A Spot of Bother

The time has come or rather had come for me to put my new car through it's first service.  I contacted a garage in Antwerp, a Jaguar garage and made the requisite appointment.  I drive a 2.2L XF, which is rather a nice car to drive and, having put in the kms, I needed to get it serviced at quite an early stage.

Whilst up in Antwerp I took full advantage and took the opportunity to take some photos with Kris.  Near the garage is a flyover and underneath is an area that has been covered in graffiti as part of a project.  I will post these photos to the photo blog, which I have not updated for some time now, much to my shame.

Anyway, following the photos and a spot of lunch with our mother-in-law, Kris kindly dropped me back at the garage.  The service was relatively expensive, but then I do not have a benchmark to which I could compare it.  Being diligent I checked the bill and the items on it, grumpily noting that I had been charged almost 6 euros for screen wash, annoying as it did not require filling and I have gallons of the stuff at home.  I did not contest the bill. As I walked to the car I continued to examine the invoice and noted that I had been charged for 7 litres of oil, I thought that this was rather a lot and I resolved to check it in the handbook.  Unwisely I tried to check the handbook whilst waiting at traffic lights and sod's law meant that I never really got the chance.  Anyway, when I was home I looked it up and to my surprise and concern it said that a 2.2L engine required 5.86 litres of oil.

I did  not get round to checking the oil until Saturday, after having taken the cat to the vet (another story).  Anyway to check the oil it needs to be warm and the car is to have stood for at least 10 minutes on a level surface.  When I checked, the indication, which is electronic, informed me that the car had been overfilled and was not to be driven, this was after driving approximately 66kms in this condition.  I was not impressed as a) they garage had potentially damaged my car and b) they had charged me extra for the privilage of doing so!  I got on to Jaguar Assist and they swung into action, it was not long before a flatbed came along to tow my car back to the garage in Antwerp, it is rather sad and embarrassing to watch your car being taken away...  I was in a spot of bother, no car!

Jaguar Assist then arranged for me to pick up a hire car to cover the absence of my own.  An duly took me to the airport where I was told to report to the Europcar desk, to my immediate disappointment I was given the keys to an Astra.  I was further told that the car would be in row 5 of the parking area, there was no row 5 and in fact it was in row 1 as I eventually discovered.  My trial had only just begun...

I tried to check the car for damage but being a brown car and in the poor light of the parking area I could not see any other damage.  More to the point I had not been given a pen either and I did not have one so if I had wanted to record any further details of damage I would have had to have written it in my blood having first gouged a strip out of my arm and fashioning a scribe from a rusty nail embedded in the concrete of the car park.  Maybe I go too far with this description?  Thankfully I could find no other damage and now I had only to work out how to start the car.

The car was a manual and, quaintly, there was a keyhole ignition, dated or what?  I could not start the car and soon noticed that an orange light illuminated to indicate that I must press the pedal.  Now there are only three pedals to choose from and being as I drive an automatic I assumed I should press the brake.  Nope.  I after several attempts and chanting a special incantation I had still not succeeded in bringing the machine into life.  Finally I pressed the clutch down and woof, well, purr really and the engine came to life.

I managed to manoeuvre out of the concrete jungle that was the car park and made the rendezvous with my wife at the nearby Shell garage so that we could go in convoy back to the house, this, it turns out, was an utterly pointless exercise.  I quickly realised that the car had the acceleration properties of a fully loaded supertanker that has been welded to the sea bed and then weighted down for good measure by some old battleships tied to the back end.  An glided away as I apparently made little progress in keeping pace.  My main concern was how I was to negotiate the journey back past junctions and through traffic, which was akin to a toddler wandering aimlessly across the M25 at rush hour on a really bad day, when all of the worst drivers are out and the police have decided to go on a tea break.

I engaged the highly advanced navigation and sensor suite, me the driver, and drove very defensively home.  I really was not looking forward to doing battle on the trip to work the next day.  An asked me what size the engine was on the car and I replied that I was not sure it actually had an engine in it...  She had been waiting at home for me, having lost sight of me after leaving the Shell garage.

I rang Jaguar Assist to explain that I was dissatisfied with the vehicle, my only statement was that the car was not like for like, I could think of no better way to put it.  The gentleman on the phone agreed entirely and said that it is not what they would expect, he resolved to sort it out as soon as possible.

Sure enough I got a call to say that I could have either a Mercedes B Class or a Volvo XC 60, petrol and diesel respectively.  I choose the Volvo and agreed to pick it up at the airport on Monday.  In the meantime the issue with my car had been identified...

