Nearly back again

We have been off having fun - a bit here and a bit there - and now we're trying to get back into our miserable little rut. *sniffle. sob.*

Wish we were still there.

Where is Bear?

Woo hoo! Bear is on the loose!

Sleep deprived solstice

We celebrated the summer solstice by being woken up by our downstairs neighbour deciding to practising his bongo playing at 3am. He was very decent about stopping when Madame went down to complain but he might have just been stunned into silence by the sight of her Bride of Frankenstein hair and pink frilly bloomers. Or maybe not since he was working a 1980s Italian knitwear model look. Apparently.

Sleep would have been nice. We are both knackered. Lots of busy. All the usual stuff and getting ready for our holiday next month. We're going Up North and then Over There.

The computer has been playing up which hasn't helped. I probably shouldn't mention this - it is very huffy. Oops - right in the middle of typing - eek - Listen Again decided to shut down. Honestly. A diva with a modem attached.

Our computer knowledge is a bit limited. I'm very good at pressing the big ON button. Madame presses the smaller buttons and wibbles the mouse. But if anything goes wrong mostly we panic and she cries and I get soggy. And then she starts having fantasies about going back to wind-up gramophones and crystal sets.

Except. All the stuff we would miss. No more

Nemu*Nemu

Savages Chickens

Bear & Kitten

Boing Boing

or the chance to see this again ...

Sun stroke

I had a lovely quiet day yesterday. Until the strange woman appeared.

It was a sunny day. Before grumpy Madame went out she left me by the window. Warm fur and a view of the lettuces. A bit of light thinking. A nap or two.

And then she appeared.

I was expecting Madame and this woman did look like her. Except.

This woman who looked a bit like Madame was smiling. She seemed to be quite happy and cheery. Madame isn't generally happy or cheery. And she doesn't smile much. It took me a while to remember that an upside down frowny face was a smile.

I was frightened. She might look friendly but she could be a Cruella De Vil trawling the city for lonely little bears to turn into her very own Castelbajac coat.

I don't want to be a chair.

Or a rug.

"Bear, darling, there's hardly enough of you for a decent oven glove." She picked me up and examined me carefully. "I suppose I could scoop out your insides and turn you into one of those golf club covers."

She was wearing Madame's new Wondermark elephant t-shirt. She had Madame's cruel laugh. But she had her pockets full of sea shell and sand in her hair.

A sea monster. Yes. A sea monster - maybe one of those selkies had found its way into the city and possessed Madame.

She said she had a present for me. I told her I was ok for sea shells.

She said it was a Biscuit album and was I feeling alright. Maybe she shouldn't have left me lying in the sun. But she had had a brilliant day and the bloke in Avalanche Records in Cockburn Street told her that Biscuit might playing a gig in Edinburgh later in the summer. So. Yay!

Cockburn Street. That's in Edinburgh. Had Madame gone to Edinburgh and got happy without warning me? And where did the sand and the sea shells come from?

Unfortunately she was right. I had been lying in the sun too long.

Careful now!

A public service announcement. Exercise extreme caution. These bears are very, very naughty and should only be approached with care. They may be considered pawed and dangerous.

Spud Murphy and his moll Bluebell may be found in those disreputable corners of the interknit where loud music and strong liquor is enjoyed. Naughty. Naughty.

Innocent young stuffies may be lured from the path of righteousness into a loose life full of alt-country music and nice frocks. One of Mr Murphy's associates is allegedly involved in yodelling.

The Big Op

Four new paw pads and a hole in my ear repaired. At last. I've been on the waiting list for months and had been bumped several times for not very good reasons. I like to think that I am a vitally important member of this household so I was a bit upset that my health and welfare wasn't more highly thought of. I'm not bitter. But next time she has a migraine I might be looking for an orchestra of car alarms and pneumatic drills to play right outside the flat.

No. I'm really not bitter. When she couldn't finish the sewing last night she did wrap me in my blankie so I didn't lose any fluff. Then this morning we sat in the sunshine and listened to some James Bond radio play while she finished the sewing up.

