I may, in passing, have mentioned that I'm finding this building work lark a bit stressful.
It's also possible that I am prone, every now and then, to a soupcon of anxiety.
It should, probably, come as no surprise that the stresses of getting the building work done is proving rather anxiety-inducing.
There have been a few incidents that are not world-shattering, and in the bigger picture, well, they're not really in the "bigger" picture, because they're small. But they've been vexing, and frustrating, and have caused me to become somewhat agitated. There've been a few occasions when the diligent, all-weather builders have either misunderstood, misinterpreted, or re-interpreted my designs/sketches, and I've come home from work to find an unexpected surprise has been constructed. I don't like surprises of that sort. Twice I've insisted they change what they've built. The third time I've shrugged off as not worth fighting over. The fourth time (today) caused me to launch a major broadside, that was perhaps a trifle intemperate. The word "ranty" was used by BigBear, in a very gentle and loving way. He's been remarkably tolerant of my irrationality.
There's also been The Question Of The Doors. There's not really much point going into it, but the brief version is that a failure in communications means the massive bifold doors that I asked for are not as massive as I had asked for. I wouldn't even really mind this, if something like this had happened:
Builder: Those doors you wanted?
PhysicsBear: Yes?
Builder: If you have that cupboard you mentioned in passing, there's no room for that size door. Do you want a smaller cupboard or smaller doors?
PhysicsBear: Good question, let me have a think.
Instead, what happened was this:
...
...
...
...
...
And then I measured where the doors are going, found it was smaller than I was expecting, and asked why. I asked why seven times by email, over the course of a week and a half before getting an answer. And then the answer was, "it's your own fault for wanting a cupboard."
The finished room will be lovely. The not-quite-so-massive doors are still going to be massive, and still be lovely. The slightly-surprising constructions will only ever be surprising to me, and though surprising, they are beautifully built. I cannot fault the workmanship of the diligent, all-weather builders.
But...
I feel sick with anxiety. I am afraid that my intemperate ranting will mean the builders will refuse to finish the job. My hands shake as I drive home from work, as I hope that I won't have to speak to them in person. I wonder what terrible things the builders are saying about me to their friends. Some of my friends are their friends. It's not that big a village. How many people that I know now think I'm rude and angry? How many people that I don't know now think I'm rude and angry? Will I move from being "the weird woman who cries outside school" through "crazy cape-wearing lady" and straight into "psycho customer that nobody wants to deal with"?
I am tired of being tired. Tired of lying awake at night having
arguments in my head. Tired of thinking and over-thinking every decision
and conversation. I want my sleep back, my peace-of-mind back and most of
all my home back.
I want to cry.
I want to hide.
I want it all to just go away.
I want it to be over.
Wednesday, 30 January 2019
Monday, 28 January 2019
A false dawn
Needless to say, along with commenting on your baby sleeping well, it would appear that commenting on the cat not weeing is tempting Fate. And Fate is a cruel mistress.
The details of what PoorPuss did and when he did it have already blurred in my mind, so I shall regale you instead with the highlights, happening in an unspecified order over the past few days...
... PoorPuss diligently dug at the carpet, until he'd lifted it from the edges, so he could pee on the floorboards and then let the carpet cover it over again.
... I woke somewhat earlier than usual, when LittleBear trotted to the bathroom at 6:30. Working on the principle that PoorPuss is panic-weeing when he hears us moving around but can't find us, I scampered downstairs and found a contented cat on the sofa. I stroked him and turned the light on and, feeling dangerously smug that we were getting somewhere, I returned to bed. Imagine my delight half and hour later to find both wee and poo on the carpet behind the door.
... BigBear worked from home one day. PoorPuss is generally quite content when he has one of his people in the house, and he did indeed spend most of the morning snoozing by the radiator in BigBear's study (formerly known as the spare bedroom). In the afternoon, however, he became agitated, and prowled the house. BigBear heard him yowling in the vicinity of the Doorway of Doom, so headed downstairs to reassure him. PoorPuss was duly reassured. BigBear returned to his desk. PoorPuss returned to his yowling. BigBear returned to PoorPuss. PoorPuss had wet the carpet.
... Mild weather and extreme vexation led us to leave PoorPuss (with bed, food, etc) in the building site. He was fine. The carpet was fine.