It would appear that my oil sensor, the one that indicates how much is in the sump, was faulty.  Apparently the garage had put the oil in and then the car indicated that there was not enough and so they put more in and thus overfilled.  Now I can only take this at face value but, if the handbook says that it requires 5.86 litres of oil and you have just removed all of it after a service then surely you just measure out the 5.86 and put it into the engine?  There is also the question of why I was charged for 7 litres of oil on the bill, I will of course put this to the Jaguar Assist team when they get back to me.  Cynically I am of the opinion that if the 'fault' is the sensor then the garage was not negligent and the claim would be covered under the warranty as opposed to the garage itself which made the error.  We shall see.

I turned up at the airport after work at around 19.00, I was late getting away from work again.  The rental desk did not have a reservation, helpful I thought.  I did not have a booking number and so had to get on to Jaguar Assist, who then got on to their agent.  Whilst I was waiting and the two staff were dealing with the long queue of customers, the telephone on their desk was ringing away.  One of the staff asked me if I had got through and I said they are probably trying to ring you.  They shrugged and said oh well, we are busy.  The words that entered my head cannot be written down...  Anyway, to my total lack of surprise I got a call from a lady who told me she could not get through and I explained in a very loud voice that they had not answered their telephone.  She agreed to hold on until one of them had finished dealing with their current customer.  The lady explained that she had faxed, text, emailed, carved in stone, sent smoke signals and used a few other ancient techniques of communicating her request to the company and they had not apparently responded or confirmed the booking.  When eventually the lady at the rental company had finished discussing the cultural sights of Brussels with the professor of how to occupy time, I handed her my phone.  She found the fax, buried in the cellar of the restaurant next door and after dusting it down and feigning surprise, apologised to the lady on the phone and got on with transcribing the details onto the computer and then finding the key.

Eventually I was issued with they key to the car and I made my way back to the parking area.  The car was, thankfully, where she said it would be and soon I was on the road.  I am happy to report that this car is far better equipped and powered to deal with the commute.  In fact it is rather fun to drive.  I only lost an hour in the airport picking it up!

Today is April Fool's day, so I am wondering what exciting news will come my way as to the progress of my car.

Boundary Cooling

Boundary cooling is where you attempt to halt the spread of fire by cooling the adjacent sides of a compartment (on board a ship in this case).  The three parts to the fire triangle are: heat, fuel and oxygen.  Deny any of these and there is no fire.  So boundary cooling seeks to deny the heat element of the triangle.  What am I on about and what has this to do with anything?  Well not a lot really, but I posted on Facebook recently that I was in need of boundary cooling and so this is my explanation.

I was suggesting that I personally needed boundary cooling and this was my way of saying that there was a raging fire inside me and I wanted to limit the possibility of that spreading anywhere else.  In my case I was really quite annoyed with something and in most cases it is not helpful to vent your frustrations to all and sundry, if often just inflames the situation, if you forgive the pun.

If you don't have boundary cooling in place then the chances are the fire will spread and it can become uncontrollable, a bit like an argument...  At least at work you can walk away and come back later, this is not a great idea when you are on a ship...

Anyway, I thought I would write a quick dit on boundary cooling and the benefits of having it in place!

The Annual Smog Fundraising Event

I am delighted to announce that I was absent from the country when Belgium held it's annual Smog Fundraising Event.  Every year on the same day (I am making that bit up), the authorities decide that the weather conditions will be such that a nationwide restriction will apply to the motorway speed limits.  Normally the maximum speed limit is 120kph but this is reduced to 90kph in a bid to reduce the pollution (the official reason).  The real reason is to raise revenue from the numerous fixed and mobile speed cameras scattered every 15km along the main commuter routes.

Now to be fair they do announce this in advance and give plenty of warning, if you understand French and Dutch of course.  The road signs and electronic messages are set up to remind everyone of the speed limits and the announcements are made on the radio.  This year it would seem that the mobile and fixed cash machines caught a mere 14,000 motorists who, if they are lucky, will only pay a 50 Euro fine.  This is if you are doing slightly more than 10kph over the limit.  If you happen to be banging along at 120+ then you could be looking at maybe three times that much, which makes the bracket somewhere between 700,000 - 2,100,000 euros fleeced from motorists.  Of course you should not be speeding in the first place and the habits of the the commuters change dramatically when the annual event is on, the first time I got caught, yes I have been caught twice during the weather inspired tax raising exercise, I was zooming along past the rest of the unusually tame and steady commuters.  Hey presto, flashed by a small cash machine hidden on a slip road!  The second time was just plain annoying as I had held to the smog speed and had a lapse of concentration, mug!

