphed into a grand house in the then-fashionable Scottish Baronial style, similar to that adopted at Queen Victoria’s Balmoral residence.

Barry had a big national reputation. Amongst numerous other accomplishments, in 1836 he won a commission to design the new Palace of Westminster (Houses of Parliament) in London. The Duke of Sutherland’s great wealth and extensive social connections are clearly evidenced by his ability to secure Barry’s services at Dunrobin.

As it happens, that wealth was generated to some considerable degree through the forcible eviction of many thousands of estate tenants during the notorious Highland Clearances. This is something that should, I feel, give visitors pause for thought when they murmur appreciatively at Dunrobin’s undoubted magnificence. The cost of Dunrobin should properly be measured not just in financial terms, but in human terms too.

Dunrobin Castle had an eventful time in the 20th century. In 1915 much of the interior was destroyed by a huge fire, so what we see inside today is largely the work of Scottish architect, Sir Robert Lorimer (1864 – 1929) rather than Charles Barry. Despite the fire, parts of the castle were used as a naval hospital during the First World War, then, later in the century between 1965 and 1972, it was used as a boys’ boarding school.

Today no trace of the school remains, and instead visitors are offered glimpses of an opulent lifestyle that is almost certainly beyond their reach. The formal gardens are also rather grand, and are another part of Sir Charles Barry’s legacy. They are arranged into two parterres, both laid out around circular pools where fountains playfully splash. The layout of the gardens has changed little since they were planted more than 150 years ago, although new plants are constantly being introduced.

Barry took his inspiration from the Palace of Versailles in Paris. That the Duke of Sutherland was prepared to commission and bankroll such a project in this remote, windswept corner of the Scottish Highlands speaks volumes about his cultural awareness and social ambitions. Visionary? Pretentious? Completely out to lunch? You’ll have to make up your own mind on that one!

Although Dunrobin Castle is impressive and its formal gardens are majestic, I have to confess that the most memorable part of our visit was the falconry display. Falconry is the ancient art of hunting with birds of prey, and for reasons that aren’t entirely clear Dunrobin puts a show every day. No actual hunting takes place, but the birds – including Peregrines, Gyr Falcons and Harris Hawks – are exercised on the Castle lawn, under the watchful eye of the resident and highly knowledgeable falconer.

The birds are given the opportunity to fly around freely and do so with obvious pleasure, often whizzing just above the heads of an enthralled audience. In the end, however, the birds always return to the falconer, secure in the knowledge that he’ll be providing dinner once the show is over! It’s highly unusual to be able to get so close to birds of prey, and as they were bred in captivity and are plainly well cared for we had no qualms in watching and applauding the show.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

What, then, is the overall verdict on our visit to Dunrobin Castle? Perched on a high terrace and bristling with fairy tale spires and turrets, the castle sits somewhat incongruously within the Scottish Highlands’ landscape. It is a relic of another age, an age when great wealth and all the opportunities that went with it was concentrated in just a few fortunate hands. The splendid gardens and the falconry display add to this other-worldly feeling, making a visit to Dunrobin a somewhat surreal experience. It’s a fascinating place to spend a few hours, but don’t make the mistake of thinking this place has anything to do with the real, 21st century world!

Ginger Nut has staked his claim – is fur about to fly?

Posted on March 8, 2023 by Platypus Man

There’s trouble brewing in our back garden. Right now it’s under control, a Mexican standoff in which the participants watch one another warily, plotting and planning their next moves. But any time soon the uneasy peace could descend into open warfare. And if that happens, the fur could really start to fly.

Close up of ginger and white cat sitting on a fence

Regular readers of this blog will know that ownership of our garden is claimed by two local cats. Milky Bar and Malteser love to hang out here, to snooze, to play, to hunt insects and to do a bit of casual birdwatching. We think they must live in the same household because, while they are clearly not close friends, they are tolerant of one another’s presence. That, however, is where their generosity of spirit ends. No other cat is welcome in our garden.

