Recently we had the life-changing pleasure of hearing the pitter-patter of tiny feet!
Tiny furry feet. Eight of them. Four girl feet, four boy feet.
They’re not quadruplets. They’re kittens. Keep up!
Martha & Rufus. The Wainwrights.
Sarah and I had wanted kittens for a long time but we needed to be ready.
And there were a lot of boxes that needed ticking.
We needed to have our own place.
We wanted to rescue them. Not out of a tree or from a burning building, but from an Animal Shelter - where they were living quite happily, not held in a cellar against their will!
We wanted a brother and a sister.
And they had to be called Martha and Rufus Wainwright.
Because we’d already had beautiful inscribed bowls made for them... 18 months ago.
And we'd been referring to them as The Fictional/Imaginary Wainwrights for almost two years!
It got worse...
Our wait for the perfect kittens had spilled over into what some lesser mortals might call 'madness', when we bought ‘spirit animal’ versions of our future cats.
We hid them around the house to remind ourselves kittens were in our near future. We're hilarious!
And well aware that in a previous century, we would have been certifiable at best.
At worst, burnable.
We’d started looking at the feline friend ads posted on the Facebook page of a wonderful rescue centre for cats, here in Manchester. Then we went to visit the place. I still have a scar from the old semi-feral (evil bitch from hell!) queen of the place, who took umbrage when I tickled her under the chin.
I hasten to add, this beast was an actual cat, not one of the volunteers who run the place. The volunteers probably don’t mind chin rubs at all. However, I imagine tummy tickles require such a cast-iron level of consent, it’s probably best avoided.
Take this tip from me - as a rule, don’t tummy tickle anyone who hasn’t signed up for this as a low bar of expected future activity. Or someone who thinks it’s perfectly OK for you to sift their poo out of a litter tray. It’s the only way to stay out of jail.
Anyway, kittens don't simply fall out of the sky and into your life, there's a process, a series of events.
And this is ours...
We were returning from a week in Barcelona…
The boys buggered off to duty free while I fretted about our flight being called. Why the hell can’t kids understand that I need to be right at the front of the queue for the flight, never mind that we all have reserved seats, so first or last it makes no odds when you board.
I know you hear me, brothers and sisters, but why can’t they see that!!?
I’d ask them, but they’re nowhere to be seen, are they!
Sitting still was driving me bonkers.
I head off to the gents to both avail myself of the facilities and to stretch my legs.
I’m not a big fan of flying. I’m not one of the ‘IF WE ‘LAND ON WATER’ WHAT GOOD IS A WHISTLE GOING TO DO ME WHEN I’M SMASHED INTO A MILLION PIECES BY THE CONCRETE-LIKE WATER BENEATH US?!!!!’ types. That’s not my worry.
Strangely, I’m also not affected by the illogicalness of being able to survive floating miles above the ground in a large metal box. I’m not even bothered about the recycled air or the bad food or the unbearable closeness of strangers. What gets me, is the having to be at the beck and call of ‘time-keeping’ and ‘instructions’ given to me by people ‘in charge’.
Especially in a building where some of the staff on the payroll are carrying machine guns.
I think there’s a very good chance I have a problem with authority.
It reminds me of when I joined Stretford Athletics Club. (Bear with me, a minute…)
I was a sprinter. And I was fast, really fast. I really was really fast. No, really I was!
I had high expectations of being a record-breaking athlete. But it seemed my aspirations alone were not enough to get a shoe-in into the AAA team at the club. Or a guaranteed place in the next Olympics. The path to greatness seemed to involve turning up here, on a Tuesday evening...
The club and I had different views on how my path to greatness would proceed.
The deal, it seemed, was that I would turn up on Tuesday, pay my subs, then run long-distances around local fields before being picked up again by my parents - who were very supportive but still thought it was a passing phase.
I was horrified.
Why was my talent not being acknowledged? Why was I, lightning in human form, expected to jog?
Have you seen some of the people who ‘jog’? Well exactly.
And anyway, what has jogging got to do with collecting gold medals? Other than the lap of honour stuff, obviously, but one step at a time, eh. And worst of all - why was the club expecting me to turn up on Tuesday at 6pm? And not just a single Tuesday – bloody all of them! As if life back then wasn’t hard enough without that sort of additional commitment.
Stretford Athletics Club was like a totalitarian state! Albeit a totalitarian state obsessed with running and jumping.
I had a long hard think about it: so, in order to do a thing I really wanted to do, had chosen to do, I was required to regularly turn up!? I know – that was never going to work for me.
So I left. That showed them.
I lasted three weeks. British athletics may never realise its loss.
I was definitely fast, but, thinking about it now, I wonder if my main reason for attending might have been enhanced by the fact Shirley Strong was a member of the club too?
Very likely.
But misleadingly the club didn't make it clear that I wouldn't get to train with Olympic silver medal winning athletes on the first day I joined. And, worse still, apparently those aforementioned Olympians are unlikely to become romantic interests to aforementioned me! Especially when they’re 22 and I was, well… 12.
Sigh.
So, back in the airport...
As I approach whatever the Gents is called in Spain, my phone vibrates.
A message. It’s Sarah:
As you’ll understand from my brief foray as an International Athlete, and my discomfort at airport rules - and well, anyone telling me to do anything ever - this authoritarian order from my wife, making demands on my freedom, really hit a nerve.
I mean, obviously Sarah is The Boss, but she’s not usually like this.
I'm not having it. I show her - I avail and return in my own good time! Ha!
I do jog a little towards the end, though, just in case she’s cross with me, obviously.
(Possibly the only time I’ve been grateful for those three wasted Tuesday evenings in Stretford.)
Sarah’s level of excitement is other-worldly.
Surely Shirley Strong can’t be on our flight, can she?
To be honest, I can’t say for certain Shirley wasn’t on our flight, but suddenly it doesn’t even matter – there are, I’m told, kittens looking for their ‘forever home’.
Considering they’re only eight week old kittens, that’s quite the ask – Sarah and I had to wait until middle age before we bought any sort of house, forever or otherwise. Wow, these are truly demanding kittens.
I look at the phone Sarah’s thrusting into my face. I count the furry faces. There are five of them. We only want two.
But not just any two. We want the best two.
But how can we be sure which are the best ones, based only on names and a single photo?
I look closer. Two of them are weird looking. Weird in the way other people’s babies sometimes are. We’ve all been there – chubby pink awfulness thrust under our noses by parents convinced their offspring are gorgeous, and we just haven’t the heart to point out their delusion or ask which lab they escaped from. Weird kittens are not going to cut it.
Luckily, the three remaining kittens all look very acceptable. One is a girl. Tick. She’s ours, no question. The other two are boys. Both very suitable. I feel a silly grin plop onto my face as I look at their unbelievable cuteness – keeping a thumb over the two weird ones, naturally, I don’t want the moment spoiling.
Sarah says the ad only went up a few minutes ago. And it’s up to me which we go for!
Up to me!?
Doesn't she know I'm a man with authority issues?
I literally want to make the decision, but because I’ve been told to, I'm unbearably resistant. I almost lose my mind! The turmoil, the push and pull in my very core. Gah, how I hate being told to do the very thing I want to do!
I’m momentarily reminded of a scene in the film St. Elmo’s Fire.
(Once again, bear with me here...)
A very filmic foundation of my youth. A film I’m frightened to watch again in case it turns out to be garbage and I find myself disappointed in my teenage self. It’s a very real fear - Sarah and I revisited Mannequin recently. Kim Cattrall and Andrew McCarthy. It was terrible. We felt dirty, it was so bad.
Anyway, Andrew McCarthy was also in this film, St. Elmo’s Fire. In the scene in question he’s handed a phone and asked something, to which he answers:
‘Me? Oh, you know, it ain’t easy being me.’
Exactly - I completly understand his pain.
So back to the airport...
Then I catch myself, the bloody clock is ticking – we might be called any second for our flight! And of course the boys aren’t back either, and although I should go and look for them, I’m beginning to accept that they might miss the flight. Shame, but nothing I can do – abandoning offspring is just one of the side-effects of choosing kittens in airports.
Then the reality hits home - all over Greater Manchester dreadful kitten homers, are running in the slow-motion of hysteria, as they attempt to gather all the decision makers in their families to beat the rush and steal our kittens out from under our noses.
I make a decision faster than Shirley Strong could clear a hurdle. I tell Sarah, she grabs the phone and cuts and pastes our already written ‘yes please’ Messenger message (a note somewhere between 'mature cat owning expertise' and 'pathetic begging') and presses send...
The decision’s made.
With the help of God and ten policeman…
(My Mum used to say that. I’ve never known where she got it from...
And apparently, neither has anyone else on Earth. If you Google the phrase, the only time it’s ever been used anywhere on the internet is in a splendid blog post called Hiding In A Shed In Croydon. By me! Feel free to find it on this site, it’s really rather good.)
…two exquisite kittens will be joining us very soon
These two.
Eh?
Palm. And Basket.
What sort of names are those? I know they have to name a lot of kittens for a very short time before they go to live elsewhere, but I’m convinced the volunteer who came up with those had been at the cat litter again.
Anyway.
Basket looks like a perfect ‘Martha’. And Palm looks like he has a streak of lightning running down his leg, and I try very hard not to be drawn down the plug hole of my Olympic career, a career snuffed out all too soon…
I come out of my reverie and the boys are back from the shops. To be honest, I’d forgotten they existed. We tell them they’re soon to have a new kitten half-brother and kitten half-sister. My youngest nods and shrugs a bit, the eldest continues to message his girlfriend without looking up.
Never have two young men ever looked so utterly thrilled and excited.
Sarah is staring at her phone, grinning at our maybe-kittens.
What a momentous, once in a life-time, family moment.
The journey back, quite literally, flew past. Mostly because that’s what planes do.
Sarah and I make a list of everything that needs doing before The Wainwrights can come to live with us. It’s a very long list.
As we arrive back into Manchester airspace, we know two little furry faces will be staring up at the huge metal bird in the sky, and somehow will know that somewhere on board are their new benefactors…
Once back in Blighty, the boys reveal their reason for being so long in duty free – they’d been carefully choosing presents to thank us for taking them away on holiday!
Kids eh, aren’t they great! I wonder what the Wainwrights will buy us to say thank-you…?
Anyway, there’s a whole week to get ready. All other life will have to stop until we are kitten-safe and kitten-friendly throughout our house.
There’s so much, much, much to be done!!
You have got to be kidding me...
(to be continued…)
Hahaha! Love this! Really enjoy hearing your escapades; can’t wait for the next episode in the life of The Wainwrights and if you got all those listed things done!! 😄 Sue C.
Brilliant once again and loving the cats too :-)