Ramblings on libraries and life upon the wicked stage

So.  Hugo, Clint, and Fred were left in the singing librarian’s care for a whole weekend, a weekend that also included some necessary catching up on studying and a side order of attempting to sleep.  How did it go?  Judging by the number of comments my last post received, everyone is absolutely desperate to know.  We’ll start with Fred.

Fred was very well behaved, which is a relief, as he’s much bigger than me and I was rather hoping that he wouldn’t start moving, eating or talking at any point over the weekend.  He simply sat there patiently while I applied the gloopy brown stuff which wasn’t quite paint and wasn’t quite creosote.  He had settled very close to two of the garden walls, requiring some interesting gymnastic twisting and bending to reach everywhere, and he did require two coats on his front.  But, all things considered, he was very good.  He even looks rather lovely, at least from a distance.  If you get too close, you can see evidence of my lack of finesse when it comes to such things, but from a few feet away, he fairly glows.

Clint was generally well-behaved, though he seemed far more interested in the human resources management material I was intending to read than I was.  I do want to be a real live qualified librarian, but management is so very much not the right career path for me, so it is extremely hard to summon up any interest in the psychological contract and similar dullness.  Clint, however, thought the material was fascinating, as he clambered on to it several times.  He also made friends with Fred, sitting on him as a handy vantage point to watch me as I painted.  But he did blot his copybook on Saturday morning.  I was woken up by Clint launching himself from who knows where and landing on me as I was in that wonderful not-quite-awake state which early Saturday mornings are made for.  I have never, ever been woken up by a cat like that before, so it was truly startling and did not endear Clint to me in any way.  To make matters more interesting, my door was closed, so he hadn’t entered that way.  The window was slightly open, but I’m on the second floor (British second floor, therefore American third floor, I think), so he couldn’t have come in that way unless he can both fly and squeeze through a gap one or two inches big.  So he must have come through the floorboards.  Quite possibly from the old kitchenette on the first floor of the house, which has a hole in the ceiling leading to the room next to my room, where I have several floorboards still up.  I think my surprised reaction to his appearance may have scared Clint, as he spent most of the weekend (when he wasn’t reading my study material) either on Fred or in an armchair downstairs, leaving a lovely dusty catprint pattern all over the red upholstery.

Hugo was in mourning.  He hates it when his mummy is away, and even though I appear to be his third favourite person in the world, he still expressed his melancholy by curling up in his bed and ignoring me, with an occasional foray into mummy’s bedroom to make a nest out of her ironing pile.  He didn’t seem to mind the new feeding regime too much, and there was only one occasion when I found any unwanted liquids on the floor, and I can’t be certain it was him.  It wasn’t left overnight, anyway, so the issue of random night-time toilet-going seems to be under control.  Now that mummy is back, Hugo’s usual enthusiasm for seeing me has returned, and he will now wander around my room if he gets a chance.  I don’t remember him coming in at all over the weekend.

So, shed painted, cat frightened, dog cleared up after less than usual, boring notes read, food eaten and sleep rudely interrupted.  All in all, an interesting weekend, home ‘alone’.