Oh, and on a related foot-y note: I think I've broken one of my little toes. The toe and the area around it are a charming shade of blue at the moment.
Hi. You've reached headcoldland. please leave a message, and as soon as our heads have returned to normal size, we'll get right back to you.
I feel like such a heel. There was this stray kitten, a beautiful wee calico, whom I'd first seen a couple of days after we moved in here, and a few times since. I'd never been able to get close enough to pet her, though, until Tuesday, when I went out the back door to find her lounging about on the concrete outside. She didn't bolt as far as previously, and I managed to lure her back by putting out a saucer of milk. This having been bolted down, I found a piece of fish that was past its best, and gave that to her. Then to my surprise she let me touch her, though she was very skittish about it. After munching through some of Stephen's steak with great gusto, she settled down in a cardboard box I'd put out for her. The next morning she was still there, and I noticed that one of her front paws were very swollen and painful looking, so I called the SPCA. Long story short, she didn't much like being confined to a cardboard box, and made a hasty getaway. I thought I'd botched things completely. But the cat came back, and this morning I shut her in the laundry and waited three hours for the SPCA to arrive. I put the wee beastie into the cage, and she literally climbed the walls trying to get out. She was so frantic. Bawling my eyes out, I watched through a crack in the door as the SPCA woman loaded her into the van. I so wish I could've kept her, but she made Stephen's nose itch from as close as a couple of metres away. Bum. I hope her paws are easily fixable, and that she gets sufficiently used to people being good to her that she can be placed with a loving family. Despite everything she must have been through to end up in such a sorry state, at the slightest hint of kindness she became extremely affectionate.
So I've had a few rejections this week. Real Groovy didn't think I was, and both Amnesty and the SPCA said thanks but no thanks. Ok, so what the recruitment guy for the latter actually said was: "If you'd've been living in Blockhouse Bay, you'd have gotten the job." Geographical discrimination, that is. I figure if I was willing to get up earlyish to take two buses to get to work 45 minutes later even though it's only 12 km away, which I really was, then they should f'ing well have let me. Ah well, the universe must have other plans for me. At least the
postie interview went well. Just waiting for them to check with my referees that I'm not an axe-wielding homicidal maniac, and then it's another interview with the branch manager, and then four days' training and then off into the wild blue biking yonder. Maybe. But for now, I'm buggered, and I want to go and lie in a heap and whine about how buggered I am. It'll be even more fun when Stephen gets home and I'll have someone else to whine to.