The added bonus this year is that there is now a treaty between France, Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands by which they all pass their respective speeding tickets across the borders.  What this means is that being flashed on the way to the Eurotunnel means you can expect the French to post the ticket to you in Belgium.  Bargain, even more money from unsuspecting transient motorists.

Anyway, this year I was glad to be absent for this year's event.  One positive is that the roads seem to be safer this one time of year

Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy

When I were I young lad.... We used to play out on the street, in gangs of kids, doing quite physical and sometimes risky things.  By that I mean we used to climb onto the roofs of buildings, up trees, set the occasional fire and run away from the odd angry grown up who wanted to spoil our fun. 

Gangs of kids these days tend to spend their time doing drugs, assaulting random members of the public and vandalising property.  The adults now give them a wide berth, unless they happen to be the local psycho nutters who spent their own youth chasing people down with knives and stealing cars.  The new gangs tend to know who the nutters are and are afraid of physical pain so they in turn show 'respect' to them.  Well, that is how it goes in my mind.  I have not seen this in Belgium, where I live in a world where the crime rate appears, at least, to be a bit lower.  I may be deluded of course.

Anyway, I digress.  The point of my post is actually to talk about my recent bathroom installation course where I learnt how to, funny old thing, install a bathroom!  I turn to the title of this post, Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy, which is a slightly cleaner way of saying that something is easy to do.  In this case, once I had practised fitting a few pipes together, I gained the confidence that I was somehow competent and that I would not experience the dreaded leaks and floods.  The course I attended was very good, I learnt how to install: a shower, a radiator, a bath, a toilet, a basin and all of the associated pipework.  I did have a few minor leaks which were quickly rectified.

I now cast my 'expert' eye over pipework and heating systems and am able to identify the parts and assess how it is put together.  I already have a number of projects that I would like to undertake, being eager to try my new found skills out!  During the course we learnt about compression joints, soldering pipes and 'push fit' plastic pipes.  It really is quite straightforward.  More to the point I was shown the necessary tools for the job, what a difference that makes, having the right kit!

Going back to my childhood and days spent throwing lumps of soil at each other as we fought battles in the public spaces of the local park.  The council gardeners would come round and turn over the soil which would form 'grenades' of soil that would burst spectacularly on the footpaths and the heads of unlucky kids as we fought pitched battles.  We used to divide the gang into two teams and fight for each end of the shrubbery and planted areas.  The passing adults would give us hell for making such a mess and the battle was often halted as someone took a serious hit to the head and eye, as I did on at least one occasion.  We were lucky not to be blinded. 

Bringing me back to the phrase Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy, as kids this was more of a taunt, ie you can easily jump that gap between the garage roofs, it is easy peasy lemon squeezy, kind of a challenge that you could not back down to, not if you wanted to retain any ranking and credibility in the gang.  Usually such a taunt then led to a challenge being undertaken and either a trip to casualty or a victory lap.  Of course, once one of you had done it the rest had to follow up and heaven help you if you were the last or most reluctant to break your neck, it was usually me.  I can honestly say that I spent less time in casualty than my brother who was and still is more of a risk taker than I.

I was thinking recently about some of the games we used to play and one of them that sprang to mind was when we used to go to the baths or swimming pool as posh people would call it.  We usually went as a gang of at least 4 and often when it was raining outside, so not really great for playing out.  One of the games was to stand on the edge of the pool and see who could pretend to die in the most theatrical way, being shot, stabbed etc.  The idea was you fall into the pool as you are 'killed'.  I related this game to a friend of mine aboard a ship one day and he just had to take it a bit too far...  He started saying 'so did you douse yourself in petrol and then set fire to yourself before then leaping into the water?'  Stokers eh?  Funny old crowd.  My mind then went to rather more radical forms such as suicide bombing, but then how would you simulate that?  We did used to play tuggy, which was a kind of tag game where you would be on until you managed to brave the deep end and potential drowning to tag another player.  Often you would get out of the pool to 'run' along the side to catch up, which then meant the lifeguard would shout at you.  Occasionally we would get thrown out if he had had a bad day and was hung over...  We did feign drowning but it never worked, no matter how lifeless you floated beneath the lifeguard, years of experience at spotting fraudulent casualties no doubt.  Every now and again we would try and get into the baby's pool, which was considerably warmer than the main one, if only to defrost for a while.

