Monthly Archive

Tuesday evening saw us round up six of M’s friends for dinner and then a trip to ‘the ballet’: in this case, Ballet Central at the Gulbenkian Theatre. It was a belated birthday celebration for M, and a wonderful time was had by all. We were particularly impressed — not to say gobsmacked — by the table behaviour of the group! To a person, they sat still for maybe 40 minutes, eating and playing self-generated games like Chinese whispers etc. R and I stood in the kitchen next door, gratefully sipping white wine and stuffing in ham sandwiches. Real conversations! True friendship! Great to witness.

This year M has discovered that she’s a Taurus, and has ended up doing some online research into this. So the last couple of weeks we’ve been treated to things like: mummy, when can we plant up the pots outside? Tauruses have green thumbs. And to her brother: If you say that again you’ll make me angry. It takes a lot to make a Taurus angry, but when they go, they really go! This was enough to elicit a rather stunned cessation in the teasing, so I guess it did the job.

She’s pleased to know she’s an Earth sign, like her father. Home-loving, she says. And don’t we know it. She likes her nests, a kitchen full of cooking, and to know where we are at all times. Tauruses are good at the arts, she also informs us. And so she is, of course, even gifted at them.

She doesn’t like, though, the other bits, which she, being honest, dutifully recites to us: tendency to be sulky when crossed, stubborn, slow to change. Saying that, she relishes our stories of her spectacular tantrums: once, on the High Street, I had to hold her in her buggy, while she screamed like I was inflicting the worst punishment in the world and wouldn’t someone come help her please! Strangers stopped and glared at me. Her healthy lungs nearly landed us in a private room from all the noise on the day she was born; so when she uses them, watch out.

And yes, somehow, she often, very often, manages to get her way. This getting of her way is not at all a spoiled thing. She just doesn’t give up. Ever. She knows what she wants, how she wants it, and finds ways to get it. Determined. I’ve always thought, despite the early days of horror at how single-minded she is, that it’s a desirable characteristic in a girl, a woman especially. Less likely to get stomped on. Although fierce loyalty is also in her deck of cards, so it may take her a while to realise if something’s going wrong.

But realise she will. Forget astrology. She’ll believe herself.

be the food of love….

We had alot of music in the house this weekend, due to concerts and, well, maybe the sun, maybe Tilly’s death. Anyway, M on the violin, learning fourth finger position (don’t ask me, but it’s difficult) with impeccable (examiner’s word) tuning, and E returning to Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude, which he played in last autumn’s Kent Piano Festival. He’s brushing this piece up for a winner’s concert on 8 June at 3 pm, in St Peter’s Church in Canterbury, if anybody’s interested.

I simply love hearing my children play music. It has the same effect on me as reading poetry. More than that (of what I don’t know, but more of it) indeed. How often have I just stopped outside the closed sitting room doors, just to listen…

Here’s the Raindrop Prelude, played by someone else, but at a similar speed to E. I find it hugely powerful, always have.

The story of the fox cub is important in all this.

Last Friday, the day we took Tilly to hospital, the vet phoned through with blood results: dangerously anaemic, jaundiced. It could be, we decided, that her brother Schubert could save her life with a transfusion. R came home to help, and we made the decision, loaded S into the car. The car pulled away, and hidden underneath it was a tiny fox cub. No obvious sign of injury, eyes wide open, but unmoving. 

We wrapped it in a towel and took it in the car with us. So there we were: a critically ill kitten, another on the way to give blood, and a little fox cub wrapped up in a maroon towel on my lap. It dozed off. The sun was shining. 

At the vet’s, we left Schubert to be cross-matched. The fox was examined. Suffering from shock, no injury. About three weeks old. Advised to try, try to link it up with its mother. Just two nights before we’d seen them — mother and two babies, playing in the back garden by the stream.

We went back home with the fox, and laid him gently by the shed. 

Another phone call: Schubert is not a match. Tilly must try on her own, with oxyglobin to help ferry the oxygen around her system.

