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21st century signs of self neglect

Poor little Teasel is back from the vet's and sporting a very punk look. Stitches, shaved bits, occasional growls. I've been trying to shape his head fur into a little hoxton fin to match, but his condition's too good and he just drops back into silkiness. Poor little kitten. He tries to be punk but he always is cute.

I did that end of year meme where you pull the first line of each month from your journal, and confirmed my opinion that it's been a very full-on year, but full of good things:

January: Woke up at 5am this morning with streaming eyes, sinus pain and a weird poem about Brighton running through my head.

February: I bought a kitten calendar in this year, to cheer myself up at work. The result has been these two mopey desolate cold little kittens staring at me with their little petulant, accusatory eyes all month.

March: In fact, I finally found out what those Lemsip Max Cold & Flu 12HR capsules are for. They're for when you have two sessions booked with young people at 9am and 6pm, with a yawning expanse of public transport and other peoples' computer problems between.

April: On March 29th, I broached topic with Tim about moving in together.

May: Some bloody weekend that was. But at least it had a good resolution. This lunch time I went down to the property office of St Aldates (the police station) and retrieved the three items of clothing that I'd last seen oh, gosh, well over a year ago, disappearing into sealed brown evidence envelopes.

June: A tiny snail methodically eating fallen yellow wallflower petals. Ink cloud sky lets fall a first few fat drops of rain. Cat mews: inside.

July: Well, the point of no return has been reached and all that - the paperwork went in today, and as of about a month's time I will no longer be a home owner.

August: Exhibition set-up hits the midday bus drought. Nothing going my way but overpriced taxis. It starts raining. All my art is water-soluble.

September: When I went in to feed tinyjo's cats on saturday I was greeted by a domestic disaster zone!

October: Bus full of evangelists. Newsagent full of gamblers. Me full of red wine. I am most irresponsible -but job reminds me- no. Not even close.

November: Tim is showing his ring to the internet. Proposing in a restaurant is worth free bubbly, provokes reminiscences from waitstaff, rules.

December: This morning, there were grey clouds thick with sleet, and, against them, a flock of pigeons appearing and disappearing as they banked and wheeled (I think they were mobbing a crow) and their pale breast feathers caught the low bright morning sun, and their slate grey back feathers disappeared into the lowering sky.

No links, because some of the entries are private. Also, several of them are twitters, and that's something I've noticed in the past month or so -- I've dropped off from doing twitters, posting my pictures, putting up my comics and all the other things that are beautiful and enjoyable, in exchange for fretfully poking at to-do lists, attacking piles of work and other such improving activities. Neglecting the beauty duties.

Well, enough of that, and of fretting about having no time/money/mind/energy for that. This week's strip is another slink down the long telescope into my past, and clearing out Enid and Willy's pond, up in the Manor House at the end of the lane. Newt fans, do not panic! We took them over the hill to live in the Duponts' duck lake, though I don't quite get onto that bit of the story in this week's strip, the smallest room.

The Smallest Room - detail
The Smallest Room - detail
That's me in the bathroom


P.S. Happy Friday!

Penguins!
Penguins!
And sneaky deer