Over the years a few others tried to muscle in. Flake, Titan, Toblerone, Mars Bar, Minstrel and Yorkie have all passed through, but none has stayed for long. Milky Bar and Malteser have seen to that, and have remained unchallenged here for ages.

Ginger and white cat creeping along the top of a garden fence

But that could be about to change. A few weeks ago a new cat appeared, walking purposefully along the fence that divides our garden from those of our neighbours. He’s a big bruiser of a ginger tom, a no-nonsense sort of cat who looks to be more than a match for Milky Bar and Malteser.

After checking out the terrain the new arrival – who we called Ginger Nut – leapt down from the fence and inspected the garden in great detail. Luckily our regular feline friends were elsewhere, so a confrontation was avoided. Ginger Nut quickly sniffed out that other cats had been here before him, and communicated his presence by liberally spraying a few bushes. It was like a gold prospector staking a claim, announcing to all and sundry that this is his patch now and he’ll have words with anyone who dares to disagree.

Ginger and white cat walking along the top of a garden fence

A few hours after Ginger Nut left, Malteser arrived. Cats have a good sense of smell, and he soon detected that his territory had been invaded and, indeed, desecrated. He responded with a spraying frenzy of his own, as if to say anything you can spray, I can spray better / harder / higher! War had been declared.

Since then, Ginger Nut has been back several times. He’s clearly a bit put out by Malteser’s resistance, but hasn’t given up hope that his attempted coup d’état will ultimately be successful. One day he appeared on the fence while Malteser was lazing in the garden. Mrs P and I watched anxiously from the kitchen window while the pair of them sized each other up. A fight seemed inevitable, but on this occasion Ginger Nut backed down.

Ginger and white cat looking out over a garden

I’d like to think that this will be the end of it, that Ginger Nut will take his territorial ambitions to another part of our estate. But I have my doubts. He looks like a tough nut, much bigger and bolder than any of the other cats who’ve contemplated staging a coup. I’m worried that one day he’ll attempt to prove his prowess by giving Malteser – and Milky Bar – a thumping. If that happens the outcome is far from predictable, but it’s certain that fur would fly. Let’s hope it never comes to that!

Black and white cat sprawled out in the garden — Milky Bar

Tabby and white cat staring straight ahead. — Milky Bar

The company of cats

Posted on December 24, 2022 by Platypus Man

It’s been a tough year. While catching Covid was the worst thing that happened to us personally in 2022, from a national and international perspective it’s been unrelentingly grim. In a year in which the UK lost its queen after 70 years on the throne, political turmoil and financial crisis have stalked the land, the National Health Service is in meltdown, social care is collapsing and many folk can no longer afford to heat their homes or buy enough food to feed their families. Misery rules, OK! And overseas, events in the Ukraine reinforce the sense of instability and imminent jeopardy.

***Malteser (aka Pudrow). Here he’s relaxing on the sofa (“HIS” sofa!) which lives in our Library Room***

Are we downhearted? Well, to be honest, from time to time I am! But one of the things that has brought me a degree of comfort and solace in the dark times has been the company of cats. Two cats in particular, Milky Bar and his buddy Malteser.

Regular readers of this blog will know that although Mrs P and I have no cat of our own, Milky Bar and Malteser, who live somewhere on our street, regard our garden as part of their territory. And Malteser also lays claim to our house, although he graciously allows us to continue living here so long as we allow him access whenever he feels the need!

***Milky Bar (aka EmBee). On the bridge over the pond, struggling to keep his eyes open.***

We see Milky Bar most days in summer, but rather less often at this time of year. He’s a beautiful chap, although getting on a bit in years and growing stouter around the tummy. His hobby is snoozing, and he’s pleased to indulge in it at every opportunity. He regularly beds down in a nest he has built for himself under an azalea bush, but when he craves sun rather than shade he stretches out on the little wooden bridge that crosses the narrowest part of our garden pond. Here he can soak up the rays while keeping one eye open to watch out for dragonflies, which he’ll catch and eat if the fancy takes him.