Anyway, this has gone a bit random.  Nothing much to do with Belgium here this time!

Was I just propositioned?

There are times when you just don't realise what you are saying and how it can be misunderstood, but it is all about the circumstances at the time and putting it into context.

I was having a meal with my mother and aunt at a local bar and, as is my need, I paid a visit to the toilet.  There were two cubicles adjacent to each other in the toilet and the one on the left had only just been taken so I went in the one to the right.  Due to shoddy workmanship or a strange homoerotic desire on the part of the plumber, the actual toilet was sited too close to the separating panel and the adjacent cubicle.  I felt a little closer than I would like to the other gentlemen, now straining in the other cubicle.

To say that he was making a song and dance about it might lead you to the wrong picture.  He was vocal about the efforts he was making to evacuate his bowels, clearly he was not ready for it or he needed to have more fibre in his diet.  I was, discretely, trying to lay my own cable, but I rapidly came to the conclusion that I could not sit by with all the grunting and heaving from my neighbour.  That said, as I halted, mid effort and planning to return at a later stage to complete the exercise, I started to finish up.  My neighbour  had, in the meantime, completed his evolution and was out before I had finished.  I noted on the floor that his wallet had fallen out of his pocket and made the decision not to pick it up whilst I was still in my cubicle, just in case he came back in.  I finished, went into the next cubicle and retrieved the wallet.  I then washed my hands before leaving.

There were a few people in reception, including an older gentleman who was about to leave.  I thought I recognised the throaty voice as he said goodbye to the reception staff and without thinking I called out.  He did not hear me to begin with as he started to leave, so I tapped him on the shoulder, as he turned I asked if he had just been to the toilet.  I mean think about that for a second, what would you say if a bloke asked you that?  Anyway, he replied that he had.  I then held up the wallet and asked him if it belonged to him, for all I knew it could have been his 'calling card'.  I did not think of a means to identify him, I suppose I could have asked him to strain himself and grunt to see if he sounded the same.  I stress that I had not opened the wallet at any point but I could have asked him to identify the contents.  Anyway he introduced himself and asked me his name, adding that he was always dropping his wallet in the toilet...  No, nothing, no alarm bells ringing at all.  He offered to buy me a drink and I said that I had one waiting on the table so it was not necessary, the General Alarm was still silent.  He was extremely grateful to me for returning it, which I accepted in good faith and genuinely felt was sincere.  I felt good for having found the owner and reuniting him with his property.

Only when I returned to the table and explained my encounter with Paul to my mother and aunt did it hit me how it actually looked.  They both found it quite amusing and I wondered what pick up techniques they had used in the past...

Driving With Belgian Plates

There are some advantages to being an Englishman driving a left had drive car with Belgian plates.  I have recently driven from home to my native North East of England, which is quite a drive necessitating a transit through the channel tunnel and then up the Eastern side of the country.  The first thing is that people do assume you are from the same country as the car and plates indicate.  This means that you can 'get away' with making the odd mistake when you don't understand the road system, a bit like driving in London, where the road conventions don't seem to apply and those in charge of planning road systems are rolling dice to decide on the layout that would best suit their mood at the time.  Anyway, I try not to take advantage of this perceived ignorance, preferring to stick to the normal conventions.

On my long journey North, which took on the scenic delights of the M20, M25, Dartford Tunnel, M11, A14 and A1, I was witness to some interesting maneuvers.  I had to remember that my 'safe' distance behind a Belgian car was no longer a 'safe' distance behind a British car,I think I may have annoyed a few people as I made my way up North.  Unfortunately both the A1 and the top end of the M11/A14 are just two lane.  The same habits that afflict Belgian roads are equally prevalent on UK roads, people do not pull in when there is space to do so and allow the faster traffic to pass.

I had the pleasure of being almost rammed off the road by a large white coach, which happened to be full of soldiers and was driven by another soldier.  I can only imagine he thought he was driving his Subaru Impreza and that he had both the acceleration and maneuverability to make the change of lane without trashing my car.  There was nothing behind me and the speed differential between my car and his bus was just a bit too much to be regarded as anything but bloody dangerous.  He did compel me to cross the white solid line next to the central reservation but I held my position and got past, not chuffed.  I have to say I was being rather ruthless with lorries who wished to carry out the same overtaking move as they consistently delayed and slowed the flow of the traffic all the way up.  At least the majority of these lorries has the courtesy to wait until it was either safe or I had passed.