Eventually Schubert returns and E and M arrive home from school. Everyone is shaken. The baby fox is still in the back garden, has hardly moved. We decide he needs to go back to the vet’s to be re-homed. M and R carefully gather him up. This time he rides on M’s lap all the way; by the time he arrives his name is Robert.

E and I stay at home, playing cards and talking.

Later, R reports back: when I handed the fox over, I said we’ve got a very sick kitten here. So any good news you could tell us about Robert would be wonderful. Any good news.

Two hours later, the vet phones. The fox has died. Upon closer examination, they found an enlarged liver. Probably born with the condition that would kill him. The children seem to absorb this fairly matter-of-factly, although when she first hears, M covers her face with the sofa cushion.

By contrast, the fox dying simply does R and I in. In a world where little ones are dying, why can’t we save them?

***

We just can’t. Yesterday afternoon we had to put Tilly to sleep. She had taken another downturn, and for the first time seemed unhappy. She was slipping and struggling. Just could not round the corner.

We did what we could, but not too much. The right decision doesn’t mean it isn’t desperately sad. 

So. She was not a strong kitty, perhaps not even from birth. But she was petite, soft-natured, and very very beautiful. Liked to be treated with extreme gentleness. Would have been one year old tomorrow. We are missing her. Last night of all nights her brother wandered the house, yowling and scratching at doors. And first thing this morning, he didn’t want to go out.

The sun shines and shines. I wait for the intrigue of butterflies and warm spots to draw him out, and now, at 11 am, they do. A part of us stops, and a part of us continues.

Just to say that Tilly is still hanging in there. She’s better, then a little worse, then…we don’t know. The vet is not without hope. Still on IV in the hospital, she looks a bit battered, but pushes her head against my hand. We think of her welfare, a different kind of balance to be striking. 

And to say too that there are so many foxes out in broad daylight at the moment. Yesterday a cub paused in the sunshine by the side of the road as I drove by.

For many reasons, I’m thinking again about loss. In the last week, we’ve lost a good friend, a baby fox (another story I’ll tell in time), almost lost Tilly, and now this morning I hear of another loss, a family one.

We haven’t lost each other though. This morning E says at breakfast that Tilly being unwell has brought us even closer. Indeed.

I’d say the last few days have been difficult at best. Our tiny female kitten Tilly (here) was taken critically ill at the end of last week. She crashed on Saturday morning, spotted by an alert nurse. Two vets revived her.

Her body is destroying her own red blood cells. We don’t know why yet, and can’t find out until she is stronger. It’s either long-term curable — or not. She’s on IV steroids, antibiotics, and fluids. She was sitting up and eating yesterday, though the vets have decided not to take bloods and risk the stress crashing her again. 

So we wait. Today we will bring her prawns.

Her brother wanders around looking confused, crying for attention. He licks us when we stroke him. 

E asks questions, and we answer them. He’s sad at night. M’s eyes fill with tears, and roll down her face, dripping onto her book — which she is never without at the moment. 

We moved through the weekend as a unit, doing almost everything together, not even wanting to be in separate rooms. When we visited Tilly though, it was clear she is getting the very best care possible: swaddled in a blanket, with a little teddy tucked up next to her. The whiteboard there reads: Tilly, anaemic ++++, jaundiced. Very nice cat. And on the notes, at the end of Saturday, written by one of the nurses: love her.

Okay, not quite. It’s always on the verge of raining here, truth be told. Sigh.

However, there is quite a spring-y competition to tell you about. One in a line of several. This time it is for Canterbury Festival Poet of the Year. See lovely brochure photo.

Like last year, I’m one of the judges for it — and last year believe me we had a whale of a time. The judging was as it was (always interesting) but the celebration night was pretty spectacular. The way it works is: long-listed poems go into an anthology (available on the night); short-listed poets read their work on the night (along with yours truly). From that the top three places are decided, along with, this year, a performance prize. And there’s music. And all in all, it’s a ball. We had well over a hundred folks last year.

So. See flyer. And here are the entry form and rules. Deadline is the end of May. Once again: you know you want to. (p.s. sorry about the darkness of this: it’s colourful in ‘real life’. Can’t figure out why it’s coming up black-y! Oh well. Details are in the rules anyway…)