... Cold weather led us to take pity on PoorPuss, and not shut him in the building site. BigBear decided to try sleeping on the sofa with PoorPuss to keep him calm. This lasted about half an hour, before BigBear couldn't take the combination of being stared at from close range, and having his feet attacked. The following morning, all was relatively well, until I heard the sound of carpet being scratched, but didn't get downstairs in time, finding only fresh cat wee dripping down the skirting board and soaking through the carpet.
... Yesterday, I spent some time carefully cutting to size an old PVC tablecloth to size, so it wraps under the edges of the carpet, and extends into the room far enough to disappear under the furniture. The carpet and the tablecloth both survived the night, and PoorPuss is currently in his new favourite place, beside the radiator in the spare room/study.
This may or may not be the solution to our woes, but at least it gave me one day without having to wash the carpet though. And given I've been awake with a feverish LittleBear since 3:30 am, I'm grateful for small mercies.
(I would like to point out that my carpets are not all a rather off-putting shade of brown... the lighting hasn't done my slate grey/blue carpet any favours!)
The details of what PoorPuss did and when he did it have already blurred in my mind, so I shall regale you instead with the highlights, happening in an unspecified order over the past few days...
... PoorPuss diligently dug at the carpet, until he'd lifted it from the edges, so he could pee on the floorboards and then let the carpet cover it over again.
... I woke somewhat earlier than usual, when LittleBear trotted to the bathroom at 6:30. Working on the principle that PoorPuss is panic-weeing when he hears us moving around but can't find us, I scampered downstairs and found a contented cat on the sofa. I stroked him and turned the light on and, feeling dangerously smug that we were getting somewhere, I returned to bed. Imagine my delight half and hour later to find both wee and poo on the carpet behind the door.
... BigBear worked from home one day. PoorPuss is generally quite content when he has one of his people in the house, and he did indeed spend most of the morning snoozing by the radiator in BigBear's study (formerly known as the spare bedroom). In the afternoon, however, he became agitated, and prowled the house. BigBear heard him yowling in the vicinity of the Doorway of Doom, so headed downstairs to reassure him. PoorPuss was duly reassured. BigBear returned to his desk. PoorPuss returned to his yowling. BigBear returned to PoorPuss. PoorPuss had wet the carpet.
... Mild weather and extreme vexation led us to leave PoorPuss (with bed, food, etc) in the building site. He was fine. The carpet was fine.
... Cold weather led us to take pity on PoorPuss, and not shut him in the building site. BigBear decided to try sleeping on the sofa with PoorPuss to keep him calm. This lasted about half an hour, before BigBear couldn't take the combination of being stared at from close range, and having his feet attacked. The following morning, all was relatively well, until I heard the sound of carpet being scratched, but didn't get downstairs in time, finding only fresh cat wee dripping down the skirting board and soaking through the carpet.
... Yesterday, I spent some time carefully cutting to size an old PVC tablecloth to size, so it wraps under the edges of the carpet, and extends into the room far enough to disappear under the furniture. The carpet and the tablecloth both survived the night, and PoorPuss is currently in his new favourite place, beside the radiator in the spare room/study.
This may or may not be the solution to our woes, but at least it gave me one day without having to wash the carpet though. And given I've been awake with a feverish LittleBear since 3:30 am, I'm grateful for small mercies.
 |
| Vinyl tablecloth is a stylish addition to any home |
(I would like to point out that my carpets are not all a rather off-putting shade of brown... the lighting hasn't done my slate grey/blue carpet any favours!)
Tuesday, 22 January 2019
Progress, of a sort
I believe I may have mentioned, once or twice, just in passing, the tendency that IdiotCat PoorPuss currently has to wee on the carpet. I have more-or-less given up on the carpet - it is quite literally clinging to life by a thread, but while that thread still holds, the carpet stays.
When I say I have given up on the carpet, naturally I don't mean I've given up on the tedious process of cleaning the wee out of it. I'm becoming something of an expert at it now. Obviously the underlay has been removed from the offending area for the foreseeable future, which leaves the perfect space for sliding a sacrificial towel underneath to absorb the worst of the effluent. Then comes the oven tray, allowing a concentrated solution of biological detergent to be poured into the carpet and rubbed in. A sequence of scrubbing, rinsing, squeezing, rinsing, scrubbing, squeezing etc then follows until the water coming out is mostly clean and mostly soap-free. Then we're back to the sacrificial towels to be packed under and over the wet carpet to soak up the bulk of the water. Oh, and don't forget to scrub the floorboards too.