***Milky Bar’s favourite hobby is snoozing. He practises regularly!***

Milky Bar is an aloof and somewhat cautious cat, but clearly trusts us to respect his personal space. Occasionally he will approach, softly miaowing and offering himself up to be stroked But mostly he keeps his distance, happily observing what is going on all around him. He watches with interest whenever he sees me doing the gardening (or is he in shock? I don’t do much gardening!), and allows me to approach within inches of him without stirring. We enjoy one another’s company, both understanding that there are boundaries between us that must be respected.

**Occasionally Milky Bar approaches us, miaowing softly and offering** ***himself up to be stroked. Here, he’s half way through the kitchen door.***

Of course there are times when I wish Milky Bar were more affectionate, more gratuitously friendly. But that’s not his style, and his mere presence in the garden is always enough to raise my spirits.

***Milky Bar doing what he does best, asleep on the bridge over the pond.***

Malteser, however, is altogether more forward. He visits every day, and is normally to be found waiting outside the door when I go downstairs to make an early morning cup of tea at around 6:30am. I open up, and he dashes in. We greet one another in the time-honoured fashion, but pretty soon he gets on with business, sitting himself down in the kitchen and waiting to be fed.

The cat treats we buy are called Pawsome Pockets, “crunchy pillow treats with a soft centre.” Available in beef, chicken and salmon flavours, Pawsome Pockets are evidently very tasty, and Malteser loves them. But his meal is invariably interrupted by Mrs P, who comes downstairs to join us. Malteser breaks off and strides across the kitchen, greeting her with loud purrs and fond nuzzling. Mrs P takes over feeding duties, and the purring gets even louder. Malteser’s in heaven, and Mrs P looks pretty damned happy with life too!

***Personal grooming is an activity that Malteser clearly enjoys.***

When his breakfast treat is over, Malteser throws himself on to the kitchen floor, rolling on his back and inviting me to rub his belly and fondle his ears. I’m happy to oblige. As soon as I’ve done my duty he dashes upstairs to the Study. We follow, and spend the next 10 minutes entertaining him, playing “chase the ball” or “pounce on the piece of paper.” By this time his purrs are so loud that the windows almost rattle in sympathy.

***Malteser loves to play. I spend more time on my hands and knees indulging him than is good for a man of my advanced years!***

And then suddenly, and for no obvious reason, he evidently decides that enough is enough. He trots downstairs and waits beside the door to be let out. We are in no doubt that within a few minutes he will be visiting another of our neighbours, demanding attention and treats from them too. He’s that sort of cat.

***One of Malteser’s favourite places to sit is on this blue plastic bag, which we left lying in a corner of the Study one day. He’s a somewhat eccentric cat!***

Malteser may return two or three time during the day, for treats, belly rubs, playtime and lots of attention. Sometimes he simply uses us as a convenient short cut, entering by the back door then marching immediately through the house to the front door, where he demands to be let out again. And we, being desperate to please him, do just that.

***When Malteser gazes up at me like this I’m powerless to resist him!***

While he is with us, Malteser brightens up our lives. So thank you, Malteser, and Milky Bar too, for making a difficult year a little less difficult. And come again guys, as often as you like, in 2023: the company of cats will always be welcome here.

***Malteser is almost as skilled at snoozing as Milky Bar!***

And while we’re on subject of thanks, I’d also like to thank anyone out there who ever reads or comments on this blog. Your continuing interest has certainly helped keep my spirits up throughout this miserable year. How can I ever thank you? I don’t think you’d like Pawsome Pockets, and I guess it would be inappropriate – and maybe a bit creepy – to offer you a belly rub, but it’s my absolute pleasure to wish you a Merry Christmas, and Happy & Healthy New Year. Have a great time, guys!

