Young Stags

Poor Pebble; he is, as we speak, having his little pebbles removed at the Cat Clinic. I called him this morning; he came running, hoping for his breakfast and chirping with tail in the air. He was grabbed and stuffed into the Cat Carrier not knowing what fate awaited him. He cried all the way and hid under his blanket as we entered the Clinic. I had to sign a consent form as I was told that sometimes anaesthetic can be a problem. Now I'm worried and await a phone call.

Another email from the online dating agency; they seem to be getting younger... a very dishy twenty-seven year old seems to like me... I have children older than he! He is Spanish, so there has probably been a misunderstanding during translation. Where are all the well-balanced, not-to-bad looking, strong and not too short men in their early fifties? The trouble is, I am still probably comparing potential dates with my lovely deceased man, and in my mind, none have so far matched up. I know... I can hear you say that I must not compare anyone else to him... but he was so bloody perfect, he is a hard act to follow. I think I must resign myself to never finding anyone. Not a bad thing perhaps... I shall turn into an old widow, along with cats and knitting by the fireside. In fact, I'm already there!

Meanwhile, I can gaze at the few gorgeous young stags who are making contact... I know a good optician who can sort out their short-sightedness, and I also know a therapist who can help with their 'mother' fixation.