I stopped once on the journey North and was delighted to see that the drivers at the Service Station also lacked the manners to allow a fellow motorist to reverse out of a parking space, despite the fact that they were not going to get anywhere fast.  All I wanted to do was re-align my car to make sure I was parked within my own space.  Just like being in Belgium!

Throwing Ones Toys Out Of The Pram

To throw ones toys from the pram is an expression used to describe someone who has become so upset about something that they, in essence, become quite unreasonable.  Some people are more prone to hurling the toys than others and for some it is just particular instances.  In my case the toys barely leave my pram and only tend to get thrown out when I am driving or when someone is so pig headed and unreasonable that they cannot be reasoned with.  I happen to mention this phrase when I was chatting to An about something and she was quite amused, I think I was relating something about work but I forget now.  I probably said something like, such and such was not happy, he threw his toys out of his pram...  I think the thought of a tantrum and feet stamping session sprang to mind and in reality it is not far from the truth sometimes.

Of course you can apply this sarcastically to someone like myself when engaged in a debate.  It is a humorous way  wind someone up and to exaggerate their frustration to the point where they go in the huff and stomp off.  The huff is the same as sulking or feeling so annoyed that you refuse to even talk about it and you go off and stew in your grumpy mood.

In naval parlance you can say to someone who is getting a bit irate/excited ease to 5 or to exaggerate ease to 20.  These phrases come from the terminology used on the bridge of a ship at sea when making a turn.  The angle of the rudder is measured in degrees and usually ranges from 0 to 30 degrees.  At speed a 30 degree angle is quite severe so often the order would be maybe port 20 and eventually ease to 5 as the ship gets round to it's new course, this is so you don't overshoot the intended course.  The ship will heel over quite a bit when applying 20 or 30 degrees of rudder so when people are irate and you say ease to 5 or ease to 20, the former means calm down and the latter means seriously calm down.  Again, sarcasm can wind up the more placid sailors...

Today I was chatting to one of my team, who happens to come from Canada, and I used the term we are under the cosh.  I thought the term was more commonly understood across the borders but she did not know what it meant.  I was describing the whole team, including myself, and I was saying we have always been under the cosh, there has been no let up.

I must make some effort to learn some Dutch idioms...

Inappropriate Comments

It occurred to me that by including the words "pussy heaven" in my last post that I may end up attracting the wrong clientele.  The thought of naked, overweight and slightly sweating men anticipating this idyllic place, having clicked on a random Google search of the term, leaves me a little concerned to say the least.  I mean my family read this blog from time to time and it just would not be right.

So for those expecting some form of imagery I have included the one below to satisfy the expectations of the perspiring masses.

 

In fact for those seeking moving pictures check this out: Cat Herding

 

Being quite conscientious I did put the aforementioned term into Google and I  saw that the response was much as I would expect, even some had references to "weed".  Happily enough this blog was not there among the top results.  I am of course avoiding the term deliberately now as I would hate to increase the likelihood of the blog being linked to some disreputable website.

 

My idea of cat heaven (note the safer use of the word cat...) is a blazing fire, fur blanket, a personal door opener, stroker and ear masseuse.  Food and toys would be on tap, the place would be hoover free and there would be a fish tank for amusement purposes.  Maybe some plants to chew on and some expensive furniture to strop the claws.  Of course visits to the vet would not be required.

 

Having introduced Gamin to you I think I maybe ought to include a picture, it is normal he just sits like that.  The face is also typical half grumpy, I do have better but this will do for now.

 

 

 

Gamin The Cat

When I first came to Belgium I was introduced to the cat, Gamin.  I say introduced, it was more like briefly glimpsing the elusive and cautious creature, who at that time lived in the garage of my future father-in-law.  Grumpy, evil and dangerous only begin to describe the character of this cat and I, having grown up surrounded by a multitude of cats with their respective characters, thought that he would not prove to be too much of a challenge to win over.

Gamin would spend his time usually outside or in the garage.  He was always brought in at night and often slept on top of the hot water boiler, for obvious reasons really.  When he was upstairs he spent his time hiding behind curtains or chairs and sometime joining my father-in-law when he went to the toilet, he is a bit odd that way (the cat not my father-in-law).  He was regarded as being an indoor cat and had his litter tray provided.  Unfortunately he has suffered from stones in his bladder and due to them being quite painful he had a stretched bladder with a very pink and raw tummy where he had been constantly licking.  In all his life was not bad but not quite comfortable, especially when taking into account the obsessive and disturbing cleaning routine of An, distressing and disturbing for the cat and others living in the house, not for An!