The lost summer: catching Covid is the final straw

Posted on August 17, 2022 by Platypus Man

This should have been the summer of the new normal, when we finally put the pandemic behind us, got on with life and had some fun (ah yes, fun, I remember that…I had some once!) Only it hasn’t worked out like that. Describing the last few weeks as “the lost summer” may sound melodramatic, but although there have been a few highlights – the Burning Man sculpture trail, for example, and our visit to Pensthorpe Natural Park – overall I’m left with a nagging sense of regret for what might have been.

Wardrobe woes last for weeks

The project to replace our bulky freestanding wardrobe and sundry other old, tired pieces of furniture with a suite of new fitted units in a splendidly redecorated bedroom should have taken just five or six days. In the event it ended up taking five weeks. Five miserable weeks during which we camped out in the spare bedroom with our clothes and various other possessions scattered chaotically throughout the rest of the house! Five tedious weeks when we waited at home expectantly, day after day, hoping something would happen, only to find nothing ever did.

***Our woes began when we decided this wardrobe needed replacing!***

Don’t get me wrong. Now that the job is complete we’re pleased with our new bedroom. It looks great, and we’re pleased we had it done. But although the destination has proved agreeable, the journey was an unmitigated nightmare. Never again!

Hot! Hot! Hot! Temperature records tumble

Once the bedroom project was done we were determined to get out and about, to escape into the local countryside and relax a bit. But it didn’t turn out that way, courtesy of climate change. There are those who claim climate change is fake news, the invention of mad scientists or duplicitous politicians. Now, some scientists may be mad and many politicians are clearly duplicitous, but here’s the thing guys: climate change is real, as we were reminded to our cost a few weeks ago.

***IMAGE CREDIT: Photo by Raphael Wild on Unsplash***

Pretty much immediately after the bedroom was finally fixed, climate change flexed its muscles and the UK was hit by an unprecedented heatwave. Records tumbled like the walls of Jericho, and we spent our days indoors, hiding from the sun and emerging only late in the evening to water the tomatoes and the beans. Mrs P and I are not built for hot weather, and having fun was out of the question. Our ambitions extended no further than desperately trying to stay cool.

What a waste, but on the other hand what was the alternative?

The final straw – Covid catches up with us at last!

All things must pass, and so it was that eventually the torrid temperatures gave way to something less unbearable. At last, an opportunity to escape the house! Just a few days after the heatwave broke, Mrs P spent a morning at a craft workshop, indulging in a hobby that has been an important part of her retirement. Unfortunately, one of her fellow crafters must have been suffering from Covid, and a couple of days later so was Mrs P. And just 48 hours after, I was showing all the symptoms too!

***IMAGE CREDIT: Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash***

Ever since the pandemic started we’d been cautious, behaved responsibly and avoided unnecessary risks. Mr and Mrs Platypus are also known as Mr and Mrs Sensible. Boring we may be, but the aim was always to stay healthy and enjoy the benefits that good health brings.

Of course it could have been worse, much worse. We have lived to tell the tale, after all. And, thankfully, we’ve now tested clear and are feeling quite a lot better. Although we’re not yet firing on all cylinders, there’s no indication so far that “long Covid” has got its claws into us. But it was bad enough while it lasted, which was nearly two weeks. Two weeks of wearying, aching, cough-crazy self-isolation, confined to Platypus Towers when we should have been out enjoying ourselves.

Worst of all, probably, was the impact on our sense of taste and smell. It wasn’t that we were unable to taste anything at all, but rather that everything tasted wrong and a lot of it tasted horrible. Mrs P and I both enjoy cooking, and during our two weeks with Covid we had plenty of time to devote to culinary endeavours. But what would have been the point, given that everything we prepared tasted like an unfortunate accident in a badly-run food warehouse?