I have a conveniently located pile of sacrificial towels to hand these days.
It would be fair to say that I'm pretty tired of washing the carpet every day. And tired of the residual odour that no amount of scrubbing and washing seems to remove. I have a dark suspicion that there is some area of carpet that PoorPuss has made use of that I have not yet found. And yes, I have crawled around the floor with my nose to the carpet inhaling deeply. I have also come to associate the smell of Persil Biological detergent with the smell of cat urine. Which is why, when I got dressed this morning, I gave a start and sniffed my newly-laundered bra, convinced that it smelt of cat wee. My life is so glamorous.
We have tried a variety of techniques to keep PoorPuss calm and happy, and none of them have consistently worked. Occasionally we have a night when the carpet remains unsullied and we foolishly start to hope for a New Dawn.
We are gradually, achingly slowly, homing on the things that make PoorPuss happy, and the things that make him sad. We have moved from Weird Herbal Calming Spray to the Feliway pheromone spray. We have applied a liberal sprinkling of bicarbonate of soda to the carpet. (It may not help the cat, but it helps absorb odours.) We make sure he gets his favourite meal in the evening. We make sure he's snuggled up in "his" corner of the sofa as we go to bed. We leave the door from the living room to the rest of the house open, so he doesn't feel trapped. And twice now, the carpet has remained dry.
We do indeed have a New Dawn. A dawn that cracked at 4am, when PoorPuss came up to our bedroom to tell us that he was bored/scared/lonely. I escorted him downstairs, settled him back in "his" corner, and returned to bed*.
I then lay awake for two hours, until I heard the telltale sound of claw on carpet, and, leaping out of bed, I scampered down to find him digging up the poor, beleaguered patch of carpet. Whether he was about to relieve himself, I'll never know, but once I was there he didn't do so. The thought of what he might be doing made the next half hour in bed even more stressful than the previous two hours had been. Eventually at 6:30 I pottered downstairs to read my book on the sofa. Being too lazy/stupid (your choice) I didn't bother to turn the central heating on, despite sub-zero temperatures outside. Which is how I came to be wearing BigBear's fleece, two scarves and three cushions on the sofa at half past six on a Tuesday morning.
But at least the carpet was dry.
Progress. Of a sort.
* Early in my relationship with PoorPuss, I discovered our sleeping habits are incompatible. He is very talkative at about 4 or 5 am. I am not. To avoid me swearing and throwing things, it has always been better for both of us if we sleep on different floors. It's worked perfectly well for thirteen years. I don't intend to encourage conversation at 4am, hence escorting him back to his own sleeping domain.
When I say I have given up on the carpet, naturally I don't mean I've given up on the tedious process of cleaning the wee out of it. I'm becoming something of an expert at it now. Obviously the underlay has been removed from the offending area for the foreseeable future, which leaves the perfect space for sliding a sacrificial towel underneath to absorb the worst of the effluent. Then comes the oven tray, allowing a concentrated solution of biological detergent to be poured into the carpet and rubbed in. A sequence of scrubbing, rinsing, squeezing, rinsing, scrubbing, squeezing etc then follows until the water coming out is mostly clean and mostly soap-free. Then we're back to the sacrificial towels to be packed under and over the wet carpet to soak up the bulk of the water. Oh, and don't forget to scrub the floorboards too.
I have a conveniently located pile of sacrificial towels to hand these days.
It would be fair to say that I'm pretty tired of washing the carpet every day. And tired of the residual odour that no amount of scrubbing and washing seems to remove. I have a dark suspicion that there is some area of carpet that PoorPuss has made use of that I have not yet found. And yes, I have crawled around the floor with my nose to the carpet inhaling deeply. I have also come to associate the smell of Persil Biological detergent with the smell of cat urine. Which is why, when I got dressed this morning, I gave a start and sniffed my newly-laundered bra, convinced that it smelt of cat wee. My life is so glamorous.
We have tried a variety of techniques to keep PoorPuss calm and happy, and none of them have consistently worked. Occasionally we have a night when the carpet remains unsullied and we foolishly start to hope for a New Dawn.
