Dydd Un
(Day One)

Hi!Thank you for reading (if, indeed, anyone actually is.) My name is a title my parents gave me when I was born. They were trying to be subtler than calling a Christmas eve baby Carol or Noelle. Or Ebeneezer.

Good thing, really, as the Shamen wrote a song about someone with that name a while back and they got into lots of trouble for it; I'd hate to get into trouble just because of my name.

I should, at this moment, be writing procedures for working in the cattery. I am not, because when I have a task to do, I find anything else but that to do. I have to be inspired and at the present time, mainly because of lack of alcohol/migraine, I am not. And I don't want to cock them up of make a half arsed job simply because of lack of inspiration. There is a little bit of competition at work in between the colleagues as to the procedures of whom will be put into place. Not wanting to sound big headed but I want them to be mine.
My reasons for this are sound: I work my arse off in and out of work time, researching things I don't know but realise I should, using my wages to buy books and to go on extra curricular but relevant courses, I have really put in the effort to learn stuff so extend my knowledge. Even this evening I spent ages reading into cattery regulations courtesy of the Feline Advisory Bureau (www.fabcats.org) and looking at the chemical compositions of the detergents we use.

In a few weeks time my blog will read how annoyed I am that I have to follow someone else's procedures..

Anyway, all that aside, I do love my job and hope to continue for the rest of my days in an animal related job. I hope sincerely this does not shorten my life span! There is much still I would like to do.

For now, and to close for this evening, I attach some pictures of three kittens I have been handrearing. They were originally, for ease of filing, called Zaphod, Beeble and Brox but now seem to have acquired the names Runton/little Grey, Pig and Sleepy. They were brought into the centre after having been found under a fork lift truck. The mother was nowhere to be seen. (This is probably because she was undoubtedly feral and didn't want to be) They were three weeks old on entry to the centre and are now five and a half weeks. (Isn't that a film?) I have watched with interest their progress from sleepy, wobbly, hissy balls of fluff with round ears to climbing, playful miniature cats. I have seen their reaction time go from slow patting of a ball to charging round the living room after each other and play fighting. Runton seems particularly partial to my dog, Bracken, and spends a lot of time following him round. If I call 'Kits!', they will wander after me baby elephant style (nose to tail). My guinea pig, Nitro, has met them and finally was able to quench her maternal desire to groom something (she launches regular attacks on Bracken and my cat James in a desperate attempt to groom them and has only thus far managed to groom me, and, briefly the late Smokey cat RIP.) James enjoys the presence of the kittens as much as most bachelors suddenly presented with three small children would. Although, most bachelors might not choose to sit in the middle of the dining table or on the windowsill, but hey, you never know.