***IMAGE CREDIT: dronepicr, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons***

Realistically, I suppose it was inevitable Covid would catch up with us in the end. That, after all, is the nature of a pandemic – the disease is everywhere and one day your luck runs out, however careful you may be. And I suppose we should be grateful: in the two years since Covid first hit the variants of the virus have become less serious, and the vaccinations we have had may also have helped reduce the severity of our symptoms.

The good news is that, finally, Covid is behind us. We’re doing our best to make up for lost time, but the last few months still feel like the lost summer.

* * * * *

Postscript, 10 August: I drafted this post a few days ago in a spirit of hope and expectation, immediately after we tested clear of Covid. Since then, however, a second horrible heatwave has descended upon this sizzling nation, and once again we are stuck indoors, hiding from the sun.

And we both continue, in our different ways, to feel below par, not seriously sick but definitely a trifle unwell. Maybe it’s the heat, or maybe it’s the after-effects of Covid. Or a combination of the two? Who knows? But whatever the cause, I’d like to put on record here that I’ve had enough. Roll on, winter!

Update, 16 August: Well, at least the heatwave is beginning to lose its venom, but an official drought has been declared in this – and many other – parts of the country. Our rivers and reservoirs are running dry, and the measly amount of rain that’s fallen in the past 24 hours won’t even begin to sort out the problem. This is a summer I’d dearly like to forget, but sadly I don’t think that will happen any time soon. Woe is me!

***One of the new fitted units in the bedroon. Never again!***

Wardrobe woes

Posted on February 16, 2022 by Platypus Man

Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time, a three-door, five-drawer solid pine wardrobe in which to store my suits and shirts and socks and stuff. It was a big beast, to be sure, but we liked the look of it, and never gave much thought to how we’d get it up the stairs and into our bedroom. And anyway, it wasn’t really our problem: the guy at the furniture warehouse said they could deliver anywhere, and we took him at his word.

In the event it took a four man lift, and a lot of colourful cursing, before my new wardrobe made it to the top of the stairs and could be coaxed into its final resting place in a corner of the bedroom. And there it remained, unmoved and unmoveable, for more than a quarter of a century. Until we decided to redecorate.

Mrs P said in no uncertain terms that the time had come: the time for a new carpet, new curtains and a decent paint job. She looked at me meaningfully: painting is my territory, though I rather wish it weren’t. I said that I agreed – and I did agree, honest! – but in order to do a decent job we first needed to move the wardrobe. And that wardrobe was, as I explained, way too big for a man of my age, with my bad back, knackered knees and history of hernias, to contemplate moving.

So there we left it for a year or two, the wardrobe-shaped elephant in the room. Until, one day about three weeks ago, Mrs P suddenly announced “I’ve had an idea!”

My heart sank. Don’t get me wrong, Mrs P’s a lovely lady (I married her, after all) but whenever she says “I’ve had an idea”, I know that my life’s about to get more complicated.

“And what idea is that?” I asked innocently, hoping fervently she’d already forgotten.

“Simple,” she replied brightly, “the bedroom desperately needs redecorating. If the only thing preventing it is that wardrobe, you’ll have to get rid of it and treat yourself to a new one.”

“Of course,” I responded in a flash, “but aren’t you forgetting something? Before we can buy a new wardrobe we’ll need to get rid of the one we’ve got now. And, as I may have mentioned previously, we can’t move the bloody thing!”

“No worries, we’ll offer it to a charity. They’ll collect the wardrobe. No problemo!“

I had to admit, her idea sounded like a good one. Charities are always on the look out for quality items of furniture that they can sell, thereby raising much-needed cash to support their good causes. The wardrobe seemed like it was worth a bit, and local charities would surely be queuing up to take it away.

* * *

And so, just 24 hours later, we’re in the local offices of a big health charity, agreeing the deal. I whip out my mobile phone, and show the lady on duty a photo of the wardrobe.

“Ooh, how lovely,” she purrs, “we’d be pleased to take it off your hands.”