We are gradually, achingly slowly, homing on the things that make PoorPuss happy, and the things that make him sad. We have moved from Weird Herbal Calming Spray to the Feliway pheromone spray. We have applied a liberal sprinkling of bicarbonate of soda to the carpet. (It may not help the cat, but it helps absorb odours.) We make sure he gets his favourite meal in the evening. We make sure he's snuggled up in "his" corner of the sofa as we go to bed. We leave the door from the living room to the rest of the house open, so he doesn't feel trapped. And twice now, the carpet has remained dry.
We do indeed have a New Dawn. A dawn that cracked at 4am, when PoorPuss came up to our bedroom to tell us that he was bored/scared/lonely. I escorted him downstairs, settled him back in "his" corner, and returned to bed*.
I then lay awake for two hours, until I heard the telltale sound of claw on carpet, and, leaping out of bed, I scampered down to find him digging up the poor, beleaguered patch of carpet. Whether he was about to relieve himself, I'll never know, but once I was there he didn't do so. The thought of what he might be doing made the next half hour in bed even more stressful than the previous two hours had been. Eventually at 6:30 I pottered downstairs to read my book on the sofa. Being too lazy/stupid (your choice) I didn't bother to turn the central heating on, despite sub-zero temperatures outside. Which is how I came to be wearing BigBear's fleece, two scarves and three cushions on the sofa at half past six on a Tuesday morning.
But at least the carpet was dry.
Progress. Of a sort.
* Early in my relationship with PoorPuss, I discovered our sleeping habits are incompatible. He is very talkative at about 4 or 5 am. I am not. To avoid me swearing and throwing things, it has always been better for both of us if we sleep on different floors. It's worked perfectly well for thirteen years. I don't intend to encourage conversation at 4am, hence escorting him back to his own sleeping domain.
Thursday, 17 January 2019
Another poem
I Am Angry
I am angry.
Angry, angry.
Rage oozes through the cracks in my mind,
Dripping acid,
Splattering condemnation across the room.
Running across the floor in rivulets of vituperation,
Seeping into the walls,
Drenching my home with poison.
Reacting with the sweetness and love it meets
To explode into eye-watering fumes.
Anguish and worry on my baby's face,
Tears and self-recrimination on mine.
Can I stop the cracks with chocolate?
With cake? With wine?
No.
The cracks are too broad,
The anger inchoate and unreasoning.
I snap, I shout, I seethe.
I am not me,
I cannot find me,
I can only find anger.
I am angry.
Angry, angry.
by
PhysicsBear
I suggested to LittleBear that as I was so bad-tempered and feeling so angry, maybe I should write a poem like he did, and maybe if I got all the anger out into words, I'd feel better. He looked at me solemnly, "I don't think it works like that Mummy." I think he may be right.
I am angry.
Angry, angry.
Rage oozes through the cracks in my mind,
Dripping acid,
Splattering condemnation across the room.
Running across the floor in rivulets of vituperation,
Seeping into the walls,
Drenching my home with poison.
Reacting with the sweetness and love it meets
To explode into eye-watering fumes.
Anguish and worry on my baby's face,
Tears and self-recrimination on mine.
Can I stop the cracks with chocolate?
With cake? With wine?
No.
The cracks are too broad,
The anger inchoate and unreasoning.
I snap, I shout, I seethe.
I am not me,
I cannot find me,
I can only find anger.
I am angry.
Angry, angry.
by
PhysicsBear
I suggested to LittleBear that as I was so bad-tempered and feeling so angry, maybe I should write a poem like he did, and maybe if I got all the anger out into words, I'd feel better. He looked at me solemnly, "I don't think it works like that Mummy." I think he may be right.
Monday, 14 January 2019
A poem.
I Am Angry
I am angry
Really angry.
Angry angry.
I'm so angry I'll jump up and down.
I roll on the ground.
I'll turn books into pulp.
I'll rip up kelp,
pull up trees,
Explode all the peas.
Crack stones.
Open up bones.
Tip up school lunch.
Throw you in one dump.
Cut classrooms in half
Put cats in the bath.
Repaint the classroom into a enormous green frog,
Turn you into a big round cog.
Chase bees.
Make you eat pooed on beans.
Boil books.
Squash cooks
Squirt paint.
Rip bait.
Crack cubes
Mush moons.
By
LittleBear
All spelling, punctuation etc reproduced accurately from the original.
I think this was an exploration of expressing feelings through poetry. I don't think my boy was actually angry at school last term!
I am angry
Really angry.
