Friday 7th August 2020

It is ten years since we last welcomed new felines into the house. That was when the twins, back then it all seemed so simple. I reread my blog posts for tips to how to keep them in the house while they got used to us. Being fearless kittens, Mulder and Scully just bounced along with each hiss and swipe by a bared claw. Poppy and Cleo look like kittens, but have had quite a life so far, and this week have had an operation, so their rear halves have been shaved and they have stitches.

Now, just as they were getting used to their pen in the sanctuary, we will rip them from there and drop them in the middle of our feline madhouse.

It all seemed wonderful when we were told we were having the cats, now there is reality to deal with.

But first, the usual stuff.

Up at half five, already the sun was blazing down, causing a slight mist to rise from the Dip. That wouldn't last.

We have a coffee, then when Jools went for a walk, I did 15 minutes on the cross trainer. It was so hot, that I gave up on 14 minutes as I could not see due to the sweat in my eyes.

I have a shower and change.

That feels better. Always does.

I am online for the morning meeting; more of the team going on holiday next week. Again. There is jokes but no gossip.

To work, and yet more meetings. I am able to tell my boss that we are to collect the cats at 11, she is a cat person, so understands.

Did I mention it was hot.

At ten past then, we set out for Ashford, so hot that we have the car windows open rather than the air conditioning. Traffic is still quiet, despite it being peak holiday period, or in a normal year would be. On this weekend there should be queues of cars heading for the port, lined up all the way back to Folkestone. But there is none.

We go past the Brexit mandated lorry park. Much work going on, earth movers and the such all busy, and a new entrance built on the main road.

We go past the International station, across the bridge over the tracks and into the town, and we turn into the small car park. We have to wait until "Ian" comes out.

Hmmmmm.

Ten minutes pass, and I an appears: "Are you Ian?, I'm Ian" He says, confusingly.

We agree who we are, he checks my driving licence and goes to put the cats into the boxes we brought.

When he returns, we find they are both tiny. The paperwork states they are between 2 and three years old. I'm no expert, but these are very small cats. Maybe underfed, but really small. I sign for them, and after chatting and swapping cat-related stories, we load the cats into the car and we were off.

There was just one meow on the way home, we did put the air con on so not to spook the cats, arriving home at half twelve. We put the cats in the bathroom with litter tray, dried food and a bed, and left them to it. Of course, the bathroom faces south, and the sun shone directly into the room, it was like a sauna. But the day wears on and it begins to cool down. It should just be for that day.

At five, Jools takes a bowl of wet food to them, and they tear their way through half each.

They are both nervous, and we were told the black and white one, Cleo, would be the hardest to bring round. We go up in regular intervals, and stroke them. Poppy is very shy, but Cleo is won round, and lays on the top of the shelving, stretching out while we stroke her head and belly.

We leave them to it for the night, with more dried food and fresh water.

Meanwhile, it was the warmest day for 15 years in England. I remember the summer of 2003; I was stationed at RAF Coltishall north of Norwich, and for three weeks it was unbearably hot. I was living in a ground floor flat, or the old living room of one, and it had huge south-facing windows, it got hot all day I was at work, and was like an oven when I returned from work.

In the end I went to Sherringham and Cromer a couple of night as they are on the coast, to stand on the cliffs and feel the sea breeze.

It did produce a fine crop of blackberries in the bomb dump. I used to spend lunchtimes gathering a pound or two and some wild apples for dinner when I got home.

Those we salad days.

A couple of years back, it got so hot here it was thirty degrees by half eight in the morning, and sitting on the sofa, working and watching Le Tour was as much of a struggle as those cycling it. Probably.

Back to Friday, and dinner is to be caprese and the leftover stuffed bread from Thursday. Even warming the bread in the oven meant the temperature in the house soared.

But the food was good, as was the huge bottle of ice cold tripel I supped, and finished sitting on the pation in the gathering gllom of a summer evening, watching bats and the planet Jupiter shining through the branches of the fir tree.