Thursday, 27 April 2017


Mustard yellow eyes stare into mine. A challenge? A “Hello”?

‘I am not a cat person,’ I explain to the creature that is trapping me with its gaze.

But still, I suffer the scrutiny. It furls around me, pushing its cheeks into my legs, marking me, no doubt, with some subtle cat stench. I move my legs away and bump along the sofa. Will my host notice if I change seats while they are making coffee? The thing pursues me, am I its prey? Oh God, not its scratch post! It climbs its front paws up me.

‘Nothing personal,’ I tell the beast, ‘I'm just not that into you.’ I tentatively take its paws and lower them to the floor. It slinks away.

Phewing to myself I grab a newspaper from the coffee table and leaf through for the horoscopes. Aquarius: Expect the unexpected.

Obviously I don’t follow this advice, because I nearly wet myself when the cat leaps through the paper and onto my lap.  

Wednesday, 19 April 2017

Refined and Defined by Food

Refined by Food    
When I was little I didn’t do food. Fat on meat was “brains” and pieces of onion were “monkey peas”*. I sat at the dinner table for hours, trying to magic away what was in front of me. I may have stunted my own growth. I was an otherwise compliant child, and ours was a strict household, but this was one place I exerted control. At school I was on the slow eaters table, where we were more interested in telling each other stories than eating our seventies stodge-fest meat-and-two-veg meals. Leaving home revolutionised my relationship with food. I finally realised what was involved in cooking and became tremendously grateful to anybody that gave me anything to eat. I was cured of fussiness overnight, I even began to like food. I have been apologising to my mother ever since. Through my twenties and thirties I could eat whatever I wanted, mainly peanut butter. Restraint is a tough lesson for a mature learner. My discipline is born of not wanting to replace my wardrobe. Peanut butter has become a banned substance in our house. Two weeks ago my “fat” skirt, usually slipping around my hips was tight on my tummy. Therefore I’m on one of my control freak diet regimes, usually doing the trick but completely unsustainable. Breakfast and lunch are painfully austere but evening meals are always the decadent domain of my personal chef. Mr K is a terrible feeder, but that really is passing the buck, especially as it was on my list of requirements for a man that he must be an excellent cook. I eat very well.  
* Monkey peas are wood lice

Defined by Food
Food is everything to me. I am always hungry. If someone is eating in front of me, my mouth waters so much I drool. I like all food, any food, well maybe not lettuce or rocket, I don’t see the point of eating leaves. My favourite is chicken. I like banana, blueberries and apple too, I’ll eat an apple, core and all. I love carrots. Bread, chips, I’ll eat off the ground. You can find a lot of bread and chips on the ground around here. And kebabs. I enjoy eating so much sometimes I’ll eat things that are not meant to eaten. Like wrapping paper and puke and an occasional fox poo. Always reprimanded for these morsels but there’s a lot of nutrition to be had in them, that’s the way I see it. I’m fortunate to be a fast eater, I can wolf down a meal in less than a minute. Put your food on the floor and it’s gone in a gulp. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a thief. Much as it pains me, I obey the sanctity of the plate on a table. I am patient. I can watch and wait forever. I love people, I love my people, after all they are my food providers, but food is my first love. And the bastards keep me half starved.