Angry angry.
I'm so angry I'll jump up and down.
I roll on the ground.
I'll turn books into pulp.
I'll rip up kelp,
pull up trees,
Explode all the peas.
Crack stones.
Open up bones.
Tip up school lunch.
Throw you in one dump.
Cut classrooms in half
Put cats in the bath.
Repaint the classroom into a enormous green frog,
Turn you into a big round cog.
Chase bees.
Make you eat pooed on beans.
Boil books.
Squash cooks
Squirt paint.
Rip bait.
Crack cubes
Mush moons.
By
LittleBear
All spelling, punctuation etc reproduced accurately from the original.
I think this was an exploration of expressing feelings through poetry. I don't think my boy was actually angry at school last term!
Saturday, 12 January 2019
Finding his feet
LittleBear's footballing adventures at the tail-end of 2018 were not one hundred percent filled with joy. In fact, I spent a large portion of the Christmas holidays wondering how I could return him to a state of loving playing again, or whether we were going to have to give up on being in a team if it caused him so much distress.
We talked about it a bit, about how amazing he is when he's confident, and how he mustn't let himself feel defeated. We read books about football and about footballers, and compared his emotional response to losing to that expressed by Raheem Sterling, Jordan Pickford and Harry Maguire. Not because those are particularly his favourite players, but because we happen to have acquired books about them*. It appears to have genuinely helped to discover that players he watched playing at the World Cup suffered disappointment, setback and loss in lower league teams, but they didn't give up.
Football training for his team started last weekend, and he was my determined demon again, playing with and against his friends, constantly on the go, constantly running, constantly battling for the ball. I began to feel a sprinkling of hope that a rest and a break from playing football had been what he needed to bring back a bit of his confidence.
Then we had training last night. And in the mini-match at the end, his side let a goal in (not through any particular fault of his) and there was my LittleBear, standing in the corner of the pitch, tears pouring down his cheeks, while his coach crouched beside him to give him a cuddle and convince him not to give up.
My heart sank. The hoped-for resilience was looking like an illusion already, having lasted less than a week. Even conceding a goal in training was too much for him. I went to bed dreading today's match. My only ray of hope this morning was that LittleBear was excited about playing and looking forward to the match.
And?
It went better than I could have imagined. LittleBear scored the first goal, and in defence put in an utterly brilliant sliding dive across the goal mouth to push the ball wide of the post and deny the opposition a goal. And, despite going behind, my boy didn't droop, didn't cry, didn't give up, but ran and ran and ran, and tackled, and dribbled, and turned, and shot, and cleared. And I was so very, very proud of my Player of the Week. Not because of his goal, not because of the final score-line, but because he kept trying and enjoyed himself. I have spent the rest of the day on cloud nine, because I had my happy, confident, awesome little footballer back.
So just for now, for today, I don't have to wonder whether letting him play football is the right thing to do. The pure joy on his face, his pride in himself, his delight in skipping round defenders, spinning away from them and sprinting into the box, all of those things were enough to tell me I can't keep him away from his game.
It was almost enough to make up for the cat poo on the carpet this morning.
* LittleBear participates in a "Book Savings Club" at school. He saves 50p a week, and at the end of the term gets the chance to spend his savings on books that the club have managed to buy in bulk (and therefore at a discount. He came home with two footballer biographies and has utterly fallen in love with reading them.
We talked about it a bit, about how amazing he is when he's confident, and how he mustn't let himself feel defeated. We read books about football and about footballers, and compared his emotional response to losing to that expressed by Raheem Sterling, Jordan Pickford and Harry Maguire. Not because those are particularly his favourite players, but because we happen to have acquired books about them*. It appears to have genuinely helped to discover that players he watched playing at the World Cup suffered disappointment, setback and loss in lower league teams, but they didn't give up.
Football training for his team started last weekend, and he was my determined demon again, playing with and against his friends, constantly on the go, constantly running, constantly battling for the ball. I began to feel a sprinkling of hope that a rest and a break from playing football had been what he needed to bring back a bit of his confidence.
Then we had training last night. And in the mini-match at the end, his side let a goal in (not through any particular fault of his) and there was my LittleBear, standing in the corner of the pitch, tears pouring down his cheeks, while his coach crouched beside him to give him a cuddle and convince him not to give up.
