A friend forwarded me this apparent photographic evidence that large cats “enjoy” rolling around in snow. I can assure they do not. The white-and-fluffy one is most put out that the garden is now a no-go area being, as verily it is, drowned under a phumf of the snow that deposited itself last night.

She is most royally displeased. And we, her loyal subjects are being subjected to all sorts of claws and snarls and squeaks of rancour.

I’m not sure if it’s the coldness or an identity crisis being brought about by being a fluffy white cat in a suddenly fluffy white world. Perhaps she is about to go through some kind of existential trauma which will require years of cat-therapy.

Either way, she is sat just inside the back porch, tail a-flicking with a scowl across the already scowling visage.

I’m not going too close. I’ll just keep putting food down and replacing the cat litter until she calms down.

I am being forced back into the blogosphere reluctantly as ever. Apparently it isnt enough to simply to scribe lengthy lengths of prose on vellum with a bit of old seagull feather these days, one is expected to keep a public on-line diary so that one’s chums can “check in” with minimal effort or semblance of real social interaction. Grumble grumble. Well its either this or sell my soul to Facebook.

BTC (who now is WG.. sigh) insists that I do this. Lord only knows why. Methinks she is too lazy to read my beautifully crafted emails.

Ok, I will try this year to think of something interesting to say on a slightly more frequent basis. First, I must compose a load of old codswallop to send to the Times (no no that Times, alas) by this afternoon’s deadline.

Is there anything one can say about New Year that hasn’t already been said at least 200 times before?

Hmm another cigarette or two..

Is it too early to open a bottle?

Heyho, email from editor. Preferred it when they had to write me letters.. deadlines passed so much more pleasantly..

Right, nose to grindstone and all that.

I’ve had my bottom soundly whipped by BTC so here I am again. and no, I didn’t enjoy it.. cheeky.

I am very glad to see that you have finally succumbed to this personal blogging lark though so if you ever stop I shall be returning the whipping tenfold lady

Well we’re currently edging our way towards the summer months and the garden looks lovely. Must be something to do with all this rain keeping things green and.. well.. wet.

I printed off an article to send to some antediluvian publisher who insisted on both hard and “soft” copies (*sigh*), battled with the rattly old HP printer for an extended time (really.. about half an hour.. does anyone really print things these days?) and, exhausted, laid it carefully on the kitchen table. This was my first mistake. Because apparently the kitchen table is in the direct flight path of a large white persian cat turned half-brown by digging in the freshly muddied undergrowth of my rockery.

She appears to be obsessed by the existence of a rather fat toad who has taken up residency therein. It’s quite bizarre to see her squatted apparently staring intently at a rockery for hours on end.

Perhaps I ought to seek therapeutic intervention?

It is yet another beautiful day here in <<insert location here>>.

Really I am starting to believe the unbelievable.. that spring has finally sprung its springy spring and that we might finally be rid of this infernal, eternal winter that has done all sorts of nasty things to the garden (as always) and left me with rather a lot of work to be getting on with when, alas, I have rather a lot of work to be getting on with.

Still I sit here at my laptop, staring into the garden, watching sweet Persia stalking.. something.. (hopefully something with few defences, you know I once found her attempting to stalk a hedgehog you can imagine the results but that’s what you get for decades of inbreeding – it’s sort of like the royal family) in the undergrowth and contemplating an article that must become 2,000 words on <<insert dry political subject here>> by 0900 tomorrow.

I suspect that I shall remain in front of the window with a glass of this fine Claret until sunset when I shall be descended on by hoardes of hungry young people demanding to be fed and then I shall be scrabbling around at 6am for the other 1,850 words of this article with a mild case of dehydration.

But at least I am aware that this is what will happen. See, this is what 20 years of therapy gets you – growth and self-knowledge.

Now where’s that Claret…

BTC has a post up this morning ..er.. here.. referring to several articles recently appearing on the internet about the strange behaviour of therapists. She does not believe some of the behaviour described but I suspect that either I’ve had a few more therapists than she.. or perchance I’m just showing my age

Here are a few of the choicest morsels of therapist activity that I have encountered (not all from the same practitioner I hasten to add):

* Chewing gum

Which I consider to be the epitome of foulness. Surely it loses its already quite limited appeal after 5 minutes? Let alone 50? And where does it go then? Is there a spitoon somewhere in the room?

* Farting

He was old. I excused it. Almost.

* Scratching

Well yes we are humans and we become discomfitted but really…

* Dog hair all over the couch

Every time I left session I looked like I’d been mugged by a  herd of sheep. I know that Princess Persia has her shedding moments but this was nothing compared to the output of several giant white mongrels. I thought of purchasing her a “Dirt Devil” as a hint..

* Answering the phone in session

This is utterly inexcusable

* Permanently late, permanently weak with the excuses

* Wearing the same shirt and tie combination to every session for a year.

Admittedly not a sackable offense except to my indignant fashion sense. They were at least clean although of an unsavoury combination. I often wondered if he changed into them just for me.. “ah.. 6pm.. Michael’s session.. time for the tartan shirt with the bright green tie.. that will make sure that he never thinks in a straight line again”.

* Purely bizarre statements

Now, I’m one known in certain circles for my tendency to digress however I once worked briefly with an older therapist (the farter.. see above) who, when I had just expounded on a particularly poignant subject would break from his reverie and, looking away from the window respond with something akin to

“do you think that blackbirds actually like worms?”

I do not jest.

I could not tell if this was some deep philosophical reflection on my therapy or the ramblings of a senile old duffer.

I suspect the latter.

Sometimes I think that these are all just kooky tricks used to throw us off..

I am delighted to announce that the north of England has finally succumbed to the drop in temperature and the first signs of an emergence from the stark slumber of wintertime have appeared

Yes!

The cherry tree in my garden has 3 blossoms on them – I am so pleased by this that I have a spring in my step.

The spring is still there even though I know I have an article to submit by 15:00 and I haven’t started it because I’ve been sitting at my desk, gazing out onto the back garden and occasionally popping out with princess at my heels (utterly bemused and thinks I should be back in therapy twice a week) to check that the blossoms are still there and haven’t been whisked! away by some outrageous late winter wind.

Happiness!

Well hello world, as the first post generously provided by the WordPress Platform announces.

I have unwittingly been sucked into the blogging world after a long, long time on the outskirts skirting the skirts and am now daring to dip my toe into the icy waters of public approbation.

My thanks to my long-time, long-suffering and thoroughly ear-bent friend over at the fabulous Behindthecouch blog. (I hope that link worked I’m still getting the hang of this).

No doubt this will be a load of tosh and ramblings but bear with me, it might get better!

Apparently this kind of thing is required..

The name is Michael, known on my WordPress tag as “Mikescat” partly because someone had dared to take Michael as a user name and partly because of my beauoootiful persian princess who delights in leaving little gifts of white fluff all over my apartment and other.. not so pleasant gifts also.. which I shan’t go into here.

I named the blog as an hommage, if you will to my upbringing having moved, like a salmon against the stream, from Australia to the UK with my parents when I was a teenager and spending those blissful, formative years at high school and college before I rid myself of the accent being referred to as a “flaming gallar” by all and sundry.

Ah those were the days.

By the time I landed at St Andrews for my formal education I sounded as British as the Queen, dahrling

This blog will endeavour to entertain, reflect, amuse, inspire and so forth but will no doubt end up being just another nasal-gazing load of old drivel.

Wish me luck!