Don't like James Bond much. Oh, it's all entertaining enough - the films and that - but Bond himself - he's not what you'd call a deep character. Not much to say for himself. All that manlier than manly butchness. He's just trying too hard - isn't he? And shouldn't that martini be stirred not shaken? He's no Richard Hannay.

Or The Saint.

Or Harry Lime - ok - he did come to a bad end and he was a completely sleazy bastard but still - I'd give my ears to sound as smooth as old Harry in his pre-Vienna adventures. Maybe I'm biased. I think I do look a bit like a young Orson Wells. In a certain light. And from a certain angle. Possibly. Maybe not.

A musical interlude

Off for a walk in the park, a picnic, and a yomp through Wuthering Heights ...

Tough love

Little Miss Storm Cloud went back to work today. Ah, the peace and the quiet! Trauma sponging is hard work and I'm soggy with angst. Yesterday was the worst. The wailing. The weeping. The promises. "I'll never drink wine again. Ever. Or go to parties."

I had to do it. Told her to talk to the paw. Yes. The poor ripped paw that she promised to fix weeks ago. No fix paw. No sympathy. No hug. No "bear make it all better".

I can't quite see the rip so I've jiggled about a bit and I'm not losing any fluff. Which is good. But it's a short step from "tiny tear" to "only fit for dusters".

If I can get my mitts on the credit card then I might have to take a trip. Let her look after herself. A little bit of pampering. Just what a bear needs.

Or maybe I'll just sit in the sun and watch me plants grow. Little lettuces showing up already :o)

Goodbye, Mr Slug

She's hot and tired and grumpy. I'm still waiting for my ripped paw to be repaired. The big scary slug that was living quietly under the window box isn't living there any more.

We do have some nice fresh plants in the window boxes. A lovely mixture of herby things and flowery things and a bit that will hopefully be lettuce. And everything else is covered in copper tape just in case Mr Slug didn't get the message.

Who knows. Maybe he enjoyed the surprise flying lesson.

He was lucky. Groochy Girl has been in a right sour mood this week. The sky was blue. The sun was shining. She was on holiday. And stomping about with a bad attitude. I was sure Slug Boy was a total goner when he popped up and waggled his waggly bits. He got away with a sudden introduction to extreme sport. He looked like the kind of slug that would have enjoyed it.

Several little and biggish spiders were carefully rehomed because spiders are Our Friends.

Don't know why Madame's in such a strop. I could ask but I have my own problems. Have I mentioned my ripped paw pad and how I've been waiting for weeks to have it repaired? I'm the injured, neglected party but she's one with her own storm cloud.

Oh. Apparently she did have a nice day today. Although it wasn't the nice day she went out to have.

She was supposed to going out to have a lovely country walk but thanks to a bit of train chaos she ended up going over Queen's Park but it rained and no stale bread to feed to the ducks so off to the Southside branch of Tchai-Ovna for destressing with baklava, a pot of White Monkey tea and a good book.

I wonder if they would like a resident bear?

Plant life

A warning to all my little plant friends.

Yay! It's spring. New growth. Shoots. Buds. Leaves. Wave it all about.

And she seems like a nice lady. Offers you a lovely terracotta pot. Maybe a hit of BabyBio. Your own place on the window sill with a view of the bins.

But she is Madame Plant Killer!

*scream*

Poor Mr Sprouty. Only a couple of weeks old. Happy in his little ceramic egg. Only yesterday he was looking good. Standing proud. Today - dead. Drowned.

Of course she says it was an accident. Didn't want Mr Sprouty to dry out. Hum. Once could be an accident. Twice would be a misfortune. But this is a serial offender. This space is filled with the ghosts of murdered tomato plants. Poor pots of basil who were promised a long and happy life but didn't make it to the end of week. Trays of mustard and cress seeds never allowed to reach their potential.

Be warned. She is looking for new victims to torment. Filling up the window boxes with poor innocent plants. Lambs lettuce to the slaughter.

Now would be the time to rise up and be a TRIFFID!

You have nothing to lose but your leaves. And stem. And roots.