My heart sank. The hoped-for resilience was looking like an illusion already, having lasted less than a week. Even conceding a goal in training was too much for him. I went to bed dreading today's match. My only ray of hope this morning was that LittleBear was excited about playing and looking forward to the match.
And?
It went better than I could have imagined. LittleBear scored the first goal, and in defence put in an utterly brilliant sliding dive across the goal mouth to push the ball wide of the post and deny the opposition a goal. And, despite going behind, my boy didn't droop, didn't cry, didn't give up, but ran and ran and ran, and tackled, and dribbled, and turned, and shot, and cleared. And I was so very, very proud of my Player of the Week. Not because of his goal, not because of the final score-line, but because he kept trying and enjoyed himself. I have spent the rest of the day on cloud nine, because I had my happy, confident, awesome little footballer back.
So just for now, for today, I don't have to wonder whether letting him play football is the right thing to do. The pure joy on his face, his pride in himself, his delight in skipping round defenders, spinning away from them and sprinting into the box, all of those things were enough to tell me I can't keep him away from his game.
It was almost enough to make up for the cat poo on the carpet this morning.
* LittleBear participates in a "Book Savings Club" at school. He saves 50p a week, and at the end of the term gets the chance to spend his savings on books that the club have managed to buy in bulk (and therefore at a discount. He came home with two footballer biographies and has utterly fallen in love with reading them.
Wednesday, 9 January 2019
The Naming of Cats
I suspect many people are familiar with the Andrew Lloyd-Webber musical, Cats. I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with the source material - T.S. Eliot's book Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats. It was a feature of my childhood, and I can still recite chunks of some of my favourites (and am delighted with how much LittleBear loves McCavity: The Mystery Cat...)
That's not really the point, however.
The point is that it is time for a ceremonial re-naming of IdiotCat.
IdiotCat has continued to pee on the carpet with tedious, soul-destroying monotony. We have tried a wide variety of techniques, from escorting him into the garden to prove that there's nothing bad out there; rewarding him with treats when he uses his litter tray; valiantly attempting to eliminate the smell of cat wee from the carpet to convince him it is not equivalent to a litter tray; replacing the ammoniacal smell with washing detergent, with Vicks vapo-rub, with cat-reassuring spray, or with cat-repelling spray. None of these things have worked.
Now we have discovered IdiotCat has advanced renal failure.
IdiotCat is still an idiot (illness not having endowed him with more brains than he previously possessed). However, IdiotCat will henceforth be known as PoorPuss.
PoorPuss pees on the carpet just as much as IdiotCat did, but PoorPuss is not assumed to be able to do much about this unfortunate development. Attempts to prevent the floorboard being dissolved with noxious cat wee are continuing, but all hopes that we may train him out of his new habit have evaporated. One day we will have a new carpet, but that day will only come when we have been forced to say goodbye to PoorPuss, and I am not wishing the time away.
That's not really the point, however.
The point is that it is time for a ceremonial re-naming of IdiotCat.
IdiotCat has continued to pee on the carpet with tedious, soul-destroying monotony. We have tried a wide variety of techniques, from escorting him into the garden to prove that there's nothing bad out there; rewarding him with treats when he uses his litter tray; valiantly attempting to eliminate the smell of cat wee from the carpet to convince him it is not equivalent to a litter tray; replacing the ammoniacal smell with washing detergent, with Vicks vapo-rub, with cat-reassuring spray, or with cat-repelling spray. None of these things have worked.
Now we have discovered IdiotCat has advanced renal failure.
IdiotCat is still an idiot (illness not having endowed him with more brains than he previously possessed). However, IdiotCat will henceforth be known as PoorPuss.
PoorPuss pees on the carpet just as much as IdiotCat did, but PoorPuss is not assumed to be able to do much about this unfortunate development. Attempts to prevent the floorboard being dissolved with noxious cat wee are continuing, but all hopes that we may train him out of his new habit have evaporated. One day we will have a new carpet, but that day will only come when we have been forced to say goodbye to PoorPuss, and I am not wishing the time away.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats are rather small;
Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,
And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.
Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces,
Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes;
They like to practise their airs and graces
And wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.
And, for now, here are some pictures of my beautiful Jellicle Cat.
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| Jellicle Cats are black and white |
 |
| Jellicle Cats are rather small (under all that fur) |
 |
| Jellice Cats are merry and bright (when not napping on a dinosaur den) |
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