Small, important changes

Outside on a dreich wet day our neighbours of the last seven years are moving house, a massive removal van currently blocking our drive. I'm watching from the bedroom window.

Meanwhile downstairs a small, frightened female cat cowers behind the couch.

Brian, Lesley and their two small boys are moving to another part of the town. They've been the perfect modern neighbours, I suppose; polite, distant, unobtrusive. Going about their lives and leaving us to ours. We've no doubt been exactly the same kind of neighbours to them. Its a smallish town and in all likelyhood we'll run into them again, in a supermarket or high street or public place. A smile will pass or a few hasty words will be exchanged and we'll all go away happy. In their own way we've probably each played a subtle but significant part in each others happiness over the last seven years: nobody wants a bothersome neighbour.

And yet even now, watching them go, I'm unsure of their surname.

And what will the new neighbours be like I wonder, slightly anxiously.

But enough of that. I now have to turn my attention to the scared little cat. She arrived last night from a rescue home. a small, neat, dainty little three year old, black with splurges of white and neat white socks. Last night she wandered around inquisitively, as cats do and seemed unafraid. She even spent time up on the couch with us, allowing herself to be petted, dozing briefly and purring loudly.

When I got up this morning, however, it was a different story. She was nowhere to be seen and I eventually found her behind the fridge. Once I dragged it out she immediately fled behind the couch in the living room, wedged between it and the wall. She lies their now, scared, confused and gone to ground, as cats do when they're frightened. I've put a small dish of milk to the side of the couch and retired to write this. It will take time but she'll come out eventually, and begin to form trust.

She still doesn't have a name, and neither do our new neighbours. Even our old neighbours only had first names. Thats life these days.

Londra, Sad Boys and Jubilee

Went down to London between 29-31 May, just before the big Diamond Jubilee shindig for the old Queen doing 60 years on the job. Great weather (which they didn't get for the actual Jubilee itself) and did all the usual touristy things that I never did during the 5 years I actually lived there: Big Bus, River Cruise (a freebie from the Big Bus ticket), Shakespeare's Globe (a rip-off) and theatre (Wicked). Found a good hotel in Bayswater called the The Cleveland Hotel London at 39-40 Cleveland Square, just down from Paddington station. Good value and room included a small kitchen area to make breakfast and whatever. Total £255 quid via ebookers, paid in advance. Fi loves Old Londra and I'm always happy to re-live it through her eyes.

By the time we got back the Sad Boys (Tomaz, Ian Sweet and Rene) where already esconsed in Edinburgher. I joined them on Friday early afternoon. I hung in there gamely until about 3am, when I collapsed in a George Street  nightclub and had to get ferryed to the hotel on the back of a rickshaw in a tired and emotional state.

Next day, at Sweetie's insistence, we ended up at Musselburgh races. 25 quid in and another 15 down the drain on useless nags. Good day out though, beered up and fun watching them all toff about in their finerey.

Watched elements of the Jubilee stuff on the telly. Felt sorry for them on the Thames on the flotilla in miserable cold weather and driving rain - must have been maddening after several weeks of fabulous weather. The old Queen is a right miserable old grump though: oddly blank and characterless, with no obvious personality and a face that most of the time looks like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle.

As usual Scotland was very tepid about the jubilee, though London had gone mad. Despite that, a few brave souls put bunting up a round their houses and somebody even decorated the lamposts.