The Brilliance of Cats

This is Bobbi, in all his glory.

I am a catty person. Forget the namesake, for that was not deliberate.

I am desperate to write about my cat but fear the dreaded 'cutesy' attachment that follows writing about animals, in a way that reminds me of a girl I went to school with who had photographs of puppies and kitten all over her stationary. You know the one I mean?

Anyway, that fear leads me to write about Bobbi (yes, with an 'i', although I've no idea 'y'. Oh dear.) in a way that will hopefully appear enchanting, potentially amusing and not liable to send you running for the bathroom with images of huge kitten eyes and cutchy coo sounds following you all the way there.

I shall bullet point.

• Bobbi is the most cuddliest cat I've ever met. FACT. I carry him in my arms like a baby. He will jump on your lap even before you think 'where's the cat, my lap is cold' and then proceed to work his way up you until he feels he is close enough to settle down. This is usually in the shoulder or neck region where he can put his head under your chin. Optimum warmth, I'm assuming.

• He makes noises that the receptionist at the vets called 'Dinosaur noises' little bubbly sounds in his throat that vary between "I'm going to jump this distance between counter tops even if it kills me" to simply, "I'm HOME! I've been out five minutes but guys! Guys! I'm HOME!"

• Bobbi has complete, and utter faith in M and I that we will catch him if he falls. Not just falling from surfaces, furniture etc. But he will repeatedly stand on a lap and suddenly FALL OVER onto you, no matter how big your lap is or what position you're in. Then he will stay there, purring manically while we position him back onto ourselves. Incidentally, we find this hilarious. I realise it may be more of a visual thing.

• He's really soft. I'm talking, rabbit fur, those furry slippers you used to get, the softest fricking thing you've felt in ages. That's how soft Bobbi's fur is. He doesn't care where you stroke him either. My favourite place is his feet. He'll let me hold his paws and stroke the pads without putting his claws out, they're really warm.

Ok, that's probably enough. But it's more to say that he has become an extension of us as a couple, that when we're together in the evenings or the mornings, if Bobbi's not around, it's weird. He sleeps in his bed for half the night then comes up to us and sleeps in between us, stretched out so either one of us is spooning him. He is the perfect cat, and proof that you can get a kitten for 30 quid from some freaky family in Bristol and they'll be fine. Better than fine.

Bobbi Fine. Actually his official name is Bobbi Woolley but when I tried to explain to the vets that he had 'taken my boyfriends' surname, it all got very confusing. I started getting called into the room as 'Miss Woolley' ooh er.

Blogging about not blogging

I'm going to tackle a theory I think only I am suffering from. Does nearly a three year writer's block exist? Or am I, lets be honest, kidding myself?

Before I started my oh-so-useful-and-expensive Creative Writing DEGREE, I used to write short stories, wobbly poems and endless articles. I then started my degree, spent the first year writing odds and ends in between my course requirements and then all seemed to die out. Literally. Oh, I was still writing, but nothing that I wasn't absolutely supposed to do to gain marks. It was like the ideas part of my mind had been given a damp blanket and the kindling fire went out. No more ideas. No more writing. I was hoping that after graduating, with all the pressure to write something decent off my back, it would all come tumbling out again. But so far, no such luck.

It's like every idea I think of (for there have been one or two, I'll admit it) there is a little Idea Marshall stopping me with a quick 'thats just not good enough, soldier' and the idea fizzes out into nothingness.

Oh dear.

So, here I am. Blogging about not blogging. Because, my dears, every idea I think might be any good, gets turned around in my sad little mind and undermined. (oooh...)

But maybe this will help, maybe I'll stop worrying and just, for the hell of it, write my ideas as they come no matter what that stupid bloke in my head says (what's he doing there anyway? Surely there are better minds to worry about - there are not and don't call me Shirley) and let you all judge me accordingly. No one ever got anywhere worrying what other people thought, right?

Shame. I blame my degree. HA! £22,000 later and she blames the degree for not writing.. jesus...