“And you’ll collect, of course? It’s a wee bit heavy and awkward to manoeuvre,” I caution, with a degree of understatement that verges on the criminal.

“Our guys will do their very best,” she responds, “but they have the right to refuse if they think it’s impossible or unsafe to proceed.”

“Oh, that’s OK, I’m sure they’ll manage just fine,” I lie. She smiles, plainly convinced by my reassurances. I just wish I felt the same.

* * *

A week later, the collection crew arrives. It’s a modest outfit, just two blokes and a van. “We’re doomed!”, I mutter to Mrs P as we usher them up to the bedroom.

They inspect the wardrobe from all sides. “Big, isn’t it?” one of them says unnecessarily, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

They then check the route they must take, the impossibly tight 180 degree turn needed to get the thing out of the bedroom and on to the landing, the limited vertical clearance of the stairwell, the narrowness and steepness of the stairs.

There is much scratching of heads and furrowing of brows. Finally they agree they’ll give it a go, and manage to drag the wardrobe a short distance away from the wall, unscrew the top half from the bottom and lift it off before waving the white flag.

“Sorry,” the head honcho says “can’t be done. I don’t know how the hell anyone managed to get it up here, but it ain’t going back down.”

And then they depart, leaving our hopes in tatters and the wardrobe, now in two halves, abandoned in the middle of the bedroom floor. So Mrs P and I have no option than to spend the rest of the afternoon dismantling the thing completely, taking it apart bit by bit and dragging the wreckage downstairs to dump in the garage. Even the individual pieces take a monumental effort to move, and we are left in awe of the crew that successfully delivered this monolithic piece of furniture all those years ago.

So the good news is that, after much heartache, we now have a new, wardrobe-shaped space in the bedroom. But the bad news is that I now have absolutely no excuse not to get on with the painting. Woe is me!

Call of the wild – starlings fly home to roost over our house

Posted on December 15, 2021 by Platypus Man

I hear them long before they become visible. Starlings are gathering over the hills to the south of the estate where we live. It begins as an avian whisper, barely audible above the ambient sounds of wind and distant traffic. And then it starts to build, unseen birds chattering excitedly with one another, shouting, squawking, screaming joyously. A wall of sound, the call of the wild.

The cacophony echoes all around me. I scan the sky in the direction from which I know they will appear. Still nothing. But it’s only a matter of time. They will be here. At this time of year they fly over our estate every day at around 4pm, heading towards their roosting site. Today will be no different.

At last they start to arrive. First a lone outrider, silent and determined, appears from behind the house at the rear of our garden. It passes over me and disappears into the distance. Then two others, calling to one another as they fly.

Seconds later the main flock arrives, hundreds of birds in close formation. A deafening, spellbinding squadron of starlings, known to science as a murmuration, fills the sky.

Although the birds clearly have a destination in mind, they briefly break off from their journey to swoop and swirl above my head, like a bunch of boastful aviators flaunting their skills at an air show. The murmuration takes on a life of its own, sketching ever more complex and beautiful patterns on the canvas of the evening sky. The noise is louder than ever, drowning out everything else.

And then, as suddenly as they arrived, they take their leave. The flock heads off to who-knows-where, and the sound of their relentless chitter-chatter fades. A few laggards appear from the south, flying swiftly in pursuit of the main flock, keen to catch up with their buddies before they roost for the night.

Seconds later they too have gone and I’m left alone with my thoughts, marvelling at the extraordinary event I have just witnessed.

* * * * *

In some parts of the country murmurations at this time of year can number several hundred thousand birds, occasionally more than a million. By these standards, the aerial display that takes place above our garden every winter’s afternoon is tiny. But to me it is far from insignificant.

What a privilege it is, to stand in our modest back garden on our boring suburban housing estate in the unremarkable, overpopulated East Midlands of England, and experience the call of the wild. It is a moving, mesmerising experience, and the wonder of it fills me with joy. Long may it continue.