perlmonger: (lilith)
Our weekend was bracketed by death.

Friday night, maybe midnight or thereabouts, we were woken by mad scrabbling on the landing. Investigation revealed Ron with a new toy: another mouse was moments away from its end.

There was a degree of oh-buggrit-we-want-to-sleep-clean-up-the-bits-in-the-morning and we subsided; until, that is, Ron brought his prize into the bedroom. No way I wanted to risk the rodent being deposited in several bits on (or worse, in) the bed, so up I got and chased the PoD downstairs to grab hold of him at the foot of the stairs. For a brief moment.

Ron does not like to be thwarted.

He emitted his bloodfreezing scream of fury and slipped away (I wasn't going to try and hold on anyways), but the scream necessitated the opening of the Maw, and the Fangs Therein, and thus the now dead and still miraculously intact rodent was left behind for me to grab - quickly! - to enbag and, given the hour and my naked body, be hurled outside the front door for attention come the dreadful light of day.

This was not the end of the story, for on Saturday Mac went out onto the patio, and lying there, still in its (admittedly slightly punctured) baggie was the mouse. How it got from front to back, given our home is mid-terrace, is left as an exercise for the reader.

The weekend itself passed peacefully: I went shopping on my bike on both days, for food on Saturday and to Brislington Maplins for a can of airduster, Roomba, switches, for the cleaning of. The A4174/A4 junction really is a miracle of Bristol Cycling City planning: the only practical (for unusual values of practical) way of turning right on a bike is to filter between two narrow, car filled, lanes through one set of light and to another. The filtering bit is fine; the pedalling down the white line with vehicles overtaking on both sides mere inches away after the first lights change to green is less so. That the shedpark on Bath Road is entirely bereft of Sheffield racks (at least anywhere near my destination) just provides a little shining jewel of experience before the return, stopping at the lights heading straight on into Brislington, and feeling the rush of traffic again in a fine intimacy as the turn left filter goes green.

I'd decided to return via the Sweet Mart in Easton, to pick up the 5 litre can of olive oil I lacked carrying space for on Saturday. Taking a scenic route for a change, I diverted through the pastoral joys of St Annes, down to the river before crossing same next to the charming and friendly sight of the Village Centre. Thence to Barton Hill where the skies opened and I got as soaked as a very soaked thing. I dripped into the shop, bought my oil and a bunch of spring onions, and headed home. Pausing briefly by the Floating Harbour to tramline, tip over elegantly, and land on my arse. Was bound to happen one day, and no significant harm ensued (I'm too old to have retained any dignity).

Sunday night, The Aliens (being Mac and I, and friends Pat and Dave) acted as quizmasters for the first time at the monthly village quiz night at the Legion. The consensus seemed to be that our questions were too hard, but I think most had fun; we certainly did and might contemplate doing the same again in the unlikely event of being asked.

Oh, and I promised death after: that came at around 6am this morning. Mac got up to go bathroomward and discovered a cloud of feathers, an observant Henry, and a Ron, who was whacking the very ex blackbird in his jaws against the banister rails. That murdered sleep (as well as the bird) quite effectively for both of us. By the time I got to gathering up the remains, the part-chewed, feather-denuded bird was in Henry's jaws in the kitchen, being whacked against the floor and the fridge as H. leaped and swivelled in the air. I added the Bits to the bagged mouse from before, still awaiting final disposal, and vacuumed up feathers from the kitchen, hallway, stairs and landing.

Ron and Henry, or maybe Ron and Reggie, or possibly Doug and Dinsdale: I expect they were good to their mum.


Oct. 7th, 2008 06:13 pm
perlmonger: (pete)
Many thanks to everyone who's posted sympathies and thoughts for our losing Bada, here, on [ profile] ramtops' LJ, on the the cats' blog, on my Facebook, on IRC, and in real life.

I'm not having what you could call the happiest of birthdays today, but you've all helped as much as any help other than the passing of time can do. Life (and its inevitable end) will continue, but can we please not lose any more of our tribe quite yet, please?
perlmonger: (Default)
RIP Liessa, Bada Ning; I held her this evening as she died, maybe two seconds after the vet injected her. After a good night and optimistic morning, she had deteriorated all day, bringing up food and with her ulcerated tongue getting worse, there seemed little chance she'd last the night, let alone recover.

She had a joyous, if far too short, life; we gave her the last gift we were able to: an end to her suffering.

Goodbye Bada, I'll miss you.
perlmonger: (kumu)
…by the sad loss of Humph of Rossmore Road (tangential I know, but there y'go).

If anyone has a spare copy, or a reasonably clean rip, I'd be interested to hear from them.
perlmonger: (badger)
Watching Andrew Marr’s programme about Hume and Edinburgh last night, and Hume’s acceptance of his mortality, left me thinking about death.

I’m with Hume on this; my only concerns about dying are of what difficulties and upset will be left for those who survive me and, inevitably, for things I’ll leave undone. I don’t want to stop being, because (these days; it was not always so) I mostly like be-ing, but ceasing to be has no fears in and of itself.

What I have noticed though, in the last year or so, is occasionally thinking that I won’t buy a book or a DVD because it feels a waste; because I’ll likely die before I get round to reading/watching the thing more than once. Something in my psyche is regarding the likely twenty-odd, possible thirty or forty years I have left as being a perceptibly approaching end. This, at least, I’m not sure I like: intellectually, I’d rather just carry on living in something close to the now and, well, just stop one day.

There. I’ll probably get eaten by the cats tomorrow :)
perlmonger: (pete)
I suppose it’s just a sign of my own advancing badgerdom, but people I care about seem to be dropping like pearly-wingéd flies.

So. Farewell then, Ivor Cutler: poet, musician, story teller, member of the noise abatement society. I only saw you perform once, at a WoMAD years ago; you stopped and refused to carry on until the audience was silent, and quite right too.

ETA: Grauniad obit.

five days

Jul. 5th, 2005 12:28 pm
perlmonger: (lunch)
Prompted by a dying scream, I've just watched Lilith toss, behead and consume (most of) a mouse. The crunch of tiny bones; the blood stains on the carpet... Its few remains are now interred in a bag awaiting final disposal along with the mouse (entire, decaying) that I extracted from under our bed after it made its presence known one morning and the rat and the frog from the living room floor. The dead toad on the patio I've left there though, at least for now.

Not a bad tally for the last five days. I thought the corpse count had been low this year; they've clearly just been waiting for Solstice to pass.


Jun. 12th, 2005 11:55 am
perlmonger: (lunch)

Originally uploaded by perlmonger.
I was cleaning the cathair and grit from my mouse innards when [ profile] ramtops offered me her USB optical rodent, as the Apple mouse will do her fine on the very rare occasions she doesn't use her artpad.

So. Time to venture under my desk for cable surgery.

This is what I found lurking in the far corner... For reference, the pillar is ¾" in diameter. Sorry about the blurredness; the Pro90's autofocus doesn't in low light (and neither does its LCD viewfinder), so this is the best of a bunch of full manual shots, prefocussed in relative daylight, pointed through the cable-strewn gap behind my computer, and with the flash partially blocked by my fingers else the image was overexposed.


perlmonger: (Default)

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