In 2007 or thereabouts, Gamin moved house and came to live with us here.  I fitted a cat flap and it became apparent that in fact he is very much a night stalker and would often wander off, even at his age.  Naturally this concerned An who was not used to this behaviour from cats, but I was used to it.  He would come back with the odd scratch, having won or lost the argument over territory.  We had it on good authority that he was a bit of a terrorist with the neighbour's cats.  Initially I fitted a regular cat flap but then An noticed that we had an intruder and so I had to fit a magnetic one instead, training the cat to use this took a bit of effort but then he got the idea eventually.  In fact he is still a bit of a sod and waits for us to open the door when we happen to be around, like loyal owners we do!

The effect of the intruder was to upset the cat and cause a resurgence of his bladder issue.  In fact this got quite critical and I thought we were going to lose him.  It turns out that there were stones in his bladder and these had either not been noticed or removed on the previous occasions when he had experienced difficulty.  The Vet advised, and both An and my father-in-law had followed it, that the cat should be given very expensive and special diet food.  This was meant to help with the stones issue.  Now I have grown up around cats all my life and we had never fed them any special food nor had we noticed any problems with this.  There were plenty of others but no bladder stones that I was aware of.  After much persuasion I convinced An that we should put him onto normal wet food, which he loves, funnily enough.  This was after he had a major and rather traumatic operation to have the stones removed.  This must be around 2 years ago and now his fur has grown back and he has not had any further issues.  Scroll on to the most recent visit to the vet...

A journey to the vet, for Gamin, is no pleasure trip.  His yellow box signifies the impending unpleasant experience that awaits him.  He runs away but then does not really put up much of a fight when we get him into the box.  On this occasion and unusually, he peed in the box, which was handy as the vet did not have to obtain a sample the hard way!  Anyway, we got there and the vet took a while before seeing us, which gave the cat enough time to begin his aggressive 'keep away from me' growling.  I could not find my leather gloves, which was a bit of a shame as he lashes out when he is examined and I fully expected this to happen again.  He was given his usual injection, under protest and he even managed to put up with the stethoscope on the ribs.  Not for long though.  The vet took a swipe to the arm, which left two parallel red marks.  Ok enough.  He went back in his box and then we started to get the line about the special diet food.  Now I don't mind when people give you sound and well founded advice but the evidence presented proved beyond doubt that the food was not causing any problems with stones.  The stubbornness of the vet was beyond belief.  The, expensive, urine tests showed no abnormalities at all and we had been feeding him for some time on whiskas.  The whole bill, including worming and flea treatments was 98 euros, I can't help but feel seen off.  I do not recall having to do annual check ups for our cats, just the boosters when they were young, but then things may have changed.

I should add that now, if fact not long after he moved in with us, he became a lot more friendly.  In fact he even comes to sit with us when we get home from work and very rarely, he actually gets on your lap.  There has to be a special blanket though.  But now he purrs a lot more, he nuzzles me, most annoyingly when I am trying to read.  He also is a lot more vocal than he used to be and he often lets us know when he wants attention.  He is a lot happier than when he was living at the old house, although An still insists on putting him to bed in the garage, which he is used to.  He does not use the litter tray anymore as he has a nice garden to use...

An and I were discussing the fact that at some point he will join the other cats in the next life.  Unfortunately An made a slip of the tongue and said 'kid' instead of 'kitten' heaven, at which point I imagined kids screaming and shouting, pulling his ears, tail and chasing him about... Utter chaos, I cannot imagine he would like that somehow.  In fact kitten heaven would not be much better judging by the look of disgust he gave a visiting kitten one day.  He is a grumpy old man who barely tolerates the presence of another cat, but he would give way eventually after he has established who is boss.  To make matters worse An corrected herself and said he would like it in pussy heaven, at which point my tea sprayed across the room as my mind took a short trip to that idyllic location.

I did have a visit from a work colleague with his wife, they brought their dog too.  I did warn them that the cat usually runs off when visitors come and that when he sees the dog he will nip away as well.  How wrong was I?  Brave boy, he sat there almost daring the dog to make a move as he hissed and growled at the poor thing.  It was the equivalent to a standoff, although clearly the dog felt a lot more intimidated and scared than the cat and refused to look Gamin in the eye.  He did not back down or give up his place, only withdrawing to the garage once the dog had left the house.  I was surprised and a little proud too.