A Cat Called Nigel

Today (hopefully) sees the the commencement of calm after the storm of moving from one West Yorkshire residence to another. An odyssey starting in January when my siblings and I first marketed our late parents abode; an episode which ended as 2022’s ninth month dawned.

Footnote – Incidentally, I’m not singling out West Yorkshire as the sole area the metaphorical storm plays out worse when confronted by the shifting residences cracken. The departure and destination detail was incorporated to add context. To the best of my knowledge, house transition in other areas of the UK (and indeed the world) include similarly stressful pitfalls.

Anyhow, my three week shifting of furniture/household items came to its denouement yesterday with the property sale completion of mum and dad’s gaff. And with that sentence I bring closure to further journalling of a topic you’re no doubt sick to bloody death of reading about.

Now I can draw a (admittedly melancholic) line under the last three years where I’ve indulged on a at times soul destroying sofa surf amongst. the hallowed chambers of a home which wasn’t mine. Don’t get me wrong it’s a great ‘drum’ I’ve vacated. However, spending that trinity of summers living in an abode, which for the first time in adult life I’d not owned, dents one’s pride

Particularly when you’ve an abode (my marital home) which yours truly has paid off….. Long story….. Well, it’s not that long; I’ve just no intention of placing those circumstances on record at this juncture.

So, hopefully comfortingly, when clicking on my blogs from now on you’ll not face the jeopardy of worrying you’ll be subjected to the seemingly endless updates on a middle-aged fella’s transition from one chez Strachan to another.

Instead I’ll endeavour to make you smile/chortle/cough up fur balls (delete where applicable) with a more upbeat brand of existential tomfoolery. Prose which, at its conclusion, will see you so impressed you’ll turn to your partner to inquire “Do you know what time Tescos shuts?…. We’re short on cat food.”

Footnote – That’s if you have a partner. If not make the same inquiry to your cat Nigel. If you haven’t got a cat called Nigel my initial thought is “Why the bloody hell do you want to buy cat food then?”….. Unless, of course, you’ve a cat by another name, or a dog that’s adventurous with his (or hers)** recipe choices, I suppose.….. Incidentally, if you’ve a partner and a cat called Nigel it appears when it comes to sounding boards you’re spoilt for choice

** – That hopefully saved a letter from cat sexual equality groups.

It’ll be nice to revert to my preferred writing modus operandi of producing predominantly silly content. Weeks of penning about the daily events consequential of moving house provided the very thinnest of creative gruel and author gratification.

As a result, tomorrow I may relay the full tale of an uncle who (family folklore dictates) had to quit his job as a cat burglar after becoming allergic to whiskers…… The familial yarn not going as far as revealing whether, prior to the allergy, he purchased his cat food from Tescos; or indeed if any of the pilfered moggies bore the name Nigel.

Incidentally, in the previous paragraph where I wrote ‘ if the moggies bore the name Nigel’, I initially penned ‘if the moggies were christened Nigel’. Locutions amended after concluding, no matter how much we love our pets, they’d be unlikely to be baptised…. That I know of anyhow!

Anyhow, enough of this feline related frippery….. Cudworth writer Ged Head didn’t reach the heights of Barnsley’s 3rd best tea bag juggler by wasting his days rabbiting on about owning a cat called Nigel and whether it’s daily sustenance was procured from the UK’s best supermarket rhyming with Hesco.

Actually, that reminds me I’ve not yet had a cuppa today….. Enjoy your day. And if you can’t enjoy your day, don’t bloody take it out on me you mardy get!!

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