Busy Busy

I have spent too much time writing recently that should more productively have been spent unpacking and other tasks connected with a new home. But ah! That's me. The great procrastinator. I am not, therefore, in hibernation just otherwise engaged. I have still to tell the yarn of my police interview and the aftermath and that may have to wait for a day or two more.

In the meantime there continues to be no sign of Little Mad although her spirit hangs close to me like a cloak. I seem to sense her presence and maybe she isn't actually far away. If cats possess some sort of navigational sense that would guide her in the direction of her former home then she has a canal to cross within 50 yards. She could just be hanging out in the undergrowth a few yards from the back door and if she is I guess she'll come when she's hungry. Well, I can hope.

Last night I managed to catch most of a TV programme that featured fellow blogger Chameleon. The full story of the recording was told here. I think the lady is too modest. Her team's performance was respectable and for quite a while the contest could have gone either way and the final result seemed to me to belie the facts as I remembered them. Anyway it was good to be able to put an animated face to the words. Chameleon writes in an evocatively lyrical style that rarely fails to capture my imagination, although I have to confess that some of her pieces are long and — considering her very broad remit of subject areas — I do therefore to ignore a proportion of her posts ... if only to retain some time for me to do other things.

I am so often in awe of other bloggers. Even setting aside my pathetically poor typing skills that produce an average of 0.25 typos per word and 2.5 skipovers per paragraph, the act of composition for me is too often closer to childbirth than copulation. The coitus occurs in my mind but the parturition is an exhausting process and, worse, the unfortunate metaphor is too often made worse by the uncomfortable fact that the afterbirth is occasionally the better part. In this instance the afterbirth is the stuff starts to get tacked on around the edges of the story I am telling. Like this paragraph, only better. I really must push the Publish